by Alex Connor
Breaking his long-held rule, when Teddy returned to his flat in Beak Street he invited one of the working girls in. Pleased, she accepted, rubbing her hands in the chill of the evening air, her face waxy, hollows under her eyes, her hair tucked behind her ears. In a short skirt and denim jacket she stood with her knees knocking as she leant towards Teddy’s gas fire, a worn red friendship ribbon round her bony wrist, one of her earrings missing.
‘Cold, hey?’ she said.
He nodded, moving into the bedroom to change his trousers. But before he had time, she had followed him in, pushing him back onto the bed, his trousers round his ankles. Being so close to her, Teddy could see the sweat on her top lip and guessed that she had recently had a fix.
‘Hey, just a minute!’
She grinned, holding onto him, her arms wrapped around his neck, her body curled against his. ‘I’ve been waiting for an invitation for a long time, Teddy. The girls said you never had anyone up here, but I knew you’d ask me one day.’ Her voice held a peculiar and misplaced triumph.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Shelly.’
‘Pretty name.’
‘My mother said I was named after someone famous.’
‘Yeah,’ Teddy agreed, nuzzling the top of her head. ‘He wrote poetry.’
‘Is that right?’ she asked, impressed. ‘Imagine that! A poet!’
‘Love poetry.’
She wriggled against him, satisfied by the thought, reading some romance into it.
From outside the window came the muffled sounds of Soho, a cab horn sounding, a shop’s alarm going off in another street. The doorbell from the chemist below chimed in, out, in, out, shadows floating across the ceiling as Teddy stared upwards and put his arm around the girl’s bony shoulder. He felt an unaccustomed affection for her, a need for closeness, for comfort. And yet even though he had invited her in for sex, he felt his intention shifting.
‘You’re around a lot of the time, Shelly.’
‘Yeah,’ she agreed. ‘Busy this time of night. We all like you, you know.’
Surprised, he glanced at her. ‘What?’
‘All the girls. We think you’re a great guy. One of the older women said you’d sorted someone out for her. You didn’t have to do that, she said, but she was pleased. Anyone could see that. Mind you, that was a while ago.’ She snuggled against his bare legs, her knees resting against his. ‘You work at some art gallery, don’t you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So why live here?’
‘I like it here.’
She laughed, making a face. ‘If I had a good job I’d live somewhere nice. Not here. I wonder how you can sleep at night with all the noise.’ She yawned; the room was warming up. ‘You want to have sex now?’
‘No,’ he said simply, tightening his arm around her.
‘You’re not shy?’
‘No.’
‘Are you married?’
‘I was. Once.’
‘Kids?’
‘No. You?’
‘One, a boy. My mother looks after him.’ She picked at something in the corner of her eye. ‘I tell her that when I’m off the drugs I’ll come for him. You know, get a little place, out of London. Be like a family. Maybe meet someone. Someone all right …’ She paused, surprised to find that Teddy had taken hold of her hand and was holding it gently. ‘Can’t get on with those rehab programmes. I tried twice, but it didn’t feel right. You know? You know what I mean? Like they were going to make me into someone I’m not. Oh, I know what I am is pretty skanky, but I know it. Feels all right. Being all clean and clear, what’s that about? You can’t go back, can’t never have been an addict or a working girl. You can never go back …’
She moved her other hand towards his thigh, Teddy sighing. ‘I’m good at this, why don’t you let me? No charge, honest. And it’s not a mercy fuck.’
He stared at her, bewildered. ‘A what?’
‘You know, when you feel sorry for someone. But I don’t feel sorry for you, I like you. It’ll be a pleasure, honest. It’ll be a pleasure.’
Her mouth moved over Teddy’s, her tongue finding his, and he responded, holding onto her, rolling over so that she was under him. Pulling up her skirt, he entered her and began to thrust. But as he did so, his excitement suddenly faded and the room shrank. He felt suffocated as his breathing speeded up, until he fell back onto the bed, gasping.
Startled, she stared at his face.
‘You all right? You sick?’ she asked, sliding off the bed and getting him a drink of water. ‘Here, luv, drink this. Go on, have a little sip.’
Tenderly she held it for him. And, as he sipped at it, tears rolled down his face like those of a child.
Tobar Manners clicked off the phone in his study. On the desk in front of him lay the Sotheby’s catalogue, together with an invitation to a private view at the Fine Art Society and a note from Rufus Ariel inviting him to dinner at the weekend. Tobar wondered why Ariel would suddenly be so sociable: dining at Le Gavroche? How extravagant … They had known each other for years, but Ariel had made no secret of the fact that he suspected Tobar’s hand in the Rembrandt scam, and for the past two weeks they had not exchanged so much as a nod.
Wondering fleetingly who else was invited, Tobar thought of phoning Rufus Ariel, but resisted. No point in looking too interested; the dealers were all jittery at the moment, after Owen Zeigler’s murder, yet Ariel wasn’t the jumpy type. Too smart, the fat bastard, too smart by half. Tobar thought of Rufus, of his podgy hands, of his white hair framing the smooth, plump face. Fat as a spoilt baby, Rufus had limited his Old Masters and bought into the Brit Art market, making enough money in the Eighties and Nineties to expand his gallery and indulge his culinary greed. But where Rufus Ariel had been really clever was in spotting the end of the Brit Art boom. Cutting back, he began to court dead painters, advising his customers to buy into eighteenth-century French art. So when the crunch came, his backside – always amply cushioned – was covered again.
It was obvious to everyone that Rufus Ariel was astute and adept at the long game, but his arrogance had made him enemies. He could never resist accusing others of stupidity. The secretaries were stupid, the dealers, the customers, all were stupid. But he had one weakness – his vanity. Rufus Ariel knew he was not a good looking man. He also knew that a rich man might be forgiven a great deal, but women seldom fell for a fat man who made clumsy advances. Because he paid well, he kept his staff, giving the secretaries and the receptionist enough perks to endure the hand on the lower back, or the imbecilic tweaking of a bra strap. He might call them all darling and bring back cakes from Patisserie Valerie, but he despised them for despising him. Everyone hoped that it was just a matter of time before Rufus Ariel hit the buffers. It might not be the recession which downed him, but a claim for sexual harassment brought by some wily upper-class girl he hadn’t been able to pay off.
Tobar tapped his front teeth with his finger nail. Maybe Rufus Ariel wanted to talk business. A deal, perhaps? Still pondering, Tobar looked around him. He liked this room, liked the thick beige carpet, the rich, embossed wallpaper, the drapes from Colefax and Fowler. When he had called the interior designer in, he had told her, ‘Make it look like an English country drawing room; one owned by a lottery winner.’
He was paying the woman enough to comply. Cleverly, she had blended faded English elegance with the brashness of the naked bronze figures which flanked Tobar Manners’ desk, and with the showy mirror behind him, which had had to be screwed to the wall for support. Complete with intertwining snakes and sinuous, gilded reeds, the mirror was topped with a coronet, a smirking nod to the fact that Tobar – although self-made – was married to a member of the Venetian aristocracy.
But at that moment Tobar Manners wasn’t thinking about the recession or his absent wife; his whole attention was focused on a rumour he had just heard about two Rembrandts which were apparently coming onto the market for sale in New York. Was that what Rufus Ariel
wanted to talk about? Tobar sensed an opportunity presenting itself. Apparently they were portraits of a Dutch merchant and, the companion piece, his wife. Two Rembrandts for sale in New York? How fucking convenient was that, he thought cynically. Two Rembrandts being sold by a private collector in a recession. Two Rembrandts which had never come onto the market before.
Of course, it could be merely a rumour, he thought, making a note to ring the collector as soon as possible. He had brokered for the Japanese man before, so why hadn’t he been approached this time? And why was the sale in New York rather than London?
‘Excuse me, sir …’ His thoughts interrupted, Tobar looked up to see his secretary standing by his desk. ‘Mr Langley wants a word with you.’
‘I’m sure he does.’
‘Shall I put him through?’
‘Did I say that?’ Manners replied, his tone biting. ‘Did I say – put him through?’
‘No, sir,’ she replied, a composed woman in a light suit, her expression unreadable.
She had worked for Tobar Manners for nearly two decades and was immune to his rudeness. Loathing him, she told her husband, was just a perk of the job. Manners was too careful to let her see too much, but she had overheard many innuendos about his dealings, and had had to put off a number of dissatisfied clients. When paintings were sold as one artist and then discovered to be by another, lesser, painter, Tobar Manners always affected an injured stance. Good Lord, of course he hadn’t known. What would it do for his reputation? Would he have honestly risked his good name selling something he did not believe to be genuine?
In the 1980s there was gossip that he had been involved in trading forgeries; then he was suspected of stomping up the bidding on a Flinck, but it was never proven and Manners had his lawyer on speed dial.
‘You don’t put Mr Langley through to me. You don’t ever put Mr Langley through.’
‘Shall I tell him you’re out?’
‘Tell him I’m fucking water skiing, for all I care.’
Nodding, she turned to go, then turned back to him. ‘Mr Langley said that unless you took his call he would feel obliged to visit you.’
‘And when he does, I’ll be fucking out,’ Manners replied, staring at his secretary. ‘Have you changed your hair?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Looks good.’
Fuck you, sir, she thought, smiling sweetly as she walked out.
He had overreacted, Samuel thought, angered by his own nervousness. It had been two weeks since Owen Zeigler had been killed and there had been no more instances of burglaries or murders in the capital. Taking off his reading glasses, Samuel heard the sound of his housekeeper walking past the study door. He waited, counted to five, then smiled as she knocked.
‘What would you like for your dinner this evening?’ Mrs McKendrick asked, walking in and keeping her head facing forward, as though to see the mounds of books and clutter would unnerve her. ‘I thought chicken might be nice.’
‘Would be lovely,’ Samuel replied, glancing up at her and making a mental note to leave her some little inheritance. She had been a loyal employee, and even if her cooking was erratic, she was willing. ‘My solicitor is coming to see me at three o’clock tomorrow, I wanted to give you some warning. Perhaps we could have some tea?’
‘I’ll see to it,’ Mrs McKendrick replied, pleased at the chance to bake and garner the usual compliments. ‘Will he be staying for dinner?’
‘No, not that long. Just afternoon tea.’
‘Perhaps scones?’
‘Good.’
‘Or a Battenberg?’
‘Or both?’
She smiled, the answer was the right one.
‘The newspaper, sir,’ she said, passing it over to Samuel and pointing to the front page. ‘Gets worse everyday. Unemployment rising again. I voted Labour, but now I wonder … There’s two families in the village selling up and going, can’t pay their mortgages. Both men been working at the local garage and laid off.’ She looked at Samuel, as though daring him to contradict her. ‘It’s the kids I feel for the most. Fancy being moved from your home and school friends. It’s not right.’
Pausing, she realised that Samuel wasn’t going to respond and turned away, opening the window half an inch to freshen the room. She knew about her employer’s reputation in the art world. The articles in The Times, the Observer and the foreign papers had all caught her eye, but she had never read them. As she said to her husband, art wasn’t her thing. Art was for the toffs. Art was what people talked about when they wanted to sound cultured. Art was a joke to the common man.
Turning back from the window, Mrs McKendrick looked at her employer. ‘About four o’clock be all right for your tea, sir?’
Samuel nodded. ‘That would be excellent, thank you, Mrs McKendrick.’
Nodding, she left the room. Oh no, Mrs McKendrick thought, her employer was a kind man, and generous, but he had no idea of the realities of life. No idea at all.
18
New York
Charlotte Gorday returned to New York alone. Dreading the long flight, she sat in first class and stared out of the window until it was dark, and then pulled down the blind. She hoped the engine’s incessant murmuring might help her sleep, but sleep proved impossible. Her food remained untouched. Trying to engage her mind, she glanced at the magazines she had bought, then spotted an article that would be sure to interest Owen … But Owen was dead and, remembering this, Charlotte found herself shaking uncontrollably. Embarrassed, she pressed herself against the window, but she was trembling so much she couldn’t control, or disguise, it.
‘Are you all right?’
Charlotte looked up into the air hostess’s face. ‘Yes, fine. Thank you …’
‘Are you a nervous flier?’
No, she wanted to say. No, no, no. Go away. I’m shaking because I’m in shock; I’m shaking because I’ve just left my dead lover behind. I’m shaking because it’s natural, normal. And if you knew what I felt, you’d shake until your teeth rattled.
But she only said, simply, ‘I’ve just lost somebody …’
‘I’ve just lost somebody. Not misplaced them. Not forgotten where I put them, but lost them. How careless was that? How little interest did that show?
‘I’d been in love with him for eighteen years,’ she went on numbly, feeling the air hostess’s hand on her shoulder. And then Charlotte pulled herself together. She certainly wasn’t about to fall apart on a plane, in public. That wasn’t her style. Her sense of decorum made her straighten herself up. Controlled elegance helped her to stop shaking. There would be a time to let go – but not now, not here.
‘I’ll be all right,’ she said calmly. ‘Perhaps I should have a little something to eat after all.’
When Charlotte finally arrived at the Manhattan apartment she shared with her husband, Philip, she was surprised to find him at home, waiting for her. In fact, he had cried off a previous dinner engagement.
‘Don’t change your plans for me, Philip.’
‘No problem,’ he assured her. ‘I’d have picked you up from the airport if you’d told me which flight you were coming in on.’
‘I should have rung you. Thoughtless, wasn’t I?’ Charlotte said numbly.
But her husband sat down on the window seat without replying. Several photographs, and a contemporary portrait of Charlotte, stamped her joint ownership on the apartment, but in reality the place lacked her spirit and was mostly her husband’s abode. Newspapers and business books were piled around the room; Philip’s mobile phone lay next to his lap top; an open cigar box had been left on another chair, and his reading glasses stared at her quizzically from the mantelpiece.
‘It was terrible news about Owen Zeigler,’ Philip began, glancing at his wife. ‘I’m so sorry, Charlotte. I want you to know that.’
She turned to him, her expression unravelling, her vulnerability obvious.
‘Thank you … thank you.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’<
br />
‘No,’ she said after a pause.
‘I know you loved him,’ Philip went on, a reasonable man who loved his wife, but loved others too. A man who had made no secret of his tendencies, and in Charlotte had found a woman who had also been committed elsewhere. ‘We could go on holiday somewhere …’
She nodded absentmindedly.
‘ … a change of scene might help you,’ he went on, getting up and walking over to her. They had not made love for many years and he found it awkward to be close to her. Nevertheless, he sat down on the sofa and put his arm around her shoulders. He could smell her perfume, gone stale from long hours of travelling, and noticed the puffiness around her eyes. ‘I liked Owen Zeigler,’ he said.
‘I loved him.’
‘You know, sometimes I thought you’d leave me for him,’ Philip said, Charlotte leaning her head against his shoulder. ‘Stay in London, move in with him permanently. I thought I’d lose.’
‘I never thought I would,’ she said honestly, taking her husband’s hand and looking at the wedding ring on his third finger. ‘I don’t know what to do now, Philip. How to live. I don’t know if it was all worthwhile, now that I’ve lost him … I should be grateful for you, Philip, grateful that you’re still here, and I am. But …’ she gazed at him, lost. ‘Why don’t I know what to do?’
‘No one knows what to do at a time like this.’
‘Maybe we should have had children.’
‘We never wanted them.’
‘No,’ she agreed. ‘It wouldn’t have been fair on them.’
‘Or us.’
‘Or us,’ she echoed, then asked, ‘Was I fair on you, Philip?’
He took a breath, looking into her face, did not know how to answer her.
‘Maybe I wasn’t fair on you,’ he admitted slowly. ‘I always had other women.’
‘I only ever had Owen. I never wanted any other man.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘I would have told you, if you’d asked.’ She paused, her voice dipping. ‘Owen was murdered, you know?’
‘Yes, I read about it. Do they have any idea who did it?’
