‘Have you told her yet?’ Big Steve demands, appearing at the top of the stairs.
Lucy presses her lips together.
‘Told her what?’ I ask.
Saying nothing, Big Steve lowers himself onto the opposite sofa. Within seconds, there are more footsteps on the stairs. Little Steve joins us, collapsing into place next to his partner. Lucy picks up the wine bottle and shakes it. I have no idea why. It’s clearly empty.
‘Told her what?’ I repeat.
‘The sale’s fallen through,’ Little Steve grumbles.
‘I’m sorry, Steve.’ I’ve no idea which Steve I’m aiming my apology at, or why I’m apologising at all.
‘You haven’t told her, have you?’ Big Steve glowers at Lucy.
She shakes her head.
‘I was getting round to it.’
‘Getting round to what?’
‘Dan. He was the buyer. But he pulled out this morning.’
‘Let’s just say his name’s dirt around here.’ Little Steve grimaces. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I feel for the poor man.’ He swats a hand through the air. ‘But why throw away everything decent in your life?’
‘We were all sworn to secrecy,’ Lucy explains sheepishly. ‘He put in an offer soon after he met you. He wanted it to be a surprise.’
‘And now it’s all gone to rat shit.’ Little Steve purses his lips. For the time being, he says nothing else. Instead, he gazes into space as if he’s contemplating all the evils in the world.
It gives me time to wonder what on Earth possessed Dan to put in an offer so soon. Was it to please me, to showcase my work? Or was I nothing more than a catalyst, inadvertently triggering some half-formed plan to move on with his life? Maybe it was a measure of his commitment to me, his faith in us. I have no idea what caused it, and no way of finding out … not yet. But whatever it was, I shouldn’t be surprised. Rushing headlong into things is just his way – a simple fact I’ve come to understand.
‘Oh well,’ Big Steve sighs, knocking me out of my thoughts. ‘We’ve got someone else interested now, but I’m not holding out much hope.’
Someone else?
‘Who?’ I ask.
‘An American chap.’
‘That’s what you said last time.’
‘And this time it’s true,’ Lucy confirms. ‘It’s a real American chap. He’s got a couple of galleries in Manhattan.’
‘Well …’ I press on, trying to say all the things I ought to. ‘That bodes well. At least he knows his art from his arse.’
Little Steve shakes his head. ‘Dan knew this art from his arse.’ He motions toward Brogue Man. ‘He was going to keep Slaters going as it is. Lucy in charge. But this new bloke. Jesus, who knows?’
Another miserable silence ensues and I make the most of it, getting back to the job of trying to make sense of it all, quickly coming to the obvious conclusion: buying Slaters right now would be a step too far. Dan can’t be seen to have anything to do with me, but there’s no way he’s pulling out completely. This new buyer must be some sort of holding arrangement. Don’t believe what you see, I remind myself, and don’t believe what you hear. It’s all part of the charade.
‘Right then.’ Big Steve claps his hands. ‘Maya’s come to see upstairs. We’d better get on with it.’ He touches Little Steve on the arm. ‘You stay here, my love, and keep an eye on that one.’ He nods to the art lover.
‘You’ll have to go through my back passage,’ Little Steve laughs. ‘It’s terribly grim and grotty. Good luck.’
Feeling a little unsteady on my feet after the wine, I follow Big Steve and Lucy down to the basement office and through a mysterious door at the back. Tentatively, we navigate a path past several musty cardboard boxes, and climb an ancient, rusting spiral staircase that takes us back up past the ground floor, to the space above.
‘So, this is it.’ Big Steve pushes open a second door. ‘Barry’s office.’
He steps into the ‘office’, followed by Lucy. Bringing up the rear, I inspect my surroundings: a long room, complete with wooden floor, windows at each end and another door at the back. Originally whitewashed, years of neglect have left the walls slightly discoloured, the paint peeling off in places.
‘You’ve got a separate entrance here.’ Big Steve nods at the door. ‘Very dangerous steps down to the back. They’re a death trap. Barry used them, but he’s an old daredevil.’
‘Who’s Barry?’
‘A theatrical agent. This was the hub of his empire. He mostly dealt with has-beens, but he’s retired now. He put it up for sale and he who shall not be named saw the opportunity to expand.’ He pauses, raising an eyebrow. ‘Anyway, Barry’s willing to hang on for another buyer. Nobody wants a room like this on its own, but linked to the gallery, it’s a sure-fire sale.’
‘Is the American interested?’
‘Yes, but you can use the place for now. Barry’s fine about it. He’ll let us do anything. Oh look, he’s left a present.’ Scooting over to a wall, he lifts a calendar away from a screw. ‘Kittens. He’s left it on March. That’s bad luck. What is it now? July?’
Big Steve flips the calendar to the correct month, and I wander round the room, noting the fact that my painting gear’s stored at the front, a couple of crates in one corner, canvases lined up against a wall. My triptych’s there, arranged in order and begging to be finished. Doing my best to ignore it, I turn away, assessing the potential. It’s roomy, that’s for sure. And the light’s good enough. All in all, it’s a bright, calm space. I could definitely work in here. Until everything’s sorted and I can go back to my studio in Lambeth, this will do just fine.
‘Lucy
