by Jenny Harper
Domenica Martinez lived in a loft apartment in Dumbo, right on the waterfront. Patrick saw the appeal the moment he stepped in the door. Industrial-sized windows ran the length of the old warehouse, hurling light across the room onto the white walls at the far side. The floor was oak and gleaming. A space with white sofas at the far end, a compact, very contemporary kitchen in the middle, a dining table and heavy burr-elm chairs, the edges left rough and misshapen, the wood in its natural state. It was simple, clean and classy – but where did she paint?
She noted both the appreciation and his puzzlement.
‘Come in, Mr Mulgrew. You are welcome.’
She was just as he remembered her; tall, striking, and utterly confident in her own skin. The eyes were the same sizzling blue. She still wore her hair loose and long, and if it weren’t for the grey and the fine lines that radiated from the corners of her eyes and threaded her upper lip she could still be taken for thirty. She was slim but had good muscle tone and she moved with purpose. Her body radiated energy. She was wearing grey joggers and a white tee shirt. Her feet were bare. It was not an outfit designed to woo him. Of course, Patrick thought, Domenica Martinez was queen in her domain, she could exhibit wherever she liked – it was he who had to do the wooing.
He remembered his manners.
‘Ms Martinez.’
He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, bowing slightly.
‘Forgive me. How could I let the majesty of your apartment eclipse the beauty of its owner?’
Her laugh came right from the belly.
‘Wow. Only an Englishman could say something like that.’
‘Irishman,’ he corrected automatically.
‘Pardon me. Was it courtesy or flattery?’
‘An apology. I was being very rude.’
Again the laugh. ‘Come in. I know what you’re going to ask.’
‘You do?’
‘You want to know where I paint.’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Let’s just say you’re not the first.’
She led the way to the back of the building. Perhaps other residents might use the space as a bedroom, but he saw at once how ideally suited it was to painting. The light came in from above, through high, angled windows so that it lost all its hard edges and diffused softly and evenly. Patrick had seen many studios, but this had a special atmosphere. There were many large canvases stacked against the walls, another on the easel. They displayed vivid sequences of colours, shapes and textures that spoke of heat, and the sea, and boats, or perhaps of a lake, but at any rate of life-giving water.
‘Like it?’
‘Who wouldn’t?’
‘What does it say to you?’
He thought about this for a moment, then laughed.
‘That’s funny?’
‘No,’ he shook his head, ‘not at all. I was just thinking about a friend of mine, an artist. She has a tattoo round her thumb. You know what it says?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Artbollocks. You know what I mean?’
She threw back her head and laughed.
‘That old essay in Art Review? Of course I know it.’
‘Making utterly banal work seem important by couching it in inflated language. I try to avoid it, but sometimes, when you see something that goes right to your heart through all your senses, it’s hard to find words to describe the impact that don’t sound pretentious.’
Domenica laid her hand on his arm.
‘She sounds like an interesting person. I think I’d appreciate her.’
‘I’m sure you would.’
‘At any rate, what you’ve said is reaction enough for me.’
Her gaze drilled through him. ‘I think we could work together, Mr Mulgrew.’
‘Was it a test?’
She laughed. ‘Sort of. I dislike pretension.’
He sank into one of the white sofas, giddy with the long hours of travel, the change of time, the viewings, the interviews, handling Victoria. Domenica poured him a Manhattan (‘What else, for heaven’s sake?’), then another, and they talked about art and the state of the market, about mutual acquaintances, about pet hates.
‘Tell me about your artist,’ she said at length.
‘I’m sorry?’
They had covered a lot of ground and he had forgotten his explanation of earlier.
‘The one with the tattoo.’
‘Lexie? Nothing to tell.’
‘What kind of artist is she?’
He didn’t take it at face value and describe her as ‘representational’, ‘surrealist’ or ‘avant garde’ or attach any other labels. Instead he said, ‘Thoughtful. Skilled. Bloody ungrateful.’
Domenica crowed with laughter.
‘Obstreperous and ungrateful. Yet you still admire her.’
Patrick stood up and paced across to the huge windows.
‘Not at all. She’s very immature. In any case, we fell out, so how I see her is immaterial.’
The back of his neck prickled. He turned. Domenica was standing very close to him and he had the odd impression that she could drill right into him, like a geologist, and draw up a core that would reveal every layer of his innermost feelings, through time. It was an uncomfortable sensation, because there was a lot of emotion buried deep in that core and he’d like to keep it that way.
Domenica said softly, ‘So. She means a lot to you.’
‘No.’ He turned to the window again, but the lie pained him and he had a sudden need to confess to this woman.
‘I didn’t understand her, at a time when she needed understanding, and now she rejects me. I said things I should not have said, but I can’t tell her that. I was angry because she let me down.’
It was the truth, but it wasn’t the real reason for his anger. That went deeper. Images of Niamh flickered through his head: Niamh at nineteen, laughing at a dog that had followed them along Ballymastocker Bay in Donegal and wouldn’t leave them alone. Her hair was dark as the soil of County Kildare, her eyes grey like the Galway seas in winter. She was beautiful, and innocent and loving.
Niamh had said, ‘Would you look at him, Patrick. Those eyes would melt ice cream, so they would. Can we keep him?’
She was like a puppy herself, all eagerness and energy.
‘In a one-room flat in Dublin? I don’t think so.’
He saw Niamh at twenty-two, in her wedding gown, like an Irish princess straight from the pages of a fairy tale. He couldn’t remember the detail of the gown, only that it shimmered in some subtle way, falling in soft folds round her slender body. The innocence of three years earlier had morphed into a glorious awareness of her own attractiveness. She knew she was beautiful and she basked in the delight of knowing that everyone was looking at her (especially Aidan, as it turned out). Patrick believed, because she told him so, over and over again, adoringly, that she had packaged all this gorgeousness into a white-ribboned, flower-bedecked bundle just for his benefit.
But somewhere down the years Niamh changed. She didn’t like life in London, where they moved shortly after the wedding. Her attempts to set up a business as an interior designer, then as a shopping consultant, then as a boutique owner, all toppled into oblivion. She became restless and dissatisfied.
Another image, the most persistent: Niamh in bed with Aidan, her grey eyes wide with shock as he barged in, home unexpectedly to change for a dressy dinner. Nothing that followed that moment of discovery – the loss, pain, humiliation, betrayal – had left him yet.
Betrayal. It was a word that had lodged in his psyche and remained there, festering, for ten years. Deception, falseness, a breach of trust. First Niamh, then – the way he saw it – Lexie.
Lexie was not the cause of his anger, she was collateral damage, but the effect was the same.
Domenica was saying, ‘What did she do that was so terrible?’
Patrick shook his head to clear the painful memories.
‘She pulled out of an exhibition at very shor
t notice. I told her she’d never succeed without my help. She took it badly.’
Domenica was not the sort to let easy explanations slide by.
‘Why did she pull out?’
Patrick watched a small crowd gather far below, on the sidewalk. Something had attracted their attention – a street performer, perhaps, or someone offering freebies in some marketing promotion. There was always something going on in New York.
‘Her brother had an accident. She wanted to be with her parents.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He died.’
She sucked in her breath. Patrick thought about Jamie Gordon, a young man he had never met but whose death had changed the course of his life.
‘Can’t you put things right? Go to her. Apologise.’
‘It’s not as easy as that.’
‘Apologising is never easy where the wrong has been great.’
At Domenica’s suggestion, Patrick took the ferry back across the river, rather than summoning a cab.
‘You’ll find it cleansing,’ she said.
He did it to please her, not because he was convinced. For years he had been driven by the need to succeed. He had goals, targets and objectives, and no time to waste. If a plane was quicker than the train, he flew. He didn’t consider public transport – if he couldn’t drive, he took a cab. Still, there was time enough on this occasion to indulge her suggestion.
It was seventy-seven degrees and sunny, but as soon as they started across the river, he felt a stiff breeze. He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the wind. Around him passengers chattered. He heard German and Dutch, the strong twang of English spoken by an excited family from Australia. Two African American women with baby buggies and obviously local, discussed night feeds and nappies and honked with laughter about sex (or rather, the current suspension of congress).
‘I told him straight,’ one said, ‘he ain’t gonna come near me again, not after what I’ve been through.’
‘Macie,’ shrieked the other, ‘that ain’t never gonna last. Darnell ain’t no monk.’
‘Anyway,’ Macie continued, ‘I cain’t do it with Jailyn lookin’ on.’
‘Jailyn’s three months old, she ain’t doin’ no lookin’.’
Patrick felt a surge of empathy with Darnell.
People-watching was not one of Patrick’s pastimes, but today he had the leisure to indulge. On the other side of the ferry, a young father stood with his arm round the shoulders of his son. They looked Hispanic: black hair, dark brown eyes, lean. At a guess, the man was around forty – Patrick’s age – the boy maybe ten or eleven.
The boy looked up at his father’s face and said something. The father laughed, his teeth gleaming white as he gathered the boy closer and hugged him.
His father had never been like that. Liam Mulgrew had been embittered by his lot. Widowed when Aidan was born, he’d found working the land and raising his two young sons too huge a role and he’d performed no aspect of it well. Patrick didn’t hate his father, he merely felt no connection to him. As a role model he was worse than useless. Patrick had never considered the possibility of parenthood – but now, watching the man scrapping playfully with the boy, a pang shot through him.
The ferry neared the far shore. Patrick didn’t want to leave it. He was tempted to sit on it for another journey – two, if need be – but his cell phone buzzed and he found himself disembarking with the other passengers.
Cora’s voice was as clear as if she were in nearby Wall Street and not three thousand miles away.
‘Hi Pats, how’s the Big Apple?’
‘Juicy. How’s business?’
‘Don’t you ever think about anything else?’
A seagull squawked in indignation at the theft of a crust of bread by a predatory male and he grinned at the scene. When had he last been on a boat, taken a walk, observed nature?
‘Actually, I do.’
‘Well you’ll be pleased to know business is great. Everything’s in place for the next show, which is just as well because there’s precious little left to sell from this one.’
‘Where are you? Are you at the gallery?’
‘I locked up half an hour ago. Listen, I walked up Kittle’s Lane on the way home – there’s a For Sale sign up outside Cobbles. I thought you’d like to know.’
Patrick whistled.
‘That’s quick.’
‘I’ve heard that the sister’s desperate to get the estate tied up. Do you want to buy it?’
‘Buy Cobbles? Why would I do that? Are you looking for a hobby?’
‘Don’t be so patronising. Now that you mention my plans, I’m giving you advance warning that I want to get back to Greece. It’s getting bloody cold here. No, I just thought you might have a sentimental attachment to the place.’
If he bought Cobbles, Lexie could still have her exhibition – if she’d agree. But even if he apologised surely they had gone past the tipping point?
He said, ‘It would be nice if someone took the whole place over, stock and all, but it won’t be me. Anyway, thanks for telling me.’
‘OK. Have you found a gallery there yet?’
‘We’re looking at a couple more spaces before we fly back, but there won’t be a problem – and I think Domenica Martinez will agree to show.’
‘That is good news. Safe home then.’
‘Bye, Cora.’
Did she mean it about going back to Greece? It would leave another void in his life.
He turned to find a taxi. In front of him, the young boy yelped with laughter at some joke shared. His father hugged him close and they weaved an uneven dance along the pavement.
On a sudden impulse, Patrick said, ‘Stop right here, will you?’
The cab driver, unfazed by the strange request, pulled up abruptly. Around them, horns blared and cars swerved. Patrick tossed him a fistful of notes.
‘Keep the change.’
‘Have a good day.’
He was normally irritated by the vacuous phrase.
‘Do you know, I believe I will.’
He was at the side of Central Park. There were parks in Edinburgh and in London. He lived beside a park, for heaven’s sake – but he had never walked in it, any more than he had walked in Hyde Park, or Regent’s Park, or Holyrood Park or the Meadows. Ahead of him was woodland, its green shade enticing. He picked a path and wandered along it. When he reached open grass, he had to resist the urge to take off his shoes and socks and pad across it barefoot. Instead, he settled on a bench and relaxed in the sunshine as the world revolved around him – mothers with buggies, fit young men on bikes, fit old men on bikes, kids on skateboards and on roller blades. Couples walking dogs. Fashionable women carrying ludicrously small pooches in smart handbags. Joggers. He was astonished at all this leisure activity. When had he last connected with the world in any way other than through work?
Time slowed and his senses became more acute. He felt the warmth of the sun on his face and smelled freshly cut grass, and was astonished at how calming he found these sensations. There was a dimension to life he knew nothing about. In fact – Patrick’s eyes snapped open – why did he work so relentlessly to better himself, to build a business? What was his life for?
His cell phone buzzed.
‘Patrick Mulgrew.’
It was Domenica’s warm voice.
‘Hi, how was it?’
A butterfly landed on his hand and he watched the lazy flap of its wings. He had to try again with Lexie. He’d go to her and apologise, and whether that changed anything or not, he would still make his own private atonement for his angry outburst last year. He’d find a way of making sure she could have her exhibition, even though she would never know of his involvement.
He laughed.
‘The ferry? It was life-changing.’
Chapter Twenty-three
Catalogue number 7: Custom made orthopaedic sandals, green leather, built up sole on left foot. Donor, Angela Brown, Edinburgh. ‘Afte
r years of wearing hideous old lady boots, I saved up enough money to visit a specialist shop in London to order these sandals. Imagine my joy! For the first time in my life I could wear pretty shoes!’
Lexie’s momentum had gone. It was impossible to maintain any drive now that the For Sale sign was up at Cobbles.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Cameron murmured, nuzzling her neck as he lay entwined around her. His nakedness was arousing and, with all sense of artistic purpose gone, Lexie was tempted. She shoved him onto his back and rolled over to look down at him.
‘I do love it when you’re masterful,’ he murmured, grinning broadly.
Wide-eyed with mock exasperation, she reached down and squeezed him just above his knee, where she knew he was sensitive. He jerked, yelped and fought loose. Lexie, no match for his strength, found herself helpless and under his weight. She squirmed, he smirked. His arousal was inescapable and she yielded happily.
Afterwards, he said, ‘Not bad, for a beginner.’
‘Who are you calling a beginner?’ she asked indignantly.
He cradled her face in his hand and stroked her cheek gently.
‘Just a joke.’
He kissed the tip of her nose.
‘I’ll be thirty next week,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘So I’m a cradle snatcher,’ Lexie giggled. She was almost thirty-one.
‘I could get used to this.’
‘What? Sex?’
‘Waking up next to you. Getting domestic.’
‘Domestic!’ Lexie yelped with laughter. ‘Since when have you done so much as made me a coffee? Domestic for you is dropping by the takeaway and bringing back a pizza.’
‘I can make coffee.’
‘Prove it,’ she challenged. A coffee right now would be blissful.
He rolled onto his back, put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.
‘Think I’ll throw a party.’
Lexie sighed and flopped onto her pillow.
