Painting in the Shadows

by Katherine Kovacic

  The beep of a horn announces John’s arrival. I’m still not quite sure how things stand between us, but he did offer me a lift, so hopefully it will be okay. I grab my keys, phone and a black clutch, give Hogarth a quick pat and close the door softly on my way out. The humidity hits me as I cross to the van, and I hope I’ve applied enough hairspray to keep things looking classy. John doesn’t say anything as I carefully step in and arrange myself so the seatbelt misses the necklace. I fiddle more than necessary, but finally I straighten up and look at him.

  ‘You look amazing, Alex.’ His lips wobble into a smile, but his eyes look sad.

  ‘Thank you. How’s the leg feeling?’

  ‘Still sore but better. I can walk without looking like a drunken pirate now.’

  ‘So just a regular pirate, then?’ It comes out before I have time to think, but this time John smiles for real. A weight seems to lift from my shoulders.

  It’s after six and we’re against the traffic, so the drive into the Museum is quick. We don’t talk about much, just stuff like Hogarth and the weather. I feel I should ask after Sue, but I still can’t quite trust myself to make it sound like a polite inquiry and not an accusation.

  ‘Do you think this is going to work? I mean, will they try to shift the paintings tonight?’ I roll my shoulders, trying to ease the tension that’s been building up.

  ‘It still makes the most sense. I’m just not sure how we’re going to be in the right place to catch them,’ John says, eyes fixed on the traffic ahead.

  ‘And make sure we have witnesses.’

  ‘That too.’

  ‘There’s only the one elevator you can take to the storage area, so if we take turns keeping watch from that copy room …’

  ‘Should we do twenty-minute shifts? That seems like a reasonable amount of time to be away from the party.’

  ‘Okay. I guess we just use “bathroom”, “need another drink” or “must mingle” as excuses when necessary.’

  ‘And we can liaise as we switch over.’

  I nod. It sounds workable. ‘But what happens if they come for the paintings? How does the hiding person get the other one, and how do we then get our witnesses? We didn’t really talk about that, and you don’t have a mobile anymore.’

  ‘The one time that damn thing would actually be useful. But we can manage. I figure it will take the person a while to load the fakes onto a trolley and get them back to the elevator. So you confirm the elevator stops on the right level, then come to the door of the exhibition. Whichever of us is mingling will just have to make sure they can see that door at all times and can come as soon as the other one signals.’

  ‘Okay.’ I nod. ‘And we invite whomever we’re talking to along to – what? – See a new hush-hush acquisition?’

  ‘Any excuse will do. Then we wait for the elevator to start descending and push the call button so the doors will open on our floor, hopefully with the forger and the bogus artworks right there.’

  John pulls into a parking spot on St Kilda Road, just past Victoria Barracks.

  ‘Are your shoes okay for walking?’ he asks.

  ‘Actually they kind of encourage a catwalk strut, but yeah, I’m good.’

  John gets out, hurries round the front of the van and is reaching for my door when I push it open and climb out. I quirk an eyebrow at him and he gives an exaggerated shrug, arms spread wide.

  ‘Sorry. It feels a bit weird. Does it feel a bit weird? Us all dressed up, going out together in the evening?’

  ‘It feels a bit weird. That and, well … What say we get through tonight and deal with everything else tomorrow?’

  John nods and sighs heavily, thrusting his hands into his pants pockets.

  ‘Hey, you’re really dressed up! I didn’t notice when you were sitting in the van.’ I take a step back so I can look at him properly. His hair could do with a trim, and the light blue linen blazer looks a bit large, despite its tailored shape, making me wonder if John has lost weight. But with his sharp black trousers and white, mandarin-collar shirt, the overall effect is sharp and stylish. ‘Very GQ.’

  John strikes an awkward catalogue pose, one hand on hip, the other with elbow half-bent and finger raised, as though summoning a waiter or hailing a taxi. I shake my head, then make a little shooing motion in the direction of the Museum.

  ‘Should I grab an umbrella?’ John frowns as he looks at the sky.

  ‘Let’s chance it. You’d only have to carry the thing all night.’

  The wind whips leaves into little eddies that swirl around our ankles as we step out along St Kilda Road. Some of it still blows in from the north, but the south-westerly gusts are increasing and I’m sure the temperature has fallen a few degrees. The change will be here soon.

  The people who turn out at exhibition launches are hard to categorise. They’re an odd mix of high-level corporate supporters, art industry people, mega-rich patrons, Melbourne socialites and celebrities. The more traditional the exhibition theme, the more the demographic skews toward people with a greater interest in the art itself, rather than in raising their own profiles; I’m not expecting too many TV soap stars to step out for the opening of Masterpieces of Victorian Britain. In any case, John and I are among the first to arrive. It’s not that we’re early, simply that fashionably late seems to be a thing these days, at least with the Toorak and Brighton set.

  As we move into the exhibition galleries, a waiter steps forward and proffers his tray of drinks. I select a mineral water and John picks up a champagne flute.

  ‘It always makes me nervous when they serve food and drink to people standing in the middle of millions of dollars’ worth of art. Once it starts to fill up in here and people get a bit tipsy and start gesticulating with their wine glasses …’ I wave my free hand around to demonstrate.

  ‘I’ve cleaned wine off a few paintings over the years. Always from private parties, though.’ John laughs. ‘Best one was a Conrad Martens belonging to the Hamilton family. You know their mansion in Trawalla Avenue?’

  I nod and sip at my mineral water, picturing the sprawling estates in one of Melbourne’s most expensive streets. ‘The seventy-something guy who always has a hot young mistress on the go.’

  ‘He brought the painting in, red wine everywhere, and claimed the damage was an accident, a drunk dinner guest. Only thing was, the wine had hit the canvas in a way that looked exactly like it had been thrown deliberately.’

  ‘But why would anyone –’

  John shakes his head, smiling. ‘Wait, that’s not it. It was all splattered around the edges, but right in the middle it was almost untouched, a nice head and shoulders shape. As if someone was standing directly in front of the painting –’

  ‘And copped a glass of wine in the face,’ I finish, and snort with laughter. ‘I always thought his wife looked like a woman who wouldn’t put up with bullshit.’

  John laughs too. We both simultaneously realise we are laughing together and stop. I look around and see the crowd is starting to build. Across the room stands one of Melbourne’s top art dealers. He catches my eye, raising his glass, and I nod a greeting in return. He’s probably wondering why a dealer of my lowly status rates an invitation to this event.

  ‘Hey, I want to see Man Proposes and check out the quality of your work.’ I make a beeline through the exhibition, saying hello to a few people, promising to catch up later, but not stopping until we’re in front of the painting.

  The lighting is perfect and the painting stands out dra­matically against the richly-coloured wall. There’s something about those bears and the strange quality of the Arctic light that makes this work grab your attention from across the room and draw you in.

  ‘Great job. No one is going to notice anything,’ I say, scanning the site of the repair.

  ‘It’s Fiona’s work.’ John shrugs. ‘She’s really very skilled
.’

  ‘Are they likely to promote her, or bring in someone with more experience to take Meredith’s place?’ I turn away from the painting and gaze idly around the room.

  ‘I wondered, but didn’t like to ask. Do you want to do a quick walk through the rest of the exhibition before there are so many people we can’t even see the walls?’ John punctuates his question by tipping back his head and skolling the last of his champagne.

  ‘Nah. I’ve seen most of it already, and I think I’ll wait until next week for another close look.’

  Just then, I spot Giles in the crowd, slowly moving away from us. I point him out to John.

  ‘Let’s see if he can tell us anything about Phil,’ I say, starting forward.

  It doesn’t take long to catch up with Giles, but then we have to hover awkwardly for a few minutes while he cosies up to a journalist, easily identified by the tape recorder she’s brandishing. Finally she leaves and Giles turns to us.

  ‘Thanks for keeping a low profile,’ he says. ‘Obviously we’re trying to keep the media’s attention focused squarely on the exhibition and not …’

  ‘We assumed as much.’ I give him a reassuring pat on the arm.

  ‘Something came up,’ John says, ‘and we need to ask you about Phil from conservation.’

  ‘Phil?’

  ‘The one with the Converse sneakers?’

  Giles laughs. ‘I know who you mean, but if I hadn’t, Converse sneakers would not identify anyone around here.’

  John and I exchange a glance.

  ‘Why not?’ I ask.

  ‘Because MIMA held an exhibition last year called Sneaker Nation: Sport, Street, Chic. They were selling Converse high tops in the gift shop and at the end of the exhibition they sold off the remainder to staff at 75% off. Most of the conservators and curators have a pair, and nearly all of them wear them in to work from time to time.’

  I sigh and John swears softly.

  ‘In that case, never mind about Phil. We’d better let you mingle.’ John raises his empty glass in salute and we turn away.

  ‘It was still a good idea,’ I say. ‘But right now, one of us should probably head for the copy room, don’t you think?’

  John looks at his watch and nods. ‘I’ll take first watch. Meet you by that door,’ he points across the room, ‘in twenty minutes, okay?’

  ‘Be careful. Don’t forget, someone tried to run you over.’

  ‘Ah, but they failed.’ John flexes his arm. ‘I’m tough, and besides, these are art people. Without the benefit of a car, what are they going to do, critique me to death?’

  ‘Mate, you know that’s my job.’ Stupid, stupid. Just when things were getting closer to normal.

  But John’s mouth twists into a wry grin and he shakes his head. ‘You could be a bit less passionate about it.’ Then he turns and makes his way across the room, clapping a shoulder here, air kissing an elderly lady dripping in jewels, and shaking an assortment of hands before he reaches the far wall. John’s moving slowly, but if I didn’t know it, I’d never pick that he had an injured leg. I watch as he feigns interest in George Frederic Watts’ portrait of Cardinal Manning, then glances around and slips through the door.

  Alone now, I move to stand in front of Frederic Lord Leighton’s The Reconciliation of the Montagues and Capulets. It’s a beautifully detailed watercolour featuring two men shaking hands while in front of them, Romeo and Juliet lie dead, she with her arms wrapped around her doomed lover. I’m just leaning in to study the detail of Juliet’s gown when there’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn and Barbara is standing behind me, accompanied by a large man dressed in a sharp black suit and beautiful silk tie in William Morris’s Acanthus pattern. Its shimmering shades of blue are exquisite, and would no doubt enhance the blue of his eyes if those eyes weren’t looking at me so fiercely. His flawless attire and grim face make me think of an Italian security man or maybe even a Mafioso – impeccable style and an ice-cold heart. Barbara is introducing us.

  ‘Alex, this is Simon McNeil, head of Decorative Arts, Simon, Alex Clayton. She’s joining my curatorial team starting next week.’

  I put out my hand and the man actually stares at it for a moment before slowly extending his own.

  ‘Pleasure to meet you,’ I say.

  ‘Alex Clayton, well, well. I remember your name. A few years ago wasn’t it? But perhaps not so very long.’

  I shoot Barbara an anxious glance. I knew this might happen if I came back to work here, but after Wayne, I wasn’t expecting a run-in quite so soon, or so hostile.

  ‘Simon, whatever you heard back then, Alex was not at fault.’

  He looks from Barbara to me and back again. ‘No need to explain, Barbara. A bold appointment though, I must say.’

  I wish I could just disappear, but then I look at Barbara’s face and see she’s gearing up for a fight. I think about my red jacket, The Babe is Wise, and how I felt strong only an hour or so earlier, and just as Barbara is about to speak I lift my chin and hold out a hand to forestall her.

  ‘It’s okay Professor Cottrell,’ I say, turning to Simon. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you know, Doctor – I assume it’s Doctor – McNeil, and then I’ll have my say?’

  His eyebrows go up and his mouth sort of twists, one side up the other down, into the most supercilious smirk I’ve ever seen. He looks around, I assume to see who’s within earshot. ‘Far be it from me, but if you really want it aired in public, fine. I gather that while you were an intern here, you were taken – as a courtesy – to a final acquisition meeting. The Museum was about to hand over the cheque for a major work by Eric Ravilious.’ He pauses and looks at Barbara. ‘Would have been an incredible coup for the Museum, not to mention the way one of his paintings would have enhanced the Wedgwood pieces he designed that we have in Dec Arts. In any case …’ McNeil adjusts his cuffs as he turns back to me. ‘You managed to piss off the vendor to such an extent that the offer to sell was immediately withdrawn. The man grabbed his painting and left, fuming, vowing never to deal with MIMA again. You were naturally given your marching orders.’ He flashes me a shark-like smile, all teeth and predator. ‘Yet here you are, like Lazarus.’

  I take a breath, ready to defend myself, but Barbara gives McNeil’s shoulder a little push, forcing him to turn to her.

  ‘You always were a gossip, Simon. Shall I tell you the truth? The Ravilious was a fake and Alex spotted it when nobody else had. None of the curators who’d seen the work at preliminary meetings had any experience or knowledge of Ravilious, so they weren’t to blame. However, the same cannot be said for Reynolds, my charming predecessor, who was in charge of the acquisition. He should have known, or he should have consulted a Ravilious expert. But as you know, his ego has its own postcode. If Alex hadn’t spotted the fake, MIMA would have lost a lot of money and a huge amount of credibility.’

  Simon McNeil’s mouth has fallen open just a little bit and his eyes dart sideways at me before returning to Barbara.

  ‘As it happened, the Museum had previously purchased items from the same vendor, so they went back and looked at those again.’ Barbara is working hard to keep her voice low, but a few people are still looking our way.

  ‘Barbara.’ I pat the air, trying to get her to stop.

  ‘No, Alex.’ She looks around, then steps closer to Simon and me. ‘You’ve kept silent for too long and now that you’re coming back here, Simon and all the rest of them should know. She gets right up into Simon’s face and her voice is a murmur, barely audible above the buzz of the now-crowded gallery. ‘If I tell you that those previous acquisitions were statues with poor provenances, two of which have since been returned to locations in Europe and India, you may begin to appreciate what happened. Reynolds didn’t want to be embarrassed, shown up by an intern.’ Simon is staring at me again, incredulity in every line of his open mouth and slack features.

/>   ‘And MIMA didn’t want the world to know it had been played by a con man, not once but several times. Far easier to make the problem go away, and Alex was considered part of the problem.’ Barbara steps away from Simon and folds her arms, waiting for a response.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he says, and abruptly turns and hurries away, disappearing into the throng.

  ‘Well, that went well.’ I stare after him, then turn to Barbara. ‘Thanks anyway.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Simon just has to process what I’ve said. I’ve known him for years and he always does this: holds on to an idea with grim determination, but when you can convince him of an alternative, he folds. Next time you see him it will be as though he’s always known and always been on your side.’ She grabs my hand and gives it a quick squeeze. ‘As for thanking me, don’t. You’re on my team now, and my team always sticks together.’

  All I can do is nod. After all these years, there’s actually a chance I can not only have the job I’ve always wanted at MIMA, but people might finally hear and believe the truth about the Ravilious acquisition fiasco. Barbara gives my hand another squeeze, then catches sight of someone over my shoulder.

  ‘I have to go and circulate before the speeches, Alex, but catch me again before you leave.’ She raises a hand to wave at someone and then walks past me and away.

  ***

  I stand there for a moment staring at nothing. Then with a start I realise it must be about time to switch with John. The crowd is so thick I can’t see the door anymore, but I start to squeeze and shoulder my way in the general direction, muttering ‘excuse me’ here and there, greeting a few people I know, and smiling convincingly at people I think I know or should know. There’s no chance now of slipping through the door unseen as John did, so when I get there I do a quick survey of the nearest people to make sure no senior museum staff are watching. For a moment I think I see a face I recognise, completely out of context, but the crowd shifts again and it’s gone. Then I open the door and walk through as if I own the place, my heart hammering high in my chest.