of the journey. Travelling always made her feel grubby, no matter how luxurious it was. She pulled on one of the towelling robes and wandered back into the bedroom, selecting clean clothes. A white blouse, jeans and some flat suede boots. She dried herself, dressed, brushed her hair and re-applied her make-up, then inspected her reflection in the mirror.
Satisfied, she slipped on her jacket and picked up her handbag, pausing to look at the diary once more and its mysterious entry:
JAMES WORSDALE: DUBLIN NATIONAL GALLERY.
As she made her way to the lift and jabbed the button marked ‘G’ she found her heart thumping a little faster than normal.
Outside the hotel she asked the doorman to get her a cab.
She was at the gallery in less than five minutes.
It was as imposing an edifice as she’d ever seen. A massive grey building, its frontage decorated with stone pillars, its grounds were dotted with statues. The gallery itself looked as if it had been carved by some giant sculptor, minute details in the stonework wrought by caring as well as skilful hands.
Donna had only seconds to appreciate its beauty; she had other things on her mind. She paid the taxi-driver and walked briskly towards the main entrance of the building, slowing her pace as she reached the flight of broad stone steps that led up to the doors.
This was going to cause more problems than she’d thought, but it was the first place to try.
For one thing, there was no time in the diary for meeting Worsdale. Coupled with that, she had no idea what the man looked like.
As Donna climbed the stairs slowly she looked around at the dozens of people entering and leaving the building, wondering how the hell she was supposed to find someone she’d never seen before. Perhaps her husband and Worsdale had agreed a certain meeting place inside or even outside the gallery.
She entered the building, wondering how she was to find this elusive man, wondering again what she was going to tell him even if she did succeed in locating him.
She gazed around at the paintings which hung on the walls, looking but not really seeing.
It was quiet inside the gallery, an atmosphere akin to a library. That same hushed reverence pervaded the place. Donna glanced at the other visitors, noticing how diverse an audience were drawn to such a building.
There were people of all ages, wandering back and forth, some studying the paintings for long moments others just glancing, some checking their guides, some making notes.
As she looked up she saw what looked like a loud speaker in one corner of the room.
A public address system.
The idea hit her like a thunderbolt and she spun round, heading back towards the main entrance, remembering that there was an enquiries desk there. She could get them to broadcast an announcement for her, spread the word around the gallery that Mr James Worsdale was to come to the main entrance.
She smiled at her own ingenuity, the smile fading as she realized the ploy would only work if Worsdale was actually in the gallery. But, she thought again, her mind accelerating now, there was another way. She could leave a message at the desk. Get them to put a sign up telling Mr Worsdale to contact the Shelbourne Hotel and ask for Mr Ward.
Pleased at her plan, she smiled as she approached the desk.
She’d find him yet.
There was a man seated behind the desk reading a book. He looked up as Donna approached and smiled at her.
She returned the gesture, struck by his good looks. He was in his late twenties, thick-set, dressed in jeans, with his long hair pulled back in a pony-tail.
‘Can I help you?’ the attendant said happily.
‘Yes, I think you can,’ Donna told him. ‘I’m looking for someone. I’m supposed to meet them here but I’ve forgotten where,’ she lied. ‘I was wondering if you could put out a message over the public address system to tell him I’m here. If that’s okay?’
‘It’s not supposed to be used for that, really,’ he said apologetically. ‘It’s newly installed. We’ve had a couple of bomb threats lately and it’s been installed to warn staff to clear the building. I’m sorry.’
‘This is very important,’ Donna insisted. ‘Please.’ She could feel her heart sink. If this failed she was lost.
‘I shouldn’t,’ the attendant said, but then smiled broadly.
‘But what the hell. What’s the name of the person you’re looking for?’
Donna smiled broadly.
‘Thank you, I appreciate it,’ she said, relieved. ‘His name is James Worsdale.’
The attendant’s smile faded rapidly and he looked at Donna with narrowed eyes.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’m sure. Is there a problem?’ Her own smile was replaced by a frown.
‘I can put out the announcement but I don’t think James Worsdale will show up.’
‘Why not? How do you know?’
‘Because he’s been dead for over two hundred years.’
The smile on the face of the attendant was a marked contrast to Donna’s expression of shocked surprise.
As he saw her concern, again his smile faded.
‘Well, let’s say the James Worsdale I know has been dead that long,’ he said apologetically. ‘But if there’s another ...’ He shrugged. ‘It’s an unusual name.’
Donna’s mind was still reeling but she reached for her handbag, pulling out the diary.
‘Look,’ she said, thrusting the book at him and pointing at the entry. ‘James Worsdale, Dublin National Gallery.’
‘You’re in the right place, then. His work is exhibited here.
Donna shook her head, now totally puzzled by what she’d heard. She felt a little foolish, too.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and turned to leave.
‘Wait,’ the attendant said. ‘Have you got five minutes to spare? You came here to see Worsdale’s work; the least I can do is show it to you.’
She hesitated, then smiled thinly.
‘Five minutes?’ she repeated. ‘I feel such an idiot,’ she said.
‘No need to. You wouldn’t be the first one through these doors,’ he nodded towards the main entrance and smiled broadly.
The gesture was infectious and Donna at last found herself grinning, too. The attendant clambered out from behind the counter, one of his colleagues taking his place. He walked around to where Donna stood and motioned for her to follow him. Again she was struck by his good looks and his relaxed, easy manner. He introduced himself.
‘My name’s Gordon Mahoney,’ he told her.
‘Donna Ward. How long have you worked here?’
‘Six years. It pays to know whose paintings are exhibited here. People are always asking questions.’
‘But not always looking for the artist,’ she said.
Mahoney grinned.
