“Actually, I wouldn’t mind having a painting,” Ava said. “The thing is, I don’t want to take it with me.”
“We’ll send it,” he said.
Ava gave her business card to Helga. “Send it to this address. Choose any painting you want and send me an invoice.”
Helga glanced at her husband and then turned to Ava. “I see no need for an invoice.”
Ava smiled. “Thank you.”
They walked down the hill side by side, Helga’s arm linked with Ava’s for support. She outweighed Ava at least two to one and wasn’t completely steady in a pair of shoes with small heels. Helga kept glancing left and right, as if anxious about who was observing them, or maybe hoping that someone would see her walking side by side with the exotic young Chinese woman.
The same man was behind the desk at the hotel, and he nodded as they walked into the lobby. “Can I use the office again?” Ava asked.
“Sure.”
Ava went into the office with Helga. She sat at the computer and signed on while Helga hung over her shoulder.
“Do you know how to use a photocopier?” Ava asked.
“No,” Helga said.
Ava took one of the letters and placed it face down on the glass. She pointed to the copy button and hit it. “That’s all you have to do,” she said.
While Helga copied the letters, Ava checked in to her email. The wire had been sent. She opened the attachment and pressed print. “Your money has been sent already,” she said.
“Thank you,” Helga said, focused on the photocopier.
It was just past nine o’clock — three a.m. in Toronto — and Ava knew there was no way she could reach her travel agent. She logged on to the Atlantic Airways site and searched for a flight that would get her to London. There was a 2:45 p.m. flight from Vagar to Copenhagen that would connect with a Cimber Sterling flight to Gatwick, getting her into London just before nine in the evening. “I’m thinking I would like to leave today,” she said, pulling the copy of the wire confirmation from the printer and handing it to Helga, “but if you want to me stay until the money is in your bank account, I will.”
Helga read the document and said, “You can go.”
Ava booked the flights and then looked for a hotel. The Hughes Gallery was on Church Street in Kensington. Two months earlier, while on the job for Tommy Ordonez, the Filipino billionaire, she had been in that exact area, at the Fletcher Hotel, and had enjoyed its proximity to Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park. It was right on the High Street, directly across from the gardens, and a short walk from Church Street. The room rate was 235 pounds a night — Hong Kong Peninsula Hotel rates. She clicked onto their website and reserved a room.
Glen Hughes had written to the Sorensens on gallery stationery. The letterhead listed a phone number and a general email address. Ava punched the number into her cellphone. A woman’s voice answered, “Hughes Gallery.”
Well, it’s still open for business, Ava thought. “Could I speak to Mr. Hughes, please?” she asked.
“He doesn’t arrive until ten.”
“Do you expect him today?”
“Of course.”
“And what is your closing hour?”
“We’re open from nine to six every day but Sunday.”
Ava hung up and returned to the computer. She drafted an email saying that she was the representative for a Hong Kong-based art collector and was in London on a scouting expedition. She asked to drop by the gallery at eleven o’clock the next morning to meet with Mr. Hughes. She sent the email without much optimism. If there was no response, she’d phone again when she got to London, or if necessary make a cold-call visit.
Helga had finished making the copies and bundled the letters together. She handed Ava her set. “I want to say that I’m very thankful for the money. I just need you to understand that I am still concerned that Jan’s name doesn’t get dragged through the mud because of this. He is a good man and a good painter, and we are forever hopeful that he will find an audience for his own work.”
“I will do everything I can to protect his reputation,” Ava said.
She walked Helga to the hotel door and stood outside in the drizzle, watching the stout woman make her ascent up the hill. After ten steps or so, Helga turned, smiled, and waved. Ava felt a touch of guilt as she waved back. The truth was, she wasn’t at all sure she would be able to keep Jan Sorensen’s name secure.
When she returned to the hotel, the front desk had been abandoned. She saw that the man who had been there was now in the office, using the computer. She stared at his back, willing him to see her and voluntarily give it up. He ignored her. “Will you be long?” she finally asked.
“A few hours,” he said.
“Could you book me a taxi for the airport?”
“What time?”
“My flight is at two forty-five.”
“I’ll have a taxi here for one,” he said.
In her room, she went through the letters from Hughes to Sorensen. The last one was a completely self- serving, cover-your-tracks kind of letter. The others were more straightforward, each one asking Sorensen if he could do a work “in the style of” a specific artist. The first four comprised a list of most of the Fauvists — Dufy, Vlaminck, Derain, Braque — while the last two wanted repeats of Vlaminck. There was never a hint that Hughes was engaged in anything shady, although in the letter requesting another Vlaminck he did mention that the customer had been absolutely thrilled with the latest work.
Ava pulled out her notebook and recapped the morning’s meeting. She then slid the letters inside the Moleskine notebook and placed it in her Shanghai Tang Double Happiness bag. She lay on the bed. The sheets still smelled of Nina’s perfume. The scent was a bit raw, like Nina herself. She thought about calling Uncle and then dismissed the idea. She had nothing new to add, just a name. And until she met with Glen Hughes, that’s all it was — a name.
(18)
Ava fought her way out of Gatwick Airport to catch the express train to Victoria Station, and then she fought her way through the station to catch the tube to Kensington High Street. It was close to ten o’clock when she finally walked into fresh air, air that was as cold and damp as in Skagen or Tjorn. Curacao seemed a long way away. She was happy she had worn one of her Johanna av Steinum sweaters, sweaters that she liked so much she had bought one each for Mimi and Maria at the Vagar shop before leaving.
From the station she had a short walk, past a Marks amp; Spencer and a Whole Foods, along the High Street to the hotel.
Ava was relieved to check in and get to her room. It was a spectacular modern blend of black, red, and white — sparse, functional, yet still somehow luxurious. A bottle of chilled mineral water and a bowl of fresh fruit were on the coffee table, accompanied by a welcoming note from the hotel administration.
She was hungry, and called the front desk. The concierge informed her that the main restaurant was still open. She quickly unpacked and then got two laundry bags from the closet. She put the black Brooks Brothers shirt and cotton slacks in the first bag, and in the other the laundry bag from Aalborg with her running gear. She carried the bags downstairs and deposited them at the front desk. “Is there any way I could get these back early tomorrow?” she asked.
“Is nine a.m. soon enough?” the desk clerk said.
“Yes, thank you,” Ava said, pleased with the five-star service.
She walked into the Fletcher’s dining room and was immediately led to a seat. She ordered sauteed langoustines with crab tortellini in a shellfish bisque as a starter, and pan-fried black bream with truffle mashed potatoes as her main. Everything came in rapid succession; she barely had time to drink half her bottle of white
