The Other Half Lives aka The Dead Lie Down

asked which was more important to them, personal happiness or work. Aidan said-in front of Martha, knowing how she felt about him-that nothing could ever matter to him as much as his work. Martha said the same thing, to win his approval, even though she’d gladly have renounced not only her work but also her family, friends, everything, if she could have had Aidan.’

So would I, if I could have him how he used to be. Before London. I try to keep an even expression on my face so that Mary can’t see what I’m thinking, but she’s wrapped up in her own thoughts, not even looking at me.

‘That was Martha’s fatal mistake,’ she says. ‘If she hadn’t told that one stupid lie, she’d be alive today.’

18

5/3/08

Charlie backed away, not wanting Jan Garner to see what she’d read. No wonder the name Mary Trelease had sounded familiar to Jan. ‘I’m going to need to take this with me,’ Charlie said.

Jan frowned. ‘I haven’t got a spare. I could have it photocopied if you want, let you have a copy.’

‘I’ll guard it with my life and bring it back as soon as I can.’ Charlie wouldn’t have been able to explain why a copy wasn’t good enough. It wouldn’t be the same as the catalogue, with its stiff, shiny pages. She had to show this to Simon. Dunning and Milward ought to see it too.

Aware that Jan hadn’t yet agreed to let her take it, seeing the gallery owner’s discomfort, Charlie held up her left hand. ‘I’ll leave you my engagement ring as security,’ she said. ‘You can keep it until I return the catalogue.’

‘You can’t do that,’ said Jan. ‘It’s bad luck to take off an engagement ring. You’re only allowed to take it off once-to put your wedding ring underneath it.’

‘I take it off every night, when I go to sleep,’ Charlie told her. ‘I don’t like wearing jewellery to bed.’

‘That’s terrible!’ Jan squeaked. She too had a ring on the third finger of her left hand: a thick silver band with a milky pink stone set into it.

‘I put it back on again every morning. I don’t think it’s bad luck.’ Charlie felt herself tense up. ‘Marrying someone who refuses to have sex with you, who’s never said he loves you-that’s my idea of bad luck.’

Jan looked confused. ‘No one would do that,’ she said.

‘How well do you remember Aidan’s paintings from this exhibition? ’

‘Better than I remember most shows. Why?’

‘Were any of them violent? Women getting killed, that sort of thing?’

Jan recoiled. ‘No. Nothing like that.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Absolutely. Aidan’s work wasn’t about violence. It was about awkward atmospheres between people, failures of communication. ’

‘I don’t suppose you remember who bought what?’ Charlie had to see that picture. Quickly. She crossed her fingers against it being in Auckland or Sri Lanka, the prized possession of a foreign collector who’d happened to be in London at the time of Aidan Seed’s exhibition.

‘I don’t remember,’ said Jan. ‘But I don’t need to. The sales list’ll be in the file. It wasn’t the usual suspects, though. Only three of the pictures sold at the private view, but the next day I had collectors coming in and ringing up, wanting to buy Aidan’s work sight unseen. I didn’t really believe in the power of word of mouth before Aidan. The entire show sold out in three days, and a lot of the buyers were clamouring for more-they wanted to know how quickly he could produce new work, and wanted first refusal as soon as he did. It was absolutely extraordinary.’ Jan’s eyes shone. Charlie suspected the exhibition had been the high point of her career as well as Aidan Seed’s. She could feel her heart beating in the roof of her mouth. The information she wanted was in a file right in front of her. Any second now, she’d have her hands on it.

Jan pulled out two sheets of A4 paper, stapled together. Charlie waited for her to look, to notice the title of number 18, but she didn’t. She held out the list for Charlie to take.

The first thing that leaped out was the name Wyers. A Mrs Cecily Wyers had bought number 4: Routine Bites Hard. Something snagged in Charlie’s brain. Where had she heard that title before? The combination of those three words in that order was very familiar, but Charlie couldn’t put her finger on why. She saw Ruth Bussey’s face clearly in her mind. Was it something to do with Ruth?

From that unanswerable question, Charlie moved on to another: was Cecily Wyers a relative of Martha’s? Could the two women who’d argued about whether or not to buy a painting have been Martha and her mother? Had Martha said in front of Jan Garner that Aidan’s paintings had a rotten soul, and been admonished for it?

There was an address for Cecily Wyers beneath her name: Wynyates, Barnwell St Stephen, Hampshire. No telephone number. ‘I’ll need to take this, too,’ Charlie said, turning the page.

Saul Hansard, Ruth Bussey’s former boss, was listed as the buyer of picture number 10: Six Green Bottles. Number 18 was the last picture on the list, at the bottom of the second page. Charlie wouldn’t have been entirely shocked to learn that Stephen Elton or Gemma Crowther had bought it. The unlikely had become so commonplace it no longer surprised her. Or at least, she thought it didn’t, until she saw who’d bought The Murder of Mary Trelease. The name triggered a series of hard jolts in her brain, sending her thoughts running blindly, chaotically into one another.

The painting had been sold to a Mr J. E. J. Abberton.

19

Wednesday 5 March 2008

‘Did you ever lie to please Aidan?’ Mary asks.

‘No. I don’t think so.’ I’ve only ever lied to protect myself, and Aidan.

‘Martha did. If she’d stayed true to herself-told the truth about herself-she and Aidan wouldn’t have formed their little bond against the others and gone off on their own. They wouldn’t have gone to bed together-Martha might still have pulled back from the brink. It was the night they spent together that took her love for Aidan and the despair that went with it to a deeper level.’

‘What happened?’ I ask.

‘The Five Future Failures went for a drink after The Times interview. They started talking about it again-the life versus work thing. Ended up having a blazing row. They all drank too much, and the friendly banter turned nasty. Aidan was the butt of everyone’s jokes. What he’d said about living only for his work had sounded pompous even to Martha. If there’s one thing Aidan hates more than anything, it’s having people laugh at him. You’ve heard of Doohan Champion?’

‘I’ve heard the name. Isn’t he famous?’

‘Very.’

‘You said “The Five Future Failures”.’

‘Everyone fails eventually,’ says Mary briskly. ‘It takes some people longer than others, that’s all. Doohan called Aidan a self-important wanker. Martha defended him. She told them they were a bunch of shallow losers-if Aidan was pompous, so was she, she said. She agreed with him, after all, or rather she pretended she did. By attacking Aidan’s detractors, she finally fulfilled her only ambition: impressing him. They went off on their own, ripped the others’ personalities and creative achievements, such as they were, to shreds over a curry in Soho, and ended up back at the hotel The Times had booked for them-in Aidan’s room.’

‘Do you know what the hotel was called?’

‘The Conrad.’ Mary gives me an odd look. ‘In Chelsea Harbour. ’

Not the Drummond.