‘He says he did.’ Aidan paces the room, back and forth. ‘Whoever he saw claimed she didn’t know me. She’d never heard of me.’
‘What do you mean, “whoever he saw”?’ A cold ripple of panic passes through me. ‘Didn’t he check . . .?’
‘She showed him her passport and driving licence. The woman he spoke to was Mary Trelease. His description of her fitted the one I’d given him, detail for detail.’
‘Aidan, I . . .’
‘So, that’s it.’ His voice is loud and forced. ‘They don’t believe me. It’s over as far as they’re concerned.’ He lets out a humourless laugh, jeering at himself. ‘No one’s going to come and arrest me in the middle of the night, no one’s going to cart me off to jail. We should celebrate.’
‘Aidan . . .’
‘Three cheers for me.’ He looms over me, a droplet of his saliva landing on my face. ‘Why don’t you crack open a bottle of champagne? It’s not every day your boyfriend gets away with murder.’
I didn’t meet Aidan by chance. I planned it, though it took all the self-discipline I could muster to put the plan into action. On the twenty-second of August last year, I got up, threw on the T-shirt, jeans and flip-flops I’d worn every day for the past two months, and got into my car without giving myself time to think or change my mind.
I had Aidan’s details written on the back of a receipt in my jeans pocket. I knew where Seed Art Services was, didn’t need reminding, but having the address with me, written in black and white on a piece of paper, made it harder for me to avoid what I knew I had to do. A positive prescription, my books call it. I’d tried the technique a few times and it seemed to work.
I parked at the bottom of Demesne Avenue, where it gives way to the unmade road that runs alongside the river, and walked under the overhanging trees, counting my footsteps to take my mind off the task ahead. I’d got as far as forty when I reached the small, flat-roofed grey-brick building, with a wide wooden door that had buckled at the bottom where the wood was cracked and blistered, flaring out like a skirt. The door stood slightly ajar. On its inside were two large iron hinges and two even bigger bolts. Rust clung to them, looking like an exotic species of chestnut-coloured moss. Had the door been closed, I’m not sure I’d have been brave enough to knock.
Saul Hansard, my boss at the Spilling Gallery until two months earlier, had promised me Aidan would be pleased to see me. He could have told me thousands of times and I wouldn’t have believed him. Wherever I went, I felt unwelcome. I stared at Aidan’s open door and listened to the music that was coming from inside the workshop: ‘Madame George’ by Van Morrison. I knocked and waited, feeling my heartbeat in my throat, staring in through the long rectangular pane of PVC-framed glass on my right—the only window, as far as I could make out. It ran the length of one side of the building. Through it I saw neon strip lights, a concrete floor, dozens of planks of wood, some plain and some painted, leaning against a wall; two large tables, one covered with what looked like velvet cloths in different colours, a small radio with a paint-spattered aerial. On the other table there was an enormous roll of brown paper, scissors, a pair of pliers, a Stanley knife, lots of what looked like catalogues in a pile, a few bottles of glue and tins of paint.
No Aidan Seed.
I shivered in spite of the heat, jumpy and nauseous, every nerve in my body on alert. Why was nothing happening? Where was he? Aching to run away, I told myself I had the perfect excuse. If I knocked and no one came, what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t walk in uninvited. My fingers closed around my car keys, tightening their grip. I flexed my toes, ready to move at speed once I gave myself permission.
Go, then.
I never wanted to set foot in another picture framer’s studio as long as I lived. I could leave and no one would know; Aidan Seed, whoever and wherever he was, wouldn’t know I’d been here.
Saul Hansard would know.
I stayed where I was and knocked again, louder and more insistently. Saul would never let it lie. I didn’t want any more messages from him, any more fatherly concern. Even thinking about him made me feel ashamed. I had to convince him I was all right, and there was only one way to do that.
That’s a negative reason. Think of a more positive one.
If I go through with this, I told myself, if I’m brave and ask Aidan Seed for a job, I’ll start to earn money again. I’ll be able to afford to stay in Blantyre Lodge, to buy more paintings to put on the walls. I needed to be able to do that. The book on my bedside table at the time was called
What if Everything Goes Right?
Its blurb promised to train me to make decisions based on hope, not fear.
I knocked again, and this time an impatient voice, deep and male, shouted, ‘Coming,’ as if I’d already been told several times and was being unreasonable. Aidan appeared in the doorway, holding a threadbare blue towel. His rough hands looked red and damp; he’d been scrubbing at them. ‘Yeah?’ he said, looking me up and down.
More vividly than anything else about that day, I remember my utter surprise at the sight of him. It had nothing to do with attractiveness, though I registered that he was unusually attractive. This is the man, I thought. I’d never seen him before, but I recognised him as being the right person. Right for what, exactly, I couldn’t have said. All I knew was that I wanted to keep him there, keep myself there with him for as long as possible.
‘I’m busy,’ Aidan said. ‘Do you want something?’
I’d almost forgotten, in the shock of seeing him, why I’d come. ‘Um . . . Saul Hansard from the Spilling Gallery told me you’re looking for someone to work for you,’ I mumbled, taking in the shiny shoulder patches on his black jacket, the dark stubble on his chin and above his mouth. His hair was so dark it was almost black. It hadn’t been combed recently, if ever. A scar formed a lopsided cross with the line of his upper lip, cutting his stubble diagonally in half. When he moved nearer, I noticed his eyes were dark blue with flecks of grey around the pupils. I guessed that he was in his early forties.
He was inspecting me closely too. ‘I’m not looking for anyone, ’ he said.
My spirit withered. ‘Oh,’ I said faintly.
‘Doesn’t mean I don’t need someone. Just haven’t got round to looking yet. Been too busy.’
‘So . . . does that mean you’d be interested in . . .’
He gestured towards the workshop. ‘I can’t do it all myself,’ he said, as if I’d told him he must. ‘Why, are you looking for a job?’
‘Yes. I can start straight away.’
‘You’re a framer?’
‘I . . .’ The question had floored me, but I did my best not to show it. I wasn’t a framer—in all my time working for Saul I hadn’t framed a single picture—but I sensed that ‘no’ would be the wrong answer. I was as eager to prolong my conversation with Aidan as I had been to leave a few moments earlier. I couldn’t let him dismiss me. It scared me to feel such a strong, irrational need for a stranger who owed me nothing. ‘At the moment I haven’t got a job,’ I said. ‘I used to work for Saul at the Spilling Gallery, but I didn’t . . .’
‘How long were you there?’
‘Nearly two years.’
‘Right,’ he said. Was he grinning at me or sneering? ‘What did you think of Hansard’s framing skills?’
‘I . . . I don’t know. I . . .’
Surely one picture-framer’s methods would be much like another’s
, I thought. Again, I sensed this would be the wrong thing to say, so I kept quiet.
‘Did he train you?’ Aidan asked.
‘No. I never actually did any framing.’ Better to admit it straight away than be caught out trying to wing it, I decided. ‘Saul took care of that side of things. I did some admin for him, answered the phone, took care of sales . . .’
‘In two years, you never framed a picture?’
I shook my head.
Aidan jerked his in the direction of his workshop. ‘If I put you in there and told you to get started, would you know what to do?’
‘No.’
He pushed his fringe out of his eyes with his paint-spotted right arm. ‘In that case, you’re no use to me. I’m a picture-framer. I need a picture-framer to help me. Frame more pictures, ’ he said slowly, as if I was stupid.
‘I can learn,’ I told him. ‘I’m a quick learner.’
‘You’re a receptionist. I don’t want a receptionist. Hansard doesn’t listen. No surprise there—his head’s all over the place. You must know that if you’ve worked for him.’
Was he testing me? I wasn’t about to be disloyal to Saul, who had always treated me well.
‘You can’t be a picture-framer and run an art gallery at the same time,’ said Aidan. ‘Hansard spreads himself too thin, ends up making a hash of everything. That’s why I asked what you thought of his framing. I’ve seen his work—it’s shoddy. He doesn’t use acid-free tape or backing card.’
I must have looked mystified, because he sighed heavily and said, ‘The essence of conservation framing is that it’s all reversible. You’ve got to be able to undo everything you do, and end up with the picture exactly the same as before it was framed, however long ago that was. That’s the first thing you need to learn.’
‘You mean . . .?’ It sounded as if he was offering me a job, unless I’d misunderstood completely.
‘You’re Ruth, right?’
I felt my confidence start to drain away, as if there was a hole in the pit of my stomach, and thought back to the last message Saul had left on my voicemail.
I gave you a glowing reference—Aidan’ll snap you up if he knows what’s good for him.
‘Why do you want to work here?’
Was this my interview? ‘It sounds corny, but I love art.’ I spoke quickly to hide my nerves. ‘There’s nothing that’s more . . .’
‘The way I heard it, you’re a liability,’ Aidan talked over me, his voice hard and cold. ‘You upset one of Hansard’s clients, lost him a lucrative source of business.’
I tried to keep calm. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Hansard. Who do you think?’
I didn’t see why he would lie. Fury sprang up out of nowhere, crushed me like a lead weight. Saul had encouraged me to come here, without saying a word about how he’d pre-empted me and sabotaged my chances. I stared down at the dirt path, mortified, trying not to explode with defensive rage. This wasn’t an isolated incident: in my mind it acted as a magnet, attracting, like iron filings, memories of all the terrible moments in my life so far.
Same horror, different incarnation.
After what I’d been through, no bad feeling ever seemed new to me: I had already felt them all, recognised them like familiar relatives each time they paid a visit.
‘Sorry I bothered you,’ I said, starting to walk away.
‘Can’t take criticism very well, can you?’
His mocking tone made me want to kill him. If I hadn’t been furious with Saul, I wouldn’t have dared to do what I did next.
Most of the word ‘courage’ is the word ‘rage’
—which book was that in? I turned and walked back to Aidan, counting my steps. ‘The essence of asking a conservation framer for a job is that it’s reversible,’ I said in a deliberately pompous voice. ‘You’ve got to be able to undo everything you do. I’m undoing asking you for work, and I’m undoing coming here at all. Goodbye.’
I ran back to my car, and this time he didn’t call after me. I slammed the door and sat in the driver’s seat, panting. I tried to brainwash myself: I’d been wrong about Aidan. I’d seen nothing in him, nothing at all. And I’d been wrong about Saul; I’d thought he cared about me, but he’d set me up for a fall.
Where else could I go? What could I do? Nothing that brought me into contact with pictures or artists, nothing in a gallery. The Spilling art world was too small; this latest humiliation had brought that home to me in the most painful way. If Saul had told Aidan, who else had he told? I could go to London, but then I’d have to give up my little house that I loved. Something told me that if I lost that, I’d lose everything.
I could get the sort of job anyone could get—serving fast food or cleaning toilets. Even as I had the thought, I knew I couldn’t. However much I needed money—and I did, urgently—I wasn’t the sort of person who would do anything to get it. I didn’t see any point in prolonging my life purely for the sake of it; if I wasn’t able to do something that mattered to me, I’d rather stop doing altogether.
I turned on the ignition, then turned it off again. Carbon monoxide poisoning. Probably the easiest way, I thought. After all, I had a car. I was in it now. If I had a length of rubber hose-pipe with me, I could do it right here, get it over with.
My mind started to wander aimlessly. Him and Her came into my thoughts, but for once there was no friction. I wondered idly if, by ending my life, I would alter the balance of blame between us. I was so tired of blame—of hoarding it all for myself, of giving it out. Someone else could take over the precise measurements, the minute calculations, that were necessary for its correct distribution.
A knocking sound near my head made me jump. My vision was blurred. I felt dizzy, and couldn’t see what was outside my car at first. Then I recognised Aidan; he was tapping on the window. Funny, I thought. I’d almost completely forgotten him in a few seconds; he’d drifted far away, along with the rest of the world I was preparing to leave. I ignored his knocking.
He pulled open the car door. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he said. ‘You look terrible.’
‘Leave me alone.’
‘Are you sick? Do you need help?’
I needed a drink. I’d eaten and drunk nothing all day; I’d been too nervous. I imagined a hot cup of tea, fizzy Coke, even flat Coke. I started to cry. How could I want to die and want flat Coke at the same time? ‘I’m a stupid fuckhead,’ I told Aidan.
‘You can talk me through your CV later,’ he said. ‘Look . . . you don’t want to let the likes of me upset you. My interview technique’s a bit rusty. I’ve never had anyone work for me before. It’s always just been me.’ He shrugged. ‘If you still want the job, it’s yours.’