Ella punched in the pin code to the storage room, flinching slightly at the brightness of the well-lit corridor.
‘I’ve never been in one of these places before,’ said Devon looking around at the wide corridor stretching beyond them. ‘It’s huge.’
‘They store all sorts of things here. The first time I came, there was a guy loading in a full-size grizzly bear.’
‘You’re kidding?’ Devon looked alarmed and turned to look at the brightly coloured doors lining the corridor.
‘It was stuffed.’ Ella giggled at the horrified expression on his face. ‘He worked for some museum and they’d had a flood and they needed emergency storage.’
The pin pad beeped and Ella pulled open the door. Fluorescent light flooded the room, stark on the almost empty room.
Ella’s heart thudded painfully as she took a disbelieving step into the room. Where was everything? There were a few tatty boxes, a couple of old sculptures she done at art college and two large abstracts propped against the wall.
For a horrible moment she wanted to cry. Surely Patrick hadn’t thrown everything away. He wouldn’t have, would he?
Although she hadn’t worried about her drawings, now that they weren’t here, nausea swamped her. Grief reared up so sharply, it took her breath away. Her creations. The history of Cuthbert and his siblings.
Devon didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. The facts were glaringly obvious.
‘They’re gone,’ she stuttered turning in a slow circle as if items might miraculously materialise à la Harry Potter. ‘There’s nothing here.’
‘I can see that,’ said Devon drily.
‘I don’t understand. It was all there.’ She pointed to the wall on the right. ‘Stacked up against that wall. The framed prints and a stack of portfolio holders. Just there.’ She walked to the spot.
‘Does anyone else have access?’ asked Devon.
‘Only Patrick. But what would he want with them?’
Devon looked searchingly at her. ‘I’ve no idea. Emotional attachment. He’s missing you, he needed them like a security blanket.’
Ella gave a mirthless laugh. ‘You don’t know Patrick.’ They were too much of a reminder of her failure to fulfil the artistic promise that had first attracted him to her. ‘They’re the last thing he’d have emotional attachment to. He thinks I waste too much energy and time on them at the expense of my creativity.’
Devon frowned.
Where were they? The sudden stomach clench of panic didn’t make sense. She’d not really looked at them in years, certainly never missed them, but now acute fear filled her. What if they’d gone for good?
‘I’m sure there’s a simple explanation,’ she announced a little more confidently than she felt.
‘Yes.’ Devon nodded. ‘So what do you want to do?’
Ella looked at her watch. ‘What time are you meeting your friend?’
‘At twelve-thirty. We’re meeting for a pint and then we’ve got a table booked for one-thirty.’
Ella made a sudden decision. ‘Would you mind if I joined you at the restaurant? I can be there by half one and then you can catch up with him properly on your own.’
‘No, that would be fine. We’re only meeting in Carluccio’s in Garrick Street.’
Ella bit her lip and smoothed clammy palms down her jeans. ‘I think I might go to the gallery. See Patrick.’
Devon raised one eyebrow. ‘Sure you want to do that?’
‘No, I’m not sure at all. I’ve been avoiding it.’ It was time to face Patrick. Even though her head was telling her it was time to have a talk about going their separate ways, her heart worried that when she saw his familiar face, the slim angular body, she might change her mind. She’d be giving up so much. A life built together over the years.
‘Are you going to be OK?’ Devon asked, his eyes shadowed with concern. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’
She swallowed and tried to school her face into a blank mask. His obvious anxiety on her behalf touched her. She wanted to clutch at the firm hand on her arm. His eyes held hers, his gaze strong and steady as if he could see all the confusion and hurt raging inside her, offering reassurance. That calm, solid demeanour he wore like a second skin gave her a tiny bit of comfort. Inside, her stomach churned at the thought of walking into the gallery and seeing Patrick. Taking Devon along would be like putting on a suit of armour. It would also be incredibly cowardly and unfair to Devon. He had enough problems of his own.
‘No, you go on and see your friend. I’ll meet you there. I shouldn’t be long.’
‘Can I help you?’
Ella couldn’t help staring at the rather magnificent cleavage on display. It was rather hard to miss. In a royal blue dress cut to emphasise her assets, the woman in front of her reminded Ella of Snow White with her glossy black hair and dark red lips. For a moment, Ella wondered if the colour of the dress had been chosen deliberately to evoke just that image. She thought the red Alice band might be overdoing it a bit, or was that her being bitchy.
‘Hi. I’m looking for Patrick. Is he in?’
‘Patrick?’ Snow White asked, looking coy and startled.
Ella sighed inwardly. She didn’t need any one-upmanship today. ‘Yes, Patrick Clarkson. The owner.’
‘I’m sorry.’ The girl’s saccharine sweet smile made Ella want to throttle her. No, she wasn’t. She wasn’t the least bit sorry. She was about as far from sorry as humanly possible. ‘No, I’m afraid he isn’t.’
Ella gritted her teeth and tried to smile politely. It wasn’t like her to take an instant dislike to someone.
‘Do you know when he might be back?’
It was unusual for him not to be here and she felt quite aggrieved that she’d screwed up all her courage to saunter so casually into the gallery and find he wasn’t here.
‘I’m sorry.’ The sickly factor of the smile had dimmed. Even less sorry than before. ‘He’s at a meeting. I’ve no idea when he’ll be back. Would you like to make an appointment?’
‘No,’ said Ella.
‘Can I take a name?’
‘I’ll just take a look round.’ After all, it was an art gallery.
Snow White pursed her lips and pointedly went back to whatever she was doing behind the high gloss wall of the reception desk.
Ella invested a huge of amount of time and energy helping Patrick set this place up but as she went into the main room, she realised it had undergone quite a makeover in the last few weeks. It was odd that Patrick hadn’t mentioned any plans to make changes.
New windows and skylights had made the place much brighter and the slate black floor made a vast improvement on the previous white painted wooden floor boards which had needed touching up every couple of weeks to keep them looking the part. She scowled down at the new stone – she’d invested a lot of hours in that damn floor, it seemed an insult for Patrick to have finally replaced it without even telling her, but that’s what life would be like going forward. The knowledge came with an unwelcome pang.
It looked as if things were finally going well. The gallery had been open for ten years now and the first couple of years had been real touch and go as to whether it could be sustained. Patrick had felt that sense of insecurity keenly. Always on the look-out for the next big artist that would make his and the gallery’s name. Ella winced. She was supposed to be the draw when they first got together but several miserable shows later followed by poisonous reviews had killed her confidence stone dead and the more Patrick wanted her to be able to paint, the less she was able to deliver.
She turned to study the first picture on the wall to her left, her vision blurring with sudden tears. Coming here brought home what she stood to lose. Investment in ten years of life. She’d leave with nothing. She didn’t even have a job any more.
Blinking hard, she stared at the image painted on a large jagged edged sheet of Perspex. Black and white with electric blue spots colonising one corner. The blurb beneath talked at length about the connection between man and technology. She took a step nearer, focusing on the blue spots. Nope, she didn’t get it at all. Nothing new there, then.
Her boots clunked on the hard floor as she rounded a corner, passing a couple more pictures that failed to speak to her. No wonder she couldn’t paint proper pictures. She didn’t have a clue any more. This was cutting-edge stuff. Patrick had an eye for the avant-garde. Actually, she thought as she took a step back and studied the nearest picture, it was utter bollocks. With a smile, she turned her back on it.
Voices were coming from behind her and she could see a few other people looking at the pictures which were in the series of smaller rooms leading off this room It was odd, normally people adopted hushed tones in the gallery, which she never really understood, but these people were talking normally.
She walked towards the voices. In the first room there were several groups of people. The most she’d ever seen in here.
Most of these pictures had red spots on them, denoting they’d been sold. At least she thought they were red spots, although it might just have been her seeing red. Rage surged hot and fast. Ranged along the walls, admittedly displayed to beautiful advantage, were six illustrations of Cuthbert. Cuthbert in a shower cap. Cuthbert running up a curtain in a jester’s hat and Cuthbert dusted in flour with a chef’s hat. Her eyes narrowed and in quick angry strides she crossed to one particular illustration. She stood in front of it, her hands clenched to her sides with shoulders so taut they were in danger of removing her ears.
She studied the lines of the Cavalier’s hat, the brilliant purple plume inked so painstakingly . . . only two weeks ago. White heat burst and spiralled through her. That particular image hadn’t even gone to the publishers yet. Was this the reason for Britta’s unexpected visit? Or had taking this picture been a spur of the moment thing? Without stopping to think, she lifted it from the wall with both hands and held it in front of her. Cuthbert’s cheeky face stared back as if in encouragement.
Next to her a middle-aged woman gasped.
‘I don’t think . . . ’
Ella wheeled around and shot her an incendiary glance which had the woman taking a wide-eyed step back.
She tucked the picture under one arm, wheeled around and marched through the gathered crowd, all of whom stepped out of her grim determined path.
‘Excuse me, you can’t do that,’ called a surprised voice. ‘If you want to buy the picture, you need to let Sandra at the desk know. You can’t just go round removing them from the wall.’
The young man came right up to Ella and put out his arms, but she shook him off, avoiding his touch. Another new member of staff. Ella didn’t recognise him. Where were all the usual staff?
‘It’s OK,’ she snarled and he took a nervous step sideways, letting her go.
Snow White at the desk plastered a customer-friendly smile on her face, now that she thought she was about to make a sale. ‘Can I help you with that?’ She put out her hands to take the picture.
Ella reared back, noting with satisfaction the sudden alarm that flared in her eyes.
‘No!’ She hugged the wooden frame closer. ‘Tell Patrick that Ella was here.’
‘Madam, you can’t just take the picture.’ She jumped up and ran around the desk attempting to bar the way to the door. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll call the police.’
‘You do that.’ Ella raised one eyebrow daring her to. ‘But before you do . . . ’ She turned the painting, still holding it tightly in both hands. ‘See that, Ella Rigden.’ She indicated her name on the white mounting around the picture. ‘That’s me. My painting. Go ahead, you call the police.’
‘It might be your painting but . . . you’ve got a contract. You can’t just come and get them. There’s procedures. Paperwork.’ Her head bobbed like an agitated chicken and for a moment Ella almost let guilt get the better of her. ‘How do I know you are her? And even if you are, you can’t just take it.’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I can if it was stolen from me.’
Inside, another Ella recoiled in horror and shouted at the top of its voice. What are you doing? You never do things like this.
‘Carl,’ the girl shrieked. ‘Do something.’
The young man came racing over.
Still furious, Ella pushed him away hard and as he hit the ground, she heard the loud peel of an alarm. Snow White looked triumphant.
Ella stopped for a moment, feeling the fierce shriek of the alarm vibrating through her. Damn, it was connected to the police station. Horrified, she stared at the girl behind the counter and she froze, her fingers cramping on the edge of the frame.
With a sudden decisive intake of breath, she spun round, pushed hard at the door with her shoulder and legged it down the street as fast as she could.