‘I’m really sorry, Jacqueline. I was only up there on Friday and she seemed okay. Not, okay okay, but, you know . . .’
‘Greta–’
‘Sharon.’
‘Sharon. Look, has anyone else called? Dropped by perhaps?’
‘You mean Loki?’
Lina takes a breath, holds it. ‘You know about him?’
‘Ant told me a few things, Paul as well, and between the two of them, it’s getting kinda hard to weed out the crazy. But no, this mysterious Loki-guy of yours hasn’t been around.’
‘I’m on my way home now,’ Lina says. ‘Can you, ah, would you mind waiting until I get there? Please? In case she wakes up.’
‘That was my plan, but she’ll probably be out for a while anyway. I gave her a couple of Xanax.’
‘You did what?’
‘Jacqueline, calm down. I said Xanax, not Nembutal.’
‘It’s dangerous. You can’t just run around passing out prescription drugs to people as though they’re nothing more than vitamin pills.’
‘I know that,’ Sharon replies. ‘But she’s okay, I promise. I care about your sister a hell of a lot, you know. I’d never do anything to hurt her.’
Lina closes her eyes. I can’t hurt her, not ever. Loki’s words, a promise made on more than one occasion, and where the hell is he now? Right now, when her sister needs him? When she needs him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she tells the woman on the other end of the line. ‘Thank you for looking after her, honestly. She’s had a rough couple of days.’
‘So have you,’ Sharon says. ‘And don’t think she doesn’t know that. Whatever really happened between you and her and your mother, this guilt-trip she’s on is messing her up something fierce.’
— 25 —
‘I don’t like it,’ Ryan says, arms folded. ‘I told you I didn’t like the placement before the thing was even hung.’
‘That’s the only place it can hang,’ Lina replies. ‘A canvas that size requires a certain volume of space.’
‘But it can’t be the first thing you see. All the other paintings prime you for this one. It’s the climax; you should build towards it gradually, not have it blow up in your face at the first little tickle.’
‘Seventh Circle isn’t a labyrinth, Ryan. What you see is what you get.’
‘If we bring that divider around. Block the view of the back alcove?’
‘You really want people to only have a couple square metres in which to view it? Expulsion is a vista, you need to be able to stand back and really appreciate it.’
He scowls. Swivels on his heel to survey the gallery as though an alternative solution might suddenly present itself.
‘Look,’ she says. ‘Let’s just hang the rest of the show as per the layout we have here. And if you really hate it once everything is up on the walls, then I will stay back and rehang the whole thing myself. I promise.’
A pair of boots scuff across the floor behind her. Zane, on self-appointed sidekick duty since she arrived with Ryan this morning, though accomplishing little more than making a nuisance of herself. ‘You know what?’ The girl twists one of her dreadlocks, now dyed a brilliant turquoise, around her index finger. ‘I reckon Jacqueline’s right about this. You should listen to her.’
Lina raises her eyebrows.
‘What?’ Zane shrugs. ‘We’ll be here all night, he keeps fussing like a baby over every single one. Might as well do it your way.’
Ryan glowers. ‘Big mouth, little thing.’
Her grin turns into a yawn, wide and unashamed, as she stretches her arms above her head. The purple T-shirt she’s wearing rides up. Exposes the tanned curve of her stomach and a navel piercing the same colour as her hair. ‘I’m doing a coffee run,’ she announces. ‘Who wants in?’
‘We good?’ Lina asks Ryan.
He sighs heavily. ‘Yeah, we’re good. Let’s just get this done.’
‘It’ll look great, I promise.’ She smiles, then turns to Zane. ‘Give me a minute, will you? I’ll pop up and see if my sister wants something.’
Ant is sitting cross-legged on the couch in Dante’s office, a glossy art journal splayed in her lap. Several more lie on the floor at her feet. She refused to remain home today, not even with Sharon volunteering to drop in and keep her company.
It’s not that I can’t be alone, Jacqueline; it’s that I can’t be far from you.
Her sister has been on and off the past couple of days. Worse since the funeral, Lina thinks, and wishes again that they hadn’t bothered to attend. Just the three of them occupying half a pew in the back of the crematorium chapel, Lina and Ant, along with Sharon who offered to drive. Sharon, who Lina believes she might actually like. Might be someone with whom she could have been friends had they met under less complicated circumstances. Without the careful, courteous sense of awkwardness that hovers between Sharon and her sister.
‘I thought you were napping,’ Lina says now.
Ant doesn’t move. Doesn’t look up. Simply stares, frozen, at the pages in her lap. Intimations of last night, when Lina discovered her sister standing in the middle of the kitchen floor. An apple raised in her hand. Round and red, minus the single perfect bite she said she didn’t remember taking.
‘Ant?’ Lina steps into the office. Touches her sister on the shoulder.
Antoinette blinks. Lifts her head. ‘Sorry? What did you say?’
‘Nothing. Did you manage to sleep?’
‘I lay down for a while.’ She sniffs and rubs at her nose. ‘It’s hard to . . .’ A pause, too long, before she blinks again. ‘Sometimes, I don’t know where I am, or I think I do, but then I’m not there. I wish Loki would come back. If he was here, if he was closer . . . maybe . . .’
‘He won’t leave us, Ant. He would never do that.’ Her sister smiles. Frail. Old. A shade too close to Sally Paige for Lina to be entirely comfortable. She leans down and takes the journal from Ant’s unprotesting hands. ‘You should try to get some rest. Zane’s going for coffee – I can ask her to get you a hot chocolate if you like.’
‘How about a teddy bear while she’s at it? A book of bedtime stories maybe?’
‘Very funny.’
At least this time the smile belongs wholly to Antoinette. ‘You know, I’ve never really known much about your job here. All this high art stuff, it kinda flies over my head.’ She nods towards the magazines on the floor. ‘But, be honest, Jacqueline – there’s an awful lot of wank, isn’t there?’
Lina sits down on the arm of the couch. ‘There’s some wank, certainly. But art is an ongoing dialogue; it’s a type of conversation. You can’t walk into the middle of a conversation and expect it to make perfect sense. You need to listen for a while before you join in.’
‘You really love this stuff, don’t you?’
Lina smiles. ‘I really do.’
‘That Ryan guy downstairs? I think his apocalypse paintings are cool.’
‘You realise his apocalypse isn’t caused by zombies, right?’
‘Shut up.’ Ant swats her across the knee. ‘They’re still cool.’
Outside, boots thump heavy on the stairs. ‘Hey, you guys?’ Zane calls. ‘Some of us are about to die of caffeine deprivation, you don’t hurry up.’
Lina gets to her feet. ‘Flat white, two sugars?’
‘Actually, you know what? Hot chocolate does sound pretty good.’
‘Done.’ She bends over, plants a kiss on top of her sister’s head. Those long dark curls closer now to brown, Lina notices. That rich black dye all but washed, all but faded, from sight.
Ground control to Major Ant. Hey, space odyssey, you in there?
Finger snap in front of her face and Antoinette rolls toward their blunt, beetle-click sounds, propels herself forward and up and into the glare of the overhe
ad lights. Into the glare of the crouching man – no, not a glare, more amusement than anger, although she can see how those chiselled features would repose almost naturally to the latter. Sister awakes! At long last. And she recognises him now, that smug sneer and bleached hair cropped so short she can see the scalp shining beneath.
Dante? Sorry, was I . . . did I fall asleep?
Not unless you sleep with your eyes wide open.
She shakes her head, stretches her body from its tight possum curl, and Dante extends a hand, his fingers warm as they close around hers, and he pulls her to her feet, pulls her face right up to his own and peers into her eyes. You high, sweetheart? Antoinette shakes her head again, no, she’s just . . . she has trouble being here just now. And that’s not the right way to put it, but Dante nods anyway, and his mouth softens around the edges like junk mail left out in the rain.
Poor kid. I was sorry to hear about your Mum, yeah?
Me too. I was sorry too.
Jacqueline is waiting at the bottom of the stairs – stairs that Antoinette navigates slowly and with care, one hand gripping the railing, grateful for the steady presence of Dante at her back. Ryan is waiting too, and that girl with the awesome blue dreads. We thought we’d go out to dinner, her sister tells her while Antoinette marvels at all the paintings now hung on the walls. It’s like the end of everything, she says, and like the start of it as well, and Ryan looks pleased. More pleased than Jacqueline, who frowns and rakes her fingers through Antoinette’s hair.
You’re tired, Ant. We should just go home.
No, please, let’s have dinner. I’m starving.
And for a second, it feels like she might even be speaking the truth.
Lina places a hand over her champagne glass when Dante pops the second bottle and begins a round of refills.
‘Come on, Jacks. Don’t pike on us now.’
‘Early start,’ she says. ‘Susan will be in around nine.’
‘Susan swills down with the best of them, love. You show up hung over, it’ll be a badge of fucking honour in her book.’
Lina lets him top her up. Everyone else as well, except for Ant who has hardly drunk more than a mouthful from the original go-round. Then they raise their glasses once more. Renew their toast to the brilliance of Mr Ryan Jellicoe – a brilliance that Dante saw right from the start – and of course to Miss Jacqueline Paige, who knows how to kick arse and take names when the chips are down. Lina rolls her eyes. Catches a wink from Ryan as he nudges her ankle beneath the table. Slides his foot along the swell of her calf until she mouths at him to stop it. Her boss vanquishes his drink in one long, throat-bobbing gulp. Zane needs two.
‘Child prodigy!’ Dante laughs, killing the last of the bottle between them. ‘Girl after my own heart. Watch this one, Jacks, she’s going places.’
Ryan leans across the table. ‘Just so you know: this doesn’t count as our dinner.’
‘Will there be another tantrum if I say that it does?’
‘You want me to go down on my knees, girl, I will go down on my knees. The set-up looks great, yeah? The thing with stuff and all the bits . . . you were right, you were one hundred – no, two hundred – per cent right.’
She laughs. Somewhat tipsy, but nicely so. Not at all like that time with the vodka, what little of it she can remember. Not that she wants to remember, not here, not now. But too late, too late. Loki once more laying waste to her thoughts. Worried again, anxious. Three days without word. Without even a single phone call. If something did happen to him, would Ant really know? Could she really tell?
Lina turns to her sister. Takes her by the wrist. ‘No secrets,’ she whispers. ‘We promised, remember?’
Ant merely stares at her with dark, dull eyes. ‘No,’ she echoes. ‘No secrets.’ As she cuts up her meat into fragments. Dices her vegetables down to mush. But despite her industry, despite the unpalatable mess her plate has become, Lina doesn’t think her sister has swallowed so much as a single pea.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ Lina asks.
Ant pauses, then nods. A slow and careful dip of her head as though she fears more vigorous movement might topple it from her shoulders.
‘How about we go home?’
She rubs her lips together. Moves them in a way that seems an attempt at speech.
‘Is she okay?’ Ryan asks, his forehead creasing with concern.
‘I don’t know.’ Lina hunches near as she can to her sister’s mouth. ‘Ant, what did you say? I didn’t hear you the first time.’
‘Will he be there?’ Croaky-hoarse words barely louder than breathing. ‘Will he be at home?’
And Lina whispers back that, honestly, she doesn’t know. He might be, he could very well be waiting at home for them tonight. Or perhaps he’ll be there tomorrow. Tomorrow or the next day, but sometime. Because he loves them, he loves both of them, and he wouldn’t just leave. ‘You still feel him, don’t you?’
Her sister nods. Lifts a loose fist to her sternum. ‘I feel both of you.’
Lina straightens. ‘Dante, I think we’re going to . . .’
Her boss has his phone pressed against his right ear, while his other hand shields his left. ‘Wait, what? Say that again.’ His voice raised now, face contorted with frustration. ‘I can’t – damn this bloody signal.’
Lina throws a questioning glance down the table to Zane, but the girl only shrugs. Shakes her dreadlocked head, turns her palms to the air. Around them, people on nearby tables have lowered their own conversational levels. Lowered or ceased talking entirely, ears pricked and greedy for gossip.
Dante pales. ‘Did you say fire? Yes. Yes, fuck, I’m on my way.’ Out of his seat with wallet in hand. Waving at the maître d’ who is already striding towards their table. ‘Alisa – sorry, love.’ He passes her a credit card. ‘Got a situation happening. We’ll square this all later, yeah?’
‘Of course, Mr Moretti.’ The tall brunette slides the card discreetly into her pocket. ‘I’ll order you a taxi.’
‘Dante?’ Lina is on her feet now as well. Ryan too, and Zane.
Her boss runs a hand back and forth over his scalp. Stares wild-eyed as though even he has trouble believing the words now stilting from his mouth: ‘The gallery is on fire, Jacks. Seventh Circle is burning to the fucking ground.’
Not to the ground – the building too solid; the fire brigade far too quick to respond to a blaze in the CBD – but certainly gutted, the interior rendered black with rubble and ash, filled with dripping water and the sodden smell of smoke. Antoinette huddles to one side, well away from the barrier of bright yellow tape, crime scene do not enter in solid black caps like some surreal re-enactment of the CSI shows Paul used to download. Complete with rubber-neckers and looky-loos, a shifting semi-circle of pedestrians mostly disbanded now that the flames have been doused, now that the media have packed up their gear and retreated into the night, and Antoinette keeps to the side of them, too.
Ryan sags in the gutter, back turned away from the charred and ruined mess, from the jut of blackened wood and occasional scrap of canvas that flaps in the air. Those beautiful paintings, that cool non-zombie apocalypse, all gone. Antoinette wants to hug him but the blue-haired girl is already there, barnacled to his side, skinny arms wrapped around his waist. Ryan, the girl says, over and over. Ryan, Ryan, Ryan, oh god, Ryan. While Ryan says nothing at all.
Antoinette shivers, rubs her arms against the chill in the air.
She looks over at her sister again, faithful lieutenant posted by Dante’s side as he talks to the thin-faced cop, answering questions in her turn as the cop nods and scribbles down notes in his pad. Jacqueline, eyes red and streaming with smoke-spiked tears, coughing into her fist and then pointing towards something within the hulking wreck of Seventh Circle, while Dante mimes a shoebox-sized shape with his hands. And the cop looks, an
d nods, and makes another note.
Until finally it seems to be over.
Or at least for Jacqueline. She approaches Ryan, places a hand on his head and says something that the night catches and spirits away. His shoulders hitch, and Jacqueline bites her lip, is already moving away when the blue-haired girl – Zane, that’s it, her name is Zane – launches to her feet and catches Jacqueline in a massive bear hug. And Jacqueline hugs her right back, and whispers into her ear, and after a minute Zane slips away, slips back down to the gutter and rests her cheek against Ryan’s arm.
When Jacqueline shuffles over to her sister at last, the shock in her eyes is still palpable and raw. Come on, Ant, it’s late. Let’s go home. Antoinette takes her hand, holds it tight. I feel better. Not good, not well, but better. The Loki-stone calmer than it has been for days, the weight and the tug of it less strident, less demanding. Her sister smiles wearily – that’s great, Ant, honestly – drags her over to where a taxi is waiting, and tells her to climb on in. And as Antoinette peers through the rear windows, she sees him. Just a glimpse, not enough to be certain, but still.
She does see him.
A boy, tall and moon-skinned, slipping sinuous through the remaining looky-loos. His crow-black hair long, tied neat at the nape of his neck, and his eyes shining bright as blood-diamonds.
Lina spends much of Thursday making and fielding Seventh Circle calls from her study at home. Cancellations and concerned clients, the entire RSVP list for tonight’s aborted opening, plus a dozen other tawdry tasks. Everyone wants to know the juicy details. What and how and who and why. By the end of it, Lina has her patter honed word-perfect. Yes, it’s a tragedy for all involved; yes, the police are investigating; no, she cannot reveal any further details. The occasional distraught artist with work still in storage, or irate client with acquisitions unshipped, she bounces straight to Dante. Her boss is handling the insurance side of things. Compensation and counselling both.
He’s also handling Ryan Jellicoe.
The artist refuses to talk to Lina, which means he must have been told. Those witness descriptions last night: tall skinny male; long black hair; pale skin; nose sharp enough to cut paper. The officer wanting to know if that sounded familiar. Sounded like anyone they knew. Anyone who might have been hanging around. And Dante, no slackwit, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.
Perfections Page 35
