by Sam Blake
‘The pole dancer turned TV star?’ Vittoria said it in a voice that made it sound like she wasn’t seeing the ridiculous side. ‘People will think you’ve got a thing for Italians.’
Ignoring her comment, he paused like he was summoning the words. ‘So on Sunday they published some pictures. Of me and her. But they were photoshopped – I’ve never met her.’
Vittoria cleared her throat. ‘Why would anyone be interested in photos of you – or her – with anyone? And why are you only telling me now?’
‘I was in the bloody air. I only got back late yesterday.’ Vittoria could feel her temper rising. He couldn’t tell the truth if he tried. She knew exactly when he’d landed and where he’d been. ‘Apparently she’s got a book coming out. I think she’s looking for PR, to attract attention. I think I could be one of many with this. I’m just first.’
She kept her voice calm as she answered, as if she was talking to a patient: ‘But how do they have pictures if you’ve never met her? What sort of pictures are they?’
‘They were photoshopped – they have to have been. There are pictures of me all over the place. I’ve never met her, but these photos put us together in the cockpit on a flight to Milan, apparently. She’s never been in the fucking cockpit with me – it’s a total fucking nightmare.’
‘Is that it? Pictures of you together in the cockpit?’
He cleared his throat again. ‘There’s a picture of me having a few jars. Someone’s interfered with the date stamp. It looks like I was having a brandy a few hours before I was due to take off. I wasn’t, obviously – it must have been taken on a totally different day – but TransGlobal have gone through the roof. I had to go straight into a meeting when I landed yesterday. There’s a disciplinary hearing on Friday.’
‘Dio, that’s serious. Do you think they’ll sack you?’
Marcus’s voice was husky. ‘I’ve no idea but if I don’t fight this Sunday Inquirer story it’ll make it look like I’m guilty as hell. I can’t go in on Friday like a pussycat waiting to be kicked.’
Vittoria thought of Tchaikovsky at home, being spoilt rotten by their housekeeper. She didn’t know any cat that was waiting to be kicked.
‘So what can you do?’
‘I’m going to need to act against the Inquirer. Unless I take a case, I look as guilty as sin.’ In The Hogarth Hotel, Vittoria raised her eyebrows. That was one way to put it. He continued, ‘When I go into the meeting with TransGlobal I need to show them that it’s all slander, it wasn’t me.’
‘OK, I get that, but—’
‘I know, it could cost thousands, but it’s my reputation. Even if I never work for TransGlobal again, I need my reputation – without it I may never work for anyone.’
That would be a problem …
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to sell some of my father’s paintings. I should be able to raise enough cash to cover an action. I need a bit of capital behind me.’
Sell his father’s pictures? Vittoria’s mind reacted as if she was spinning across a stage: fast and with total precision. But this time she wasn’t falling into the protagonist’s arms – he was falling into hers. And the music was like poetry.
‘Are you sure? Your dad’s pictures?’ Vittoria injected just the right amount of horror into her voice.
‘I know, I know, but it’s the only way I can raise capital.’
‘But how? You can’t go public, to an auction house, or everyone will know – the press … Mio Dio, they have enough to talk about.’ Vittoria paused as if she was thinking. ‘There is someone … I met a guy here, a guy called Edward Croxley. I think he might be able to help. He’s a broker – he sells high end art. He’s freelance, can find private buyers so there’s no need for anyone to know what’s going on. If you put any of them into a sale in Rahilly’s there’ll be questions, and it’s so slow.’
‘That’s what I need: discreet and fast.’
‘I’ll get him to contact you. Where are you now?’
‘Heading back home – I’ve got some stuff to do before this hearing. I’ll come back to London on Friday.’
Vittoria found herself nodding. ‘Maybe you should see Croxley on Saturday in Dublin? He’ll need to see the pictures to value them. You could get the Friday-night flight back home? But absolutely don’t breathe a word of it to anyone.’
‘I’m not going to. I need to get the papers filed for a libel action against the Inquirer as soon as possible. The best that can happen on Friday is that I’m suspended pending a full enquiry. They’ll have to wait for the outcome of my action, I presume, before they fire me, or I could sue them for wrongful dismissal.’ Vittoria took an audible intake of breath as he continued. ‘I know, it’s a total fucking mess. Can you see if this guy will meet me at the house on Saturday? Then at least things will be moving. I’ll need a quick sale or two.’
‘Of course, I’m sure he’ll be very keen to see the collection.’
‘How long are you in London for?’
‘I’m not sure – it depends on Yana.’
‘OK, it looks like I’ll be home for the weekend but I’ll probably need to be back in London on Monday.’
‘Call me if you need anything. I’m sure it will all work out.’ Then, almost as an after-thought, ‘Where will you stay? Presumably you can’t use the crew hotel if you’re suspended?’
He answered quickly. ‘Oh, I’m sure I’ll find somewhere.’
She bet he would.
*
There were some things in her life that Vittoria would have dearly loved to have changed, but her ability to plan under pressure wasn’t one of them. Dance required rapid decision-making: if a lift went wrong your reaction speed was crucial to avoiding injury, injury that could end your career.
Ever since she had been a little girl, sitting on the stairs listening to the stories of the men drinking late at night in her father’s bar, she’d understood that some people were winners and some were losers. Passion and focus were vital to success. She’d learned then what she needed to do to get what she wanted, to achieve her goals. And being able to adapt to changing circumstances was crucial; survival was about flexibility. It was a mind-set that had helped get her into the Royal Ballet School in the first place. And she knew she’d only kept her sanity after the accident because she was able to adapt. She’d adapted to life in London, to being so far away from home, and then she’d adapted when her dreams, and her bones, had been shattered.
Now, as she sat in The Lighthouse Bar musing over her conversation with Marcus, her mind was exploring possibilities, looking at every option, every nuance, building a picture. She’d often thought of the ballet as a fine painting, but a painting made up of many moving parts. Understanding how all those parts connected and intersected to create the picture was as vital as learning her own part in the play.
She smiled to herself. The play was the thing.
Chapter 30
A SOFT RAIN was beginning to fall as Lily stood on the pavement across the road from Power’s Fine Prints, but she hardly noticed. She leaned back into the shelter of the Thai restaurant Jack always called Noodles Galore in some sort of funny-to-him James Bond-esque reference she’d never understood. It was too early for it to be open and here she felt invisible, shielded by the ornate half-pillars on either side of the lacquered front door.
She had been heading to Oxford Street to try and improve her business wardrobe, hoping beyond hope that they didn’t have Primark in New York – it was all she could afford until she got paid – but instead of getting the Victoria Line into Oxford Circus, in St Pancras her feet had guided her to the Piccadilly Line, and before she’d realised it she’d arrived at Tottenham Court Road. Minutes from Great Russell Street.
And now here she was, and opposite her the dark-green roller shutters were still firmly pulled down over the door and window of her grandfather’s shop. It felt all wrong in the busy street. The shop looked blind, as if it had turned its ba
ck on its friends. Around her people were rushing about, businessmen with their collars pulled up; students with laptop bags and determined looks on their faces; lost-looking tourists pulling trolley cases, their phones in their hands.
Had they noticed? She saw a few passers-by glancing at the closed shutters, but they hurried on, focused on their own business, on their own dramas.
Lily felt a dark hole open in her stomach – did any of them have worries like hers? As if losing the shop wasn’t bad enough, what had she got Vittoria into? If Jack was right and there was some sort of Russian mafia involvement in this business with Edward Croxley, what had she done? The minute Jack had made the connection, Lily’s mind had skipped back to one of the Guardian long reads about the mysterious deaths by ‘suicide’ of a list of men who had all had links to Russia through their business interests. It had made shocking reading. One of them had been impaled on a railing after apparently jumping from a window – who committed suicide like that? It had made her shiver then and it was making her shiver remembering it now.
Lily pushed her hands deeper into the pockets of her parka and heaved a sigh, tears pricking at her eyes. Looking up, she could see the tiny attic window of Jack’s apartment on the top floor, normally brightly lit because he never remembered to turn the light off. He was as bad in the flat, leaving the loo light on like electricity was free. For someone so intelligent he really wasn’t the most practical person in the world, which was something else that was worrying her: he was utterly adorable but he needed to be organised, to have someone checking up on him. And if he was out of his environment, how would he cope then? He had his routines established in the shop, understood the business like he knew how to breathe.
Was he the type of person who could work for someone else? Who could adapt to new systems and people? She was sure he would, he’d find a way – he was terrifically bright, after all – but would he be happy?
Happiness was more important in Lily’s personal handbook for life than anything else. And Jack’s happiness had been something she’d nurtured and cherished for as long as she could remember. She’d always protected him.
But perhaps that was where she’d gone wrong. If he’d made more mistakes, been exposed to the tougher side of life a bit more, would he have been taken in by slimeball Croxley’s charm? Lily let out a sharp breath. She’d never know. And a bit further on in her personal handbook for life was a whole chapter about not having regrets, not focusing on what had already happened but dealing with the here and now, with the things you could control.
Would they get the shop back? Would Vittoria manage it? Lily had packed the amulets into a padded envelope and organised a courier to deliver them to the address that Vittoria had given her, exactly as she’d been told. But that wasn’t an end to the problem – now Vittoria would have to negotiate with Croxley.
Lily took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. There was no question that Vittoria was a clever woman, as sharp and switched on as anyone Lily had ever met; Lily just hoped she was being sensible, hoped that being so scarred by her husband’s latest revelation didn’t make her reckless.
Lily really didn’t know how Vittoria had put up with him so long; from everything Vittoria had told her, and from what she’d discovered online, Marcus Devine was just like Edward Croxley – entirely self-centred and never once taking a moment to think about how his actions would affect the people around him. And Vittoria’s pain was so very personal, had to run even deeper than Lily’s own, and that was a pretty awful place to be.
Marcus Devine really deserved everything he got.
Lily knew she should probably feel a tiny bit guilty about the series of events she’d created to destroy him, but actually, honestly, she didn’t. The part of her that had hardened when Jack had stumbled onto her doorstep the day after he lost the shop was the part of her that was dealing with Marcus Devine. In another life Lily was quite sure she’d never have got involved, would never have even entertained Vittoria’s suggestions. But the day he’d turned up on the doorstep, broken, she’d seen the pain in Jack’s face, had heard the tremor in his voice, had been utterly paralysed when he’d said he’d almost jumped off Waterloo Bridge. It felt like her heart had actually stopped beating for a moment, and when it had restarted, she’d been someone different.
Thoughts of Jack snapped Lily back to the present. She’d heard him talking to George again last night and had been woken herself at 5.30 a.m. by the calls of scavenging seagulls. Didn’t they say that seagulls came inland ahead of a storm? It never ceased to surprise her when she heard them in London, but with the river running through the heart of the city, it was perfectly logical. And they were scavengers, after all, looking for easy rich pickings in the busy city.
Like Edward Croxley. A natural scavenger always looking for a quick solution, for easy money. Except nothing was going to be easy for him now that he had Vittoria Devine to deal with.
She glanced across the road at the shop again. It was like an old friend who had lost its way, and Lily intended with every particle of her being that everything would be back on track before she left for New York.
It had to be, or how could she go?
Chapter 31
VITTORIA’S SMOOTHIE arrived just as Edward Croxley walked through the main door of The Lighthouse Bar. She picked up the squat glass and twirled her straw through the pale pink froth, pretending she hadn’t noticed him. In her peripheral vision she saw him scan the bar looking for her. Then he was heading her way.
‘Good morning.’
She looked up, as if she’d been deep in thought and hadn’t noticed him. Well, at least half of that is true. ‘Oh, Edward, lovely to see you. How are you getting on with my painting?’
Croxley sat down opposite her in a tub armchair, smiling. He was wearing the same dark overcoat with a Liberty-patterned shirt and ink-blue narrow-legged chinos. ‘Great, actually. I’ve got a buyer.’
‘Really, so quickly? That’s fantastic.’ Vittoria raised her dark eyebrows and opened her eyes wide. ‘Can you tell me who it is?’
‘He’s a Russian collector. I do a lot of business with him.’
‘Super, tell me all about him. Why don’t you have a cup of tea, or would you prefer a smoothie?’
‘Oh, coffee for me.’
Vittoria signalled to the waiter hovering beside the door, then turned to Croxley. ‘How do you like it?’
‘Cappuccino, please.’
The waiter materialised beside them, catching his reply to her. ‘Any pastries, sir?’
‘Go on, while you’re here you might as well – they have lovely Danish.’ Vittoria smiled warmly. She could see Croxley was desperate to talk about the painting, and she was deliberately slowing him down with the coffee-ordering nonsense. After Marcus’s phone call things were slotting into place in her head, but she needed time to process them.
‘Lovely, that sounds perfect.’
The waiter disappeared, and Vittoria turned back to Croxley. ‘So you were saying you’ve done business with this Russian person before? What does he collect?’
‘Oh, all sorts of European art and antiquities, some Middle Eastern. One of his nieces is getting married in Paris in a few weeks so your painting was particularly appropriate. He’s starting a collection for her as a wedding gift.’
‘That sounds wonderful. Is he based in London?’
Croxley nodded. ‘He has a place here but he’s in and out. He runs several companies.’
‘And he’s a cash buyer?’
Croxley leaned in to reply just as his coffee arrived. He sat back impatiently as the waiter laid a paper placemat on the table and put the coffee cup meticulously onto it, then placed a crisp white napkin and silverware beside it and, ceremoniously, the icing-sugar-sprinkled pastry.
‘Thank you.’
Vittoria almost laughed at Croxley’s impatience, the thanks coming through gritted teeth. As soon as the waiter disappeared, Croxley leaned towards her. ‘He’s offering tw
o million dollars.’ He paused as if for effect. ‘He needs to see something indicating the provenance of the painting first, though.’
‘Of course.’ Vittoria bent down to her handbag, hiding a smirk. Croxley was some chancer, to use one of Aidan’s favourite phrases – she knew Pissarro’s work sold for between three and five million.
But two million was good.
Under the circumstances.
‘I don’t have a bill of sale but I have a note written by my husband’s father mentioning a dinner party that he was planning, hosting a very well-known art dealer of the period, a Pieter Menten. He was Dutch, very involved with the Third Reich – the SS, as it turned out – which was to be his ultimate undoing. After the war he moved to Waterford. As you know, the Irish government were quite sympathetic to any enemies of the English; they’d fought a bloody civil war only a few years before to gain their independence. It seems Menten sold several paintings to my father-in-law for his personal collection. Paintings that, I’m beginning to wonder, perhaps weren’t his to sell in the first place.’
Vittoria passed over the note, the envelope obviously old but crisp. Croxley looked at it closely, noting the postmark, Dublin 1964, and opened the letter, nodding as he read the postscript.
‘Amazing how the scent of cigarettes lingers after all these years, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed. My father-in-law was a very heavy smoker. I think everyone was back in the fifties and sixties. How times change.’
‘The buyer will want to check this.’
‘Of course. There’s a lot online about Menten. He was arrested by the Dutch and his house in Waterford rather badly vandalised. It was rumoured he’d come to Ireland with some significant artworks but, fortunately, it appears they’d already been secured in Dublin.’ Vittoria smiled, leaning back for a moment. ‘Can you tell me your buyer’s name?’
‘It’s probably simpler if I don’t, if that’s OK.’
