A Different River

by Jo Verity

  Along with the regular invoice, the envelope contained a letter from James Denton.

  Dear Mrs Siskin,

  Regarding the work we are carrying out in respect to your brother, Daniel Edlin and his wife and daughter, Ava and Pearl Edlin. Our operative in the United States has reported a lead in the case. I must stress that this might prove to be inaccurate or indeed, a dead end. Whilst this is encouraging, I advise caution.

  I would be grateful if you could phone me at your earliest convenience.

  Yours sincerely

  James Denton

  Although it was late, Denton was still at his desk.

  ‘Tell me quickly,’ she said. ‘What’s this “lead”? Is Danny alive?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that, Mrs Siskin. The lead I spoke of refers to a Pearl Edlin who taught at a school in Prescott, Arizona, in the early nineties. Her date of birth ties in with the information you provided. She worked there for three years. We’re trying to discover where she went after that.’

  ‘So nothing on my brother?’

  ‘Nothing so far I’m afraid.’

  ‘Would more money help? Or could you—’

  ‘These things take time, Mrs Siskin. The man we have engaged is expert in this field. If there’s anything to be found, I assure you he’ll find it.’

  Miriam felt sick with disappointment. She wanted to scream at the pompous fool who failed to understand that not only had she inherited her parents’ worldly goods but also their torment over Danny’s disappearance. She was longing for her brother not some girl she’d never met. Arizona? He’d never given her an address in Arizona. The ninetieswere a long time ago. Her niece – if it were her niece – could be anywhere. If they were to track her down there was no reason to think she and Danny had stayed in contact, especially if his split with Ava had been acrimonious.

  Bing was tetchy when he returned from the surgery. She’d made up her mind to tell him about Denton’s news as soon as he came in but it would be a mistake to raise the issue whilst he was in this foul mood.

  ‘Anything wrong?’ she said.

  ‘If you must know I bumped into that creep Stanway.’ He paused, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d seen him?’

  She hadn’t recognised the man when he came into the shop. ‘Alan Stanway,’ he’d said. ‘The party at Monkton Square.’ ‘Of course.’ ‘I heard you worked here so I thought I’d drop in and say hello.’ ‘You might consider buying a book whilst you’re here,’ she’d said. ‘Sure. Half a dozen if you’ll let me buy you a drink.’ She’d been stunned at the man’s gall. ‘I don’t think Paul would be too happy,’ she’d said. He’d winked. ‘I won’t tell him if you won’t.’ And she hadn’t told Bing because – well, because of the state he’d got himself when Stanway had cornered her at that Christmas party.

  ‘I didn’t mention it because it wasn’t worth mentioning,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’ Bing said. ‘He was smirking all over his fat face as usual. He couldn’t wait to tell me you agreed to go for a drink with him. Did you?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. No. No.’

  ‘So why even ask me? It’s degrading having you interrogate me like this.’

  Miriam favoured holding the reception at home. ‘We’ll get caterers in. It’ll be nice.’

  Bing dug his heels in saying the occasion warranted more than a few sausage rolls in the living room. The Angel Hotel already had one wedding booked for that day but the manager – a close friend of Hazel’s – offered them the small dining room which accommodated a couple of dozen guests. Short of roping in Bing’s work colleagues, she couldn’t see how they could rustle up anywhere near that number and they accepted. She stuck to her guns on everything else. No designer dresses, apart from Rosa’s, no extravagant flower arrangements, no flashy cars. They’d ask David to take photographs. The local bakery could supply the cake and she would enjoy making the invitations.

  Bing failed to conceal his frustration. ‘We’ve waited forty-odd years, don’t you think we deserve a bit more razzamatazz?’

  Her father had gone overboard when she married Sam, but having capitulated on her choice of husband, what had been the point in her objecting to the rest of the circus? So. Vintage cars; two hundred guests (few of whom she’d met); a klezmer band, for crying out loud. And that ghastly lace dress – rigid and bright white. Having formulated the masterplan, her father had left her mother to sort out the details. Miriam hadn’t hindered preparations but neither had she helped which, looking back, had been horribly unkind.

  Naomi, too, was disappointed at her mother’s modest plans. ‘It’s your wedding, Mum. Isn’t that important?’

  ‘Of course but there are other things to consider.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Paul’s children. They haven’t said whether they’ll come or not. It’s bad enough as it is but if we opt for an elaborate “do” and they don’t show, it’ll be doubly mortifying.’

  After months of Miriam’s stonewalling, Naomi had abandoned her ambition to meld the families and, shrugging, she let it rest there.

  Ceremony and reception booked, Miriam put preparations on hold until after Easter. That would give her more than enough time to organise what amounted to a delicious lunch with people whom she loved.

  31

  The clocks had gone forwardand the world was greening into life. Miriam was in the garden, raking up the remains of winter debris and enjoying the warmth of the spring sunshine. The front door banged signalling Bing’s return with the newspaper and, she hoped, something delicious to accompany their morning coffee. Shucking off her wellington boots, she went inside to track him down.

  He was in the kitchen, The Sunday Times spread out on the table.

  ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘Have you put the kettle on?’

  He shoved the paper towards her. ‘Did you know about this?’

  She glanced down, anticipating a headline about NHS cuts or the closure of a local factory. Instead she saw Moat. Moat in his duffel coat and silly hat. Moat. And alongside him his painting of her.

  ‘Christ, Miriam,’ Bing said. ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘I can—’

  ‘No. Don’t say anything.’

  ‘Please. Let me explain.’

  ‘What’s to explain?’ He jabbed at the photograph. ‘You’re here for all to see – every naked inch of you.’

  ‘Bing—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it.’

  He grabbed his car keys and by the time she got to the window he was reversing his car out of the drive. She beat on the glass but he chose not to see her, and she stayed there, staring at the space where his car had been. When it was obvious he wasn’t coming back she returned to the newspaper, scanning the article, catching a phrase here, a sentence there, struggling to make sense of it. The upshot was that ‘Red Shoes’ had been awarded some major new prize. Tens of thousands of pounds.

  She forced herself to read it from beginning to end, not easy when her thoughts were skittering. The judges hailed Moat as ‘a natural successor to Lucien Freud’. There was stuff about his background, his training, his previous successes. His thoughts on the Turner Prize and contemporary art in general. Now this big breakthrough. And he spoke of his ‘inspirational model’. No name but the hair, the eyes, the posture – she’d forgotten how perfectly he’d captured her.

  Across the country, people would be flicking though the paper. When they reached this page, what did they see? A naked woman, or a work of art? What did they think? Were they appalled that a woman her age had the audacity to expose her flesh to public scrutiny? Did they assume she was Moat’s mistress? Did they see a pair of cheap red pumps or Moat’s ‘invisible woman’? Perhaps they glanced at it and turned over to – she flipped the page – the interview with Jarvis Cocker.

  Bing had been gone for forty minutes. Long enough to regret his overreaction – although she held out little ho
pe of that. He’d never been rational when it came to her. She laid her head on her folded arms. When they first got together, the prospect of his finding out about her modelling had preyed on her mind. Time had gone by and they had moved on, and her unease had faded. When, on the odd occasion, she spoke to Callum, the last time had been before Christmas, they chatted about everyday things – family, books, films – never her work at the college. And Moat? She’d last seen Moat in that café when he was buying his olive oil. All she could recall was eating cake and telling him there was no possibility of her working with him again.

  Her phone roused her and she snatched it up. It was Callum. ‘D’you happen to take TheSunday Times?’ He sounded apprehensive.

  ‘Why didn’t you warn me? Paul’s gone into meltdown.’

  ‘I only found out yesterday. Moat knew a few days ago but the story was embargoed until last night’s award dinner.’

  ‘So why didn’t he warn me? He must have known that the interview – the picture – would be in today’s paper.’

  ‘To be honest, I doubt it crossed his mind. You know what he’s like.’ Callum paused. ‘You must have realised that, sooner or later, the painting would go on public display. Moat doesn’t paint for fun, Miriam. It’s his job. It’s the way he earns his living.’

  ‘I didn’t give it much thought.’ (Not true. In her mind’s eye, it had remained in Moat’s house, taking pride of place at the top of the stair on the first-floor landing.) Besides, a painting on some rich connoisseur’s wall, or in a gallery in… in Aberdeen, is entirely different from a full-page spread in a national Sunday. Another thing. He finished it two years ago. Where’s it been all this time?’

  ‘He told me he was keeping it in his locker, waiting for the right occasion.’

  ‘Right for him maybe but it couldn’t have come at a worse time for me.’ She folded the newspaper so she couldn’t see herself. ‘Sorry. I should be yelling at Moat not you.’

  ‘You’ve no reason to yell at anyone, Miriam. And your bloke has no reason to throw a wobbly. Sorry but he’s a twat if he doesn’t know a masterpiece when he sees one.’

  She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘He didn’t stick around long enough to study the brushwork. Whatever’s going on in his head has nothing to do with its artistic merits.’

  ‘Poor Miriam. You’ve nothing to feel bad about. Modelling’s a perfectly respectable occupation. It’s not as if you were a stripper.’

  She imagined David’s parents, her ex-colleagues, Alan Stanway, sitting down with their Sunday papers and their small-minded attitudes. ‘Respectable in your world, perhaps.’

  ‘I’m truly sorry this is causing you grief. I feel responsible for getting you involved.’

  ‘You mustn’t. I volunteered.’

  ‘But I introduced you to Moat.’

  ‘And I could have turned him down.’ Her phone buzzed indicating a caller was waiting. ‘Look, I’d best go.’

  ‘Keep in touch,’ he said.

  This time it was Hazel. ‘I’m in awe. And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Am I that recognisable?’

  ‘Unmistakable. Unless you have an identical twin. Why didn’t you let on?’

  ‘I’d forgotten about it.’

  ‘Come off it. You’d have to be an amnesiac to forget something like that.’

  ‘You’re right. But it was in another life and I was another person. Tell me truthfully. Are you shocked?’

  ‘Impressed more than shocked. It’s a wonderful painting. I can quite see why it won.’ Hazel paused. ‘Knowing how… protective Paul is, I wouldn’t have thought he’d be altogether thrilled.’

  ‘He’s not. In fact he stormed out and I have no idea where he is.’

  She explained how the whole thing had come about. Callum and the art college. How Bing’s reappearance had coincided with her agreeing to pose for Moat. How she’d decided not to jeopardise their second chance of happiness by telling Paul something he need never know. ‘I can see now what a terrible mistake that was,’ she said.

  ‘Is he angry with you for doing it, or angry with you for not telling him you did it? They’re very different things.’

  ‘I might find out if he ever comes back.’

  Lunchtime came. She made a cheese sandwich but after a couple of bites it went in the bin. The sort of prize money Moat had won would attract attention way beyond the rarefied world of fine art. She would be fooling herself if she pretended the story would appear in only one paper. It was unlikely that the identity of his model would escape investigation. That Miriam Siskin might slip under the radar.

  Needing to occupy herself, she tidied the dresser drawers. As she untangled string and hunted for missing pen tops, remorse gave way to anger. The past presented a hazard to any happy future, but whenever she’d pointed that out to Bing – suggested they get theirs out in the open – he had resisted. He maintained their relationship was built on trust, yet the first time his was put to the test, he’d bolted. Callum was right. She’d done nothing wrong. Had nothing to be ashamed of. Bing was behaving like a petulant adolescent. She should leave him to stew. And yet. What hope was there for them if they failed to confront this now? She texted Please come home so we can talk.

  She’d stopped listening for his car when it finally pulled up. He’d forgotten his house keys and had no option but to ring the doorbell. For a dizzying second, she thought he was going to take her in his arms but instead he pushed past her and ran upstairs, and she heard him crashing about, opening and closing drawers.

  She followed him up to their room. ‘What are you doing?’

  He pointed to the holdall on the bed. ‘What does it look like?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. This is me, remember?’

  He grabbed a handful of socks and shoved them in the bag. ‘That’s just it. Who the hell are you?’

  ‘For goodness sake, stop being so melodramatic.’

  ‘You have some nerve criticising my behaviour. Who flaunted herself in front of some… weirdo? And what about the one you’re always texting? Did he come along and watch?’

  ‘Stop it,’ she shouted. ‘Okay. I should have told you. But I saw you and I loved you and I couldn’t bear to risk losing you. I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘You’re damn right there.’ He scooped a handful of underwear from the drawer. ‘So after you saw me and you loved me, did you continue stripping off for this… this pervert?’ A vein bulged on his temple. ‘You did, didn’t you? Are there any more pictures like this likely to appear in the press?’

  ‘What if there are?’ she said. ‘Read the article and you’ll find out how well-respected Moat is.’

  ‘I don’t care if the little turd’s Leonardo da-fucking Vinci. You’ve allowed your body to become public property.’

  ‘Instead of your property, is that what you mean?’

  ‘Why did you do it? Were you trying to prove something?’

  ‘If you must know, yes, that’s precisely what I was doing. If you’ll just stop packing, I’ll explain everything.’

  ‘I don’t want to know, Miriam. I don’t want to talk about it, or think about it.’

  ‘If that’s the case, we have a real problem.’

  Before he could respond, her phone rang.

  ‘If that’s him…’ he said.

  She turned the phone towards him so he could see the caller’s name. ‘It’s Naomi if you must know.’

  Not knowing what Naomi was going to say and fearing that Bing might get involved, she went into the spare room. As her daughter prattled on – a recipe, a haircut, Max’s school trip to London – it was clear she knew nothing about the painting. Finally she ground to a halt. ‘Are you okay, Mum? You seem distracted.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m in the middle of something. Can I call you back?’

  She waited, giving Bing the opportunity to come and find her. When it became obvious this wasn’t going to happen, she ran downstairs and got in her car.
For a while she drove around aimlessly eventually, like a homing pigeon, ending up at her parents’ house.

  ‘My God,’ Frankie said, ‘you look terrible. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Everything. Bing and I’ve had a massive row.’

  Frankie shrugged. ‘Brides get jittery before the wedding.’

  ‘No. This is serious. Really serious.’

  Having extracted Frankie’s promise not to interrupt, she told her everything. When she’d finished, Frankie clapped her hands. ‘An artist’s muse, eh? Atta girl. Like I said, the world’s your oyster.’

  Miriam’s tears welled. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Not making this about Bing.’

  ‘Why would I do that? It’s your body. You can do what you like with it. I’ve yet to see this painting, but I doubt it’s one of those soft-porn-masquerading-as-art jobs. For starters, you’re too scrawny for that sort of thing.’