Then she saw Antony, running as if all the furies pursued him, to fall upon the door with an axe. The bright blade swung in the sunlight, arcing wide, and she imagined she heard its impact on the timber. Her heart contracted. Antony, her dear love. She knew she was looking on him for the last time. Even if he gained entry, he never could pass through the fire below.
But acceptance came hard. She cried out to him, and as if he heard he raised his head, the axe halted in mid swing.
‘Antony.’
His face reflected her agony of mind.
‘I love you Antony,’ she croaked, knowing he would hear with his heart, as he always did.
His arms reached up, hopelessly, longingly. Then he resumed his attack on the door, like a madman. Jenny sank back onto the floor and clutched her baby, waiting.
Moments later she knew her time had run out. A massive eruption from below brought her to her feet, the whole tower rumbling in shock. The fire gave a mighty bellow and surged higher, seeking her, racing closer by the minute. The floor began to smoke and she remembered that it was made of boards, like the floors below. That explained the terrible noise – the other floors giving way. Hers would be next.
She fled to the opening again, trying to hold Chloe clear of the heated wall as she peered below. They knew. The human chain had stopped working. Men and women stood with faces upturned, static, helpless. There was nothing to be done. Although the outer door had finally given under Antony’s onslaught, wicked tongues of flame licked out, defying any attempt to enter. He was struggling desperately in the grip of several men.
Inside the tower the fire fed on the increased oxygen. Renewed, it stampeded up the stairwell. Jenny could feel it licking at her back. Without hesitation she tore the blanket from Chloe and pushed her through the opening, leaning far forward to hold her on the brink. Her husband looked up and ceased to struggle. Their eyes met in a last farewell. As Antony shook himself free of his captors, Jenny opened her arms and let Chloe fall. She saw him catch her. She heard her own name carried up on the draught of superheated air.
‘Jennnyyyyy…’
The floor moved.
Pain, incredible, mind-searing pain spiked through her body as flames rushed up the back of her gown. Her hair burst into a blazing corona. But it was as nothing to the terrible realization that she had been cheated. All the glorious promise of life had been a fraud. Love itself was a fraud, a brief moment of paradise, then gone. All, all gone. Her cry of disillusion rose and was shattered in the incandescent blast of bursting stone and timber.
The tower wavered and fell in upon itself, carrying her body down into the heart of the fire.
CHAPTER ONE
Today
Outside, London throbbed at its usual frenetic tempo. Traffic, lights, music, people, all whirled by in the wild race to nowhere in particular, all geared to the techno world of the new Millennium.
Inside, the crowded gallery was totally Mayfair. From a narrow frontage the walls swept back nearly eighty feet and the roof curved far above, its clever domed effect extended by illumination that was both subtle and dramatic. Spotlights strung from pendulous metal webs highlighted the paintings, arranged in sporadic clumps like bright fungus springing from their pale olive suede background. The whole setup had been the inspired creation of Theodore Sampson himself. His technique had become justly famous, and no doubt accounted in part for the huge commercial success of his gallery.
Tonight was a special occasion, very special. No one in living memory could recall one similar. Tonight Theo had shifted the spotlight away from his own important and immaculately groomed self and on to one of his staff, the rather stiff-looking girl he had firmly attached to his arm as he cruised the gallery.
Karen Courtney was not enjoying the limelight, and couldn’t help showing the fact. She hung back, a vessel in tow rather than under her own steam. Her tall, slender frame overshadowed Theo, who, in the opinion of one waspish critic, could have slipped through a closed door sideways. Tonight Karen felt more than usually gawky. Her dark hair, cut to chin length, hung forward, hiding her cheeks; her wide mouth had set in a permanent grin; and her lovely amber eyes behind their large protective lenses looked hunted.
Theo Sampson’s young-old face beamed at her. ‘What you need is a drop or two of the Dom. Then you’ll start to enjoy yourself. After all, my dear girl, this whole show is in your honour.’ His smile switched off, then on again. ‘Do make an effort, dear.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr. Sampson. This overnight celebrity business is just not me.’ She spoke through gritted teeth, but widened her own smile.
‘Call me Theo, dear, now you are definitely senior ranking – that is, if you stay with us. I do hope sudden fame has not decided you to set up as a full-time artist. Very risky, dear, especially these days.’
He knew darned well she had no intention of leaving, Karen thought. She had two good reasons for staying – loyalty and money. But Theo Sampson never could resist a prick with his little needle, even while playing the benefactor. Still, she respected his business acumen, she liked him as a person, and he had done her a huge favor by insisting she give a one-woman showing in his own gallery. It was rare for other works to be taken down and replaced by those of a single artist. He’d even arranged for the critics to come – and go away again without saying much. Oh, well. Tomorrow’s papers would tell her the worst.
Voices surged in, enveloping her, smothering her.
‘Miss Courtney, I can’t tell you how much I admire your work…’
‘Miss Courtney, tell me where do you get your inspiration …?
‘Karen, I’d like you to meet John Betheld, Chairman of the Betheld Corporation and a connoisseur of new, fresh work, such as your own.’
‘How do you do, Mr. Betheld. I’m so pleased to – ’
‘Ah, Madame Reichen! How delightful to see you here this evening! Allow me to present our latest discovery, Miss Courtney…’
And so it went on. Karen felt like a top being whipped and spun from point to point, scarcely at rest long enough to complete a sentence or to take in what was said to her. Never at ease in crowds, she could feel herself cringing each time her boss opened his mouth, knowing she was about to become the subject of scrutiny and discussion. Everyone was curious. She could imagine the comments. Where had Theo found this transatlantic protégée with all the chutzpah of an oyster?
Rescue came unexpectedly. The latest man who had taken her hand in greeting, someone whose face was just another set of features among so many, did not release his hold. Instead he detached her from Theo’s arm and drew her aside into a blessed bit of shadow, saying over his shoulder, ‘Your little celebrity looks as if she could do with a breather, Theo. You run along and charm a few more duchesses and I’ll revive Miss Courtney.’
Karen sank back into a corner couch, dropped her bag on the floor and rested her head against the cushion. She was vaguely aware that her knight-errant had disappeared as swiftly as he had popped up. However, he returned almost immediately with a full champagne flute.
‘Thank you. I’m grateful. But no more champagne, please.’
‘It’s Perrier water. Best thing in an overheated room filled with windbags. Drink up.’
As he leaned towards her his sleeve caught on one of Theo’s projecting metal webs. The glass tipped and Perrier water poured on the carpet at Karen’s feet.
‘Oh, Lord! I’m sorry…’
Her smile was the first genuine one of the evening. ‘Forget it. You missed me.’
‘I’ll get you another glass. Don’t go away.’
She watched him hurry off to waylay another waiter, and grinned to herself. He made her think of a large, amiable bear shuffling along without any great purpose. Yet he got what he wanted, she noted, quickly and without fuss.
Demurely she accepted the fresh drink, drained the glass and handed it back. ‘Your prescription worked. But you are scarcely complimentary to Theo’s guests.’
He flung up th
e hand holding the glass, fortunately now empty, and gestured towards the nearest frame. ‘Windbags I said, and I meant it. I’m no expert on art, but to listen to this lot you’d think they’d guided Picasso’s first strokes and done the preliminary sketches for the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.’
Karen laughed. ‘They’re not as bad as that. Some love the work they collect and appreciate what the artists are trying to say. They’re not all looking for capital gain. So, what brings you here, if you have no interest in art?’
‘I didn’t say that. I like some of it. In fact, I like quite a lot of yours.’ He bent forward to peer at the nearest painting, a slightly surreal portrait of a woman whose dark hair and eyes dominated the canvas so that the rest of her features and the background remained indeterminate. It was Karen’s most recent piece and she had mixed feelings about it. In fact, she’d only added it to the exhibition at the last minute, strictly on loan.
That’s hardly representative,’ she said hastily, getting to her feet. ‘In fact, I’m not even sure that it’s finished.’
‘Oh, I think it’s finished, all right. It’s actually one of the most compelling modern portraits I’ve come across. Is she a sorceress?’
‘Morgan Le Fay, or some such? I don’t think so. I call her Bella Donna.’
He turned to her, interested. ‘Bella Donna, eh? Deadly Nightshade. Yes, it’s apt. It’s also very good.’
Unused to compliments with a ring of understanding, Karen felt herself blush with pleasure. For the first time she really looked at him, as an individual.
He stood out from the sophisticated crowd of first-nighters, like a Heinz mutt at Crufts dog show. She passed over his clothes. No fashion plate herself, she was simply aware of casual shabbiness, a sort of ‘take me as I am’ air about them. His hair, as black as her own, actually reminded her of a shaggy hound of indeterminate breed. It drooped over his forehead and curved back from his cheeks, hiding his ears. He looked thirtyish, with a Semitic nose, a wide thin mouth and dark liquid eyes.
Most noticeable of all was the aura of cheerfulness that radiated from him. Like a rock heated by hours of desert sunshine he gave off warmth to anyone within reach. She had felt immediately drawn to him, and now she could see why.
‘Tell me about yourself, Miss Courtney.’
‘Why? Are you a reporter after copy?’
He looked thoughtfully at her wary expression. ‘Would you mind if I was? A piece on an upwardly mobile young painter might be just the thing for the art and lit. section of my favorite rag. Particularly an expat. New Yorker making a name for herself “across the pond”’.
Her eyes narrowed, then she relaxed. ‘You almost had me worried. However, Theo expressly forbade the press tonight, excepting the critics, of course. And he seems to know you.’ When he merely shrugged, she went on, ‘I don’t know that I like your choice of words. “Upwardly mobile” doesn’t sound a bit like me.’
‘What! No ambition?’
‘Of course I’m ambitious.’ She hesitated. ‘My work has always been very private to me. This is the first time I’ve exhibited. I also have the judgment to know how far I am from the Picasso/Da Vinci league.’
He nodded. ‘Sure. You’ve got to be realistic. Although, if Theo’s prepared to back you, I’d say you’re just about ready to fly. What’s your ultimate aim?’
Karen felt cornered. What had begun as a pleasant conversation was beginning to feel like interrogation. ‘Let’s talk about you for a change. Is your name a secret? And what do you do when you’re not masquerading as a reporter?’
‘And pouring water on people? Tom Levy, at your service. I’m a health worker of sorts. Nine to five, six days a week. It keeps me busy.’ His smiling eyes probed gently. ‘You’re avoiding my question.’
‘And you’re very persistent.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I like to talk about other people’s aims in life. I’ve a few of my own, and it seems to make them come alive when I talk about them. They take on an edge. I get enthused all over again. Don’t you ever do that?’
She shook her head, making her dark curtain of hair swing, and damning him for his friendly curiosity. He didn’t feel like a threat, yet her agitation grew stronger. She looked around, seeking escape.
‘Curious,’ Tom Levy remarked. ‘All the same, I guarantee you do have an aim buried in there somewhere. Don’t you want to set the world on fire with your painting, for instance?’
Karen erupted. ‘Okay. I’ll tell you. I’ve got a very definite aim – independence!’ The word emerged like a juggernaut, powered by emotion. ‘I don’t ever want to be ruled by someone else. I want to be my own person.’ Her voice, normally pleasantly low and husky, had taken on depth and intensity. The amber eyes, hidden behind spectacles, changed to a glowing pale gold like a cat’s, with enlarged irises. ‘No one will be able to take from me and mine. We will be safe.’
He whistled softly and expressively.
Embarrassed at the way she had revealed herself, she turned away. ‘I’d better go back. Theo expects me to circulate.’
‘You’re not enjoying this, are you?’
‘I’m under an obligation.’ Leaving the shadowed anonymity of the corner she stepped into the light, flinching at the sight of Theo bearing down on her with a self-important dowager in tow and attendant satellites all ready to hem her in.
‘Be off with you, Tom Levy,’ he said, waving theatrically. ‘You’ve had our star to yourself for quite long enough.’ Theo might sound genial, but he clearly meant what he said.
Tom bowed, and tripped over Karen’s bag, righting himself just in time. The satellites sniggered as he retrieved it and handed it to her. She scarcely noticed. Already the group had closed about her, absorbing her, amoeba-like, making her a part of them. The bombardment of words began, and as Tom drifted away she forgot him.
Later, in a rare quiet moment, she found herself alone in another corner. Taking a long breath she turned her back to the room, pretending a close interest in the nearest work. It was a vivid full-length portrait in reds and blues, the light falling on the genderless face and body in geometric patterns, giving the subject a harlequin air, a kind of otherworldly restlessness. It seemed on the point of leaping from the canvas. There was a vitality about the work that captured the attention. Karen nodded. This one pleased her.
She moved to a smaller picture beside it, a series of smudges in plums and grays which, when viewed from a distance, became a particularly opulent cat engaged in cleaning a hind leg. The work expressed a feeling of harem-like decadence, with the animal’s total self-absorption, its leisurely stretching and abandonment to the stroking of its own tongue.
‘This I find indecent. One cannot believe that the sitter is a particularly macho tomcat of the name Dali.’
Karen swung around. ‘Billie!’ She flung her arms about the tiny woman who had spoken. ‘What are you doing here? How did you find out? Why didn’t you call and let me know you were coming? How are you?’
A muffled croak emerged from the area of her chest.
‘If you will release me before I suffocate I’ll be happy to fill in a questionnaire.’
Laughing, Karen released her. ‘Sorry Billie. I guess I got carried away.’
Wilhelmina Carnot tugged at her silk jacket, adjusted her collar and surveyed her niece critically. There was little likeness between the two. At fifty-seven years and weighing no more than one hundred pounds wringing wet, Billie could give many a younger woman pointers. From her short, stylishly cut pink hair to her pale snakeskin pumps she radiated presence – a useful quality in the proprietress of an employment agency.
‘Karen, I long ago despaired of you acquiring any sartorial sense, but… dull purple, against your hair and skin!’
Karen shook her head impatiently. The offending hair had begun to tangle about her ears like a slightly frayed curtain.
‘What does it matter? I’ll never be a beauty. So you go on providing the chic and the business bra
in of the family and I’ll stick with painting. Now, answer my question.’
‘Which one, cherie? Oh, very well. I learned about your exhibition quite by accident from the young woman who occupies the hovel next to your own – a blonde who could benefit from a chamomile rinse.’
‘But…’
‘I flew across to celebrate your birthday, child. You are twenty-three tomorrow. Have you forgotten? En plus, Paris has been sultry for weeks, and I need a little vacation. Simone is all too inclined to forget our partnership when she has an interesting affaire in hand. She can very well climb out of bed and take my place this weekend.’
Her air of complacency forced an unwilling snort of amusement from Karen.
‘Oh, Billie. She’s not like that. Poor Simone, so happily married for twenty years.’
Billie shrugged. ‘What has that to do with anything?’ She looked about her. ‘Is there nowhere to sit in this draughty salon? I wish to give you your gift, child, but I cannot converse in such a crowd. Such brouhaha! And they are all so tall - like a herd of giraffes with their heads together.’
‘There’s a couch somewhere. But Billie, we can’t talk here. They’ll find me any minute and drag me out to listen to their opinions of my work. I’ll have to go. I owe it to Theo for his kindness.’ She paused. ‘He was so very persistent. Can you think of a reason why he would insist on giving me this showing, and with very little in it for him until I become well known?’
Her aunt’s gaze flicked across the room to rest on Theodore Sampson’s narrow, stylish shoulders then came back to Karen.
‘No doubt he wishes to be known as the discoverer of a new talent. After all, it is the aim of every gallery owner, is it not?’ Without any change of tone she said, ‘Have you seen Adele lately?’
The question flicked a raw place in Karen’s heart.
‘You know Humphrey only lets me have her twice a month, and last time she had a terrible cold, poor pet.’
Endless Time Page 2
