The Second Wife aka Wives Behaving Badly

No doubt this was an oblique – and unflattering – reference to Nathan’s taste in Cornish pictures. Gisela’s eyes widened a little, but even if I had been in complete sympathy with her I could not have dropped Nathan into the black hole of flawed taste.

She smoothed the sleeve of her jacket, and my uneducated eye immediately noted that her hands were trembling. ‘That’s Marcus.’ She indicated the taller of the two men.

Everything fell into place. My main reaction was surprise. This was the man with whom Gisela had a special friendship, whom she probably loved, and there was nothing out of the ordinary to single him out. Marcus wore a linen suit, rather rumpled, with a gold watch-chain. He had thick, unruly hair, smallish but nice eyes and a pleasant expression. He gestured a lot and talked fluently. ‘Simple to ship… a couple of weeks. Insurance…’ He acknowledged our presence by raising a hand.

‘OK.’ The client was American, expensively dressed. ‘I’ll phone you the details.’

Politely, Marcus ushered him out of the gallery and whipped round. ‘Hello.’ He touched Gisela’s shoulder. ‘This must be Minty’ We shook hands. ‘Forgive me, I was finalizing a sale that had been a long time cooking.’ The pleasure of the sale shone in his eyes, and his voice was surprisingly deep. ‘Good, eh? I’ve only just opened here, and the rent has to be paid.’ He lifted his shoulders in a gesture designed to include me in his despair at the iniquity of landlords. ‘Shiftaka is an extraordinary painter. I hope you’ll take a look at the rest of the exhibition.’

There was sufficient suggestion that I was extraneous, and I took the hint and moved away. But not before I saw Marcus draw Gisela close.

For a second or two, Gisela relaxed against him. ‘How are you, Marcus?’

‘You know exactly how I am.’

‘I wouldn’t have come if I’d known you were going to be difficult.’

‘Don’t bother with games, Gisela.’

And Gisela – cool, determined Gisela – still trembled. ‘Sorry’

In the back room, I studied an oblong painting, Submission. It featured a series of broad horizontal stripes running through the red palette, from brick to palest pink. The eye longed to remain anchored to the red at the top of the canvas, and it took a conscious effort to pull it down through the spectrum, which, I suppose, was the point. It was only after I had examined the bottom section of the picture that I realized the pale pink contained a misty outline of Africa. The link between the pretty pink and the implication that Africa had been bled dry was intended to shock, and it did.

In the other room, the murmur of voices was punctuated by Marcus raising his. ‘Haven’t we muddled around for too long?’

Gisela said something unintelligible, and Marcus added, ‘End of the road, Gisela.’

I edged back into the main gallery. Marcus was leaning against the desk, inspecting his shoes. Gisela was flushed and upset, fingering the necklace of Persian coral round her neck.

‘I think I should go,’ I told them.

‘I’m coming, too.’ Gisela grabbed her bag.

Marcus rolled his eyes, and levered himself upright. ‘OK.’

Gisela snapped open her bag, got out a mirror and, in a now familiar gesture, dabbed at the area below her eyes. ‘Give me a minute.’

I turned to Marcus. ‘The artist? Tell me about him.’

Without a blink, Marcus shifted into another gear. ‘Abandoned on the streets of Kyoto, he was fostered by a retired geisha. He’s a political painter…’

His gaze slid past my shoulder, and rested angrily on Gisela.

As we left, Marcus placed his hand under Gisela’s chin and forced her to look at him. ‘Dinner tomorrow. You owe me that.’

Yearning was printed all over her porcelain perfection. She seemed docile, obedient, even. ‘Tomorrow, then.’

But outside in the street she slid back into her normal self. ‘Did you like him?’

‘Very much. But, forgive me, he doesn’t seem your type.’

She tucked a hand under my elbow. ‘He isn’t. That’s the point. Isn’t life funny?’

We skirted a pile of rubbish spilling out of a black plastic bag, and stepped into the road. ‘Surely Roger knows,’ I said. ‘How do you get to see Marcus?’

‘Oh, details.’ Gisela was impatient. ‘One can always arrange them. How did you get to see Nathan? But Roger doesn’t know, and he never will. OK?’ She squeezed my elbow. ‘OK?’

I crossed my fingers. ‘OK.’

We reached the opposite side of the street, and Gisela said, ‘I met Marcus when I was eighteen and already married to Nicholas, who was my godfather. Nicholas was fifty, but well-off, concerned, generous. Marcus came to catalogue his paintings and he’s been in and out of my life ever since.’

‘Why didn’t you marry him after Nicholas died?’

Gisela swivelled to a halt, and flicked her finger in the direction of the Hermes shop window on the corner of the street. Reverently framed in it, on a bed of flowing silk, was a beige Birkin bag. ‘You get used to certain things, and Marcus was very poor in those days. He says I’m a gold-digger. He’s right. I am.’

We continued our progress towards the restaurant where Gisela was taking me for lunch, traffic wailing, shop windows crammed with desirable objects. ‘Marcus and I would have worn each other out,’ she said at last. ‘I didn’t want that, Minty’ She pushed me towards a door that looked expensive. ‘I want to give you a good lunch.’

As I was being helped off with my coat in the hushed restaurant, my mobile rang. ‘Yes?’ I answered.

‘Minty.’ I felt the hairs rise on my arms. ‘It’s Rose.’

Maybe Rose had seen me outside her flat after all and she was ringing to say, ‘Please don’t do that again’. Or, ‘What do you think you’re playing at?’

I stiffened with dismay. ‘Rose, this isn’t a good moment. Can I call you back?’

Rose’s voice veered uncharacteristically from its normal modulations. She sucked in her breath, with evident effort. ‘Minty, is anyone with you?… I’m afraid… you must prepare yourself. Minty… Minty… Nathan.’ She collected herself. ‘Minty, I think you must come at once. Nathan isn’t very well, and it would be best if you came – ‘

Where?’ I said. Alarmed by my tone, Gisela laid a hand on my arm. ‘Where should I come?’

‘My flat. As soon as you can.’

Gisela asked almost shrilly, ‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s Nathan. Something’s wrong. That was Rose. He’s at her flat.’

‘Oh, my God – I hadn’t imagined -’ She checked herself. ‘Right. I’ll cancel the car. It will be quicker to get a taxi and I’m coming with you.’

‘What’s he doing with her? Gisela, what can have happened?’

‘Let’s get the taxi.’ She pulled out her mobile and called the Vistemax driver, spoke briefly and disconnected.

I can’t remember much about what happened next, apart from staring hard at a set of traffic-lights. Then there was the motorcyclist who edged so close to us that the driver shouted at him.

‘You shouldn’t have come,’ I said to Gisela. ‘There’s no need.’

Gisela was matter-of-fact. ‘It did sound urgent but it’s probably nothing. Anyway, I’d like to meet the famous Rose.’

‘Gisela,’ I repeated, ‘what is Nathan doing at Rose’s?’

She did not meet my eye. ‘There’s probably a very good reason.’

I stared out of the window. Nathan and Rose. Old times.

Keeping one hand on my leg to anchor me, Gisela hunched forward on the seat and issued instructions to the driver. Once, she asked me for more precise details and I heard myself giving them: ‘It’s left at the bottom of the street, then right…’

Was Nathan really ill? He had rung me that morning on my way to work. It had been a relaxed, easy conversation, almost intimate.

‘Lost my glasses.’

‘I saw you put them in your briefcase.’

‘Ah.’