Summer Lies Bleeding (15 page)

And as Stella stands in the shadow of this glowing light, as she lives through this moment she can feel it waivering like the ripples on the surface of a pool, blurring, not settling into any particular shape or form. Only once she emerges will it solidify, become hard like rock and she will see it inside her head developing like a photograph in a darkroom but by then she will be inside the next watery tunnel, making new memories. She has no idea what any of this means but she knows that in a few moments, a few hours, she will.

Seb is just on time as he strides up Old Church Street towards the Chelsea Arts Club and lunch with Henry. The meeting with the Royal Opera House took longer than he expected but it was worth it: a dream of a commission, creating a series of paintings to promote next season's production of
Madame Butterfly
. Six full-length portraits of the leading opera singers – not bad for a morning's work.

As he approaches the long white clubhouse his phone beeps inside his pocket. He takes it out and reads the message, it's from Yasmine:

Some guy's just been outside asking for you. Wouldn't give his name. I told him he could catch you tmmrw. Call me when you finish lunch. Love you, xxx

He is trying to digest the message when the club door opens and a large, red-haired man greets him.

‘Seb! How are you?'

It's Liam Kerr, one of the most successful portrait artists of
his generation, famous in the nineties for his reportage-style paintings of Gulf War soldiers and civilians, he has always been one of Seb's heroes and now, through their similar painting styles and love of good food, a close friend and ally.

‘I'm good, thanks Liam, really good,' says Seb, smiling warmly. ‘Just here to meet a friend for lunch.'

‘Business or pleasure?' asks Liam, holding the door while two women duck underneath his outstretched arm to enter the club.

‘Bit of both,' says Seb. ‘I've got a pretty manic week ahead: we've got the soft launch of the restaurant tomorrow.'

‘The Rose Garden,' says Liam, his soft Scottish accent enunciating the name like poetry. ‘We got our invitation in the post last week, thank you. Love the design, I wonder who was responsible for that.'

Seb smiles. ‘I'm glad you like it. Yas is a tough taskmaster. I had to draw draft after draft of that invite before she was happy.'

‘Well, Kate and I will be there,' says Liam, now holding the door open with his foot. ‘And we shall starve ourselves all day in preparation.'

‘Good stuff,' says Seb. ‘Oh and feel free to bring the girls. Cosima will be there and she'd love to see Florence and Verity.'

‘Okay, if you're sure,' says Liam. ‘They're a pretty rowdy bunch en-masse, you know.'

‘The more the merrier,' says Seb. ‘And I think, in a way, it will help Yas relax, having the little ones about.'

‘Then we shall come,' says Liam. ‘Right, I'm off to meet my accountant; always the highlight of my month. See you tomorrow, my friend.'

‘Bye, Liam,' says Seb, catching the door before it closes. He switches his phone to silent and tucks it into his pocket as he enters the dark, low ceilinged entrance hall. He has no idea who the strange guy at the restaurant is, but he can deal with it later.

The club is already starting to fill with people arriving for lunch and a great burst of laughter emanates from the bar to the left of the door, plates clatter in the kitchen and phones ring simultaneously in the tiny cramped office along the hall. Seb often pops in there to say hello to Emma, the frazzled office manager, to confirm a dinner booking or talk about his next exhibition. He still finds it hard to believe that four adults – Emma, her assistant Daisy, John, the operations manager, and Aubrey, the club secretary – can all cram into that tiny space, let alone sort out the intricacies of club business: taking dining room and bedroom bookings, organising events, paying suppliers, chasing membership subscriptions, as well as answering the phones that never seem to stop ringing. And they manage to do it all so graciously and still have time for a laugh and a chat with the members.

That's the beauty of the Chelsea Arts Club for Seb, it's like a gloriously eccentric home-from-home where priceless works of art hang on walls where the paint is peeling, where multi-millionaires
sit wedged on threadbare chairs nibbling on Twiglets and sipping Bloody Marys. Still, multi-millionaires are relatively few and far between and for most of the artist members it's a case of feast or famine – one month they may be so skint they can't afford to eat, the next they might have a sell-out show and treat everyone to drinks all night. Any celebrities trying to wangle themselves membership without a genuine involvement in the arts are soon given short shrift by the formidable membership committee who can sniff out chancers like bloodhounds.

As Seb walks down the corridor past the office he can hear snippets of conversation overlapping each other. Emma is talking on the telephone: ‘Yes, I know you need measurements but I'm trying to tell you that I can't give you them just now …' She is drowned out by Aubrey's sharp voice: ‘Daisy, can you tell me WHY there is a cross through the loggia on this booking sheet … and can I say yet again, and I'm talking to everyone here, when you make a booking can you ALL initial it, otherwise we have no idea what we're doing,' … ‘Oh, really, do we ever know what we're doing, darlings?' Emma's voice, now raised, intercepts Aubrey's: ‘And the reason I can't do that is that we have no rulers in the office at the moment … what's that? … all I know is that we arrived this morning and there is not a ruler to be had, apparently the chef went quite mad last night, burst into the office and removed all the rulers. Now if you don't mind I shall have to call you back …'

Seb laughs to himself as he walks towards the dining room and hears Aubrey's voice call across the office: ‘Daisy, I want you to go to the kitchen immediately and retrieve those rulers.'

As he walks past the staircase that leads up to the bedrooms, a plump ginger cat slinks round his legs. ‘Hello, Bubble,' he says, bending down to stroke the cat's head ‘Are you hungry too, eh?' He opens the door of the dining room and the cat runs in between his legs and makes a dart for freedom through the French Doors that lead out to the garden. The room is quite full. There are the usual familiar faces sitting round the large shared table in the middle near the kitchen while other members with guests sit at the tables for two, four and six that are dotted around the L-shaped room. The wooden floor creaks as Seb walks across to Marcy, the tiny maître d' who always reminds him of a figure from a Dutch painting with her long red hair, alabaster skin and black dress. She is busy totting something up at the till but as he approaches she turns and smiles warmly.

‘Hi, Seb, your guest is here,' she says, handing him a printed menu. ‘We've put you in the loggia today if that's okay,' she says, as she leads him towards the back of the room which opens out into the airy glass garden room.

‘That's fine, Marcy,' says Seb, ducking his head as they walk under the low archway. ‘It's so sunny, it'll be nice to sit in there today.'

As they walk through, he sees Henry sitting at the far table.
He always looks out of place here, confused and befuddled by it all. He has his hands folded on the table in front of him and looks rather like a schoolboy waiting for matron to arrive. Henry likes slick modern lines and chic formality; the chaos and shabby eccentricity of the club are just not to his taste. Mobile phones are not allowed in the dining room and as Henry's is permanently glued to his ear like an extra limb, he looks even more awkward sitting there twiddling his thumbs.

He looks up as Seb approaches and stands to greet him.

‘Seb, one of these days you might just be on time.' He laughs as he pats Seb on the shoulder and sits back down.

Seb rolls his eyes and smiles at his friend. ‘Wait till I tell you about the Opera House meeting.'

‘What can I get you chaps to drink?' asks Marcy, standing back like a little ghost as Seb pulls out his chair and sits down.

‘A couple of bottles of sparkling water would be great, thanks Marcy,' says Seb.

Marcy knows never to hand Seb the wine list, just as she knows the likes and dislikes, the phobias and foibles of almost every one of the members. Like the fact that Paul Redwood, the former-arts correspondent for the
New York Times
and now well into his nineties, will arrive at 1 p.m. on the dot each day, will be seated on the far right of the communal table and will order the rib eye with new potatoes and a glass of house red, alternating to the sea bass on Fridays with a glass of house white. He will bring his own newspapers with him, which he
will read for the duration of the meal, then leave at 2 p.m. to go and take a nap in the living room of his small garden flat off the Fulham Road. That is his routine and Marcy would never dream of getting in the way of it. Seb smiles as Marcy removes the wine glasses discretely; he likes the fact that he can be a recovering alcoholic in a club renowned for its raucousness and carousing and he knows that if he can abstain from drink here, he can abstain anywhere.

‘So what's this about the Opera House?' Henry leans across the table, his eyes bright with thoughts of new business, new money.

‘It's a fantastic commission, H,' says Seb, lowering his voice slightly as two women are seated at the table opposite. ‘They're putting on
Madame Butterfly
next year and they want six full-length oils, one for each of the principle singers, to be displayed inside the Opera House and to use on their posters and publicity material. And I want the bulk of this fee to go straight back into Asphodel for the scholarship funds.'

‘That's very generous of you Seb,' says Henry, leaning back in his chair as Marcy arrives with the water and proceeds to pour it into their glasses. ‘Are you sure you want to do that?'

Seb nods as he takes a sip of water. ‘I'm positive,' he says, putting his glass down on the table. ‘I've had an amazing few years, done more than I ever imagined I would do in a lifetime. Christ, Henry, look where I was seven years ago, I was on my knees, killing myself with drink. If I can help other young artists
achieve what they want to do then I will die a happy man.'

‘When you're a dapper man of ninety, living in luxury in the South of France with a twenty-one year old blonde nymphet,' laughs Henry.

Seb shakes his head and smiles. ‘A dapper man of ninety with my beautiful Yasmine next to me. South of France, Battersea or bloody Grimsby, I don't care, all I need is her beside me.'

‘Are you ready to order yet, chaps?' Marcy is suddenly there beside them.

‘Oh yes please,' says Henry. ‘This conversation is getting far too soppy for my liking. Can't bear sentimentality, particularly on an empty stomach.' He picks up the menu and scans the page. ‘I'll have the Clam Chowder then the Duck Confit if I may?' He hands the menu to Marcy who tucks it under her arm.

‘And for you, Seb?' She stands with the point of her sharpened pencil poised at the top of her notepad.

‘I'll have the soup then the risotto, please.'

‘Excellent,' says Marcy, removing Seb's menu with a flourish, and disappearing into the darkness of the inner room.

‘Speaking of Yasmine,' says Henry, squinting a little as a bright shaft of sunlight pours into the room. ‘I sensed a bit of tension last night, particularly over my choice of Lauren to oversee the guest list. You do trust me don't you, Seb? I mean, we'll need a good mix of guests; highbrow – yes, of course – but
also a little smattering of celebs to get us in the papers, you know? Yasmine realises that doesn't she?'

Seb's mouth tightens. There is always a hint of sexism in Henry's attitude to Yasmine. Henry can't really fathom her, this strong successful woman with opinions of her own, who is beautiful but doesn't use her looks to get on.

‘Yes, she gets the whole PR thing, Henry,' he says, trying to keep his voice light. ‘Of course she does. She's a professional and she's been in this business since she was eighteen. Her only concern is that the launch will end up being high-jacked by some bimbo reality star wanting to get her face in the papers. You know this Henry, and you know what the Honey Vision girls are like, they'll take the whole place over. Even if you just invite a couple, they'll bring their mates. The Rose Garden is not that kind of restaurant; it's a warm, genuine, family-oriented place. You see I still like the idea of inviting critics and their families, their kids, to really reinforce the whole Mediterranean family feel.'

Henry pulls a face. ‘I know you like that idea Seb and we've got a couple of, er, children coming but any more and it would descend into chaos, you'd have smashed glasses, screaming kids, utter bedlam …'

Seb smiles. ‘Children don't always cause chaos, H. I've seen more smashed glasses and bedlam caused by coked up celebrities than by little people. Anyway, let's just stick to the list Yas compiled yeah, save us all this hassle.'

Henry shifts uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Well, unfortunately, Seb, Lauren's already sent out her invites. But she has assured me that it's not just the Honey Vision girls, she's also sent it round to her friends in the City – hedge-fund guys, bankers, traders, in other words big money, Seb. You can't turn that kind of custom away.'

Seb nods. Henry is right. It would be naïve of him to think otherwise.

‘Okay Henry,' he says, as a waiter puts a bowl of steaming celeriac soup in front of him. ‘I agree, but do make sure that Lauren has invited the people on Yas's list too. I know Liam Kerr has received his invitation so it looks like she's done it but if you could check with her and let me know that would be great. I don't want Yas to have anything to worry about tomorrow.'

‘Leave it with me,' says Henry, as he places his napkin on his knee. He raises his spoon towards Seb in a mock toast. ‘Here's to The Rose Garden, eh? It's going to be a triumph.'

‘To The Rose Garden,' says Seb, raising his spoon. ‘And my brilliant wife.'

*

Kerstin sits on her bed, turning the news over and over. Yesterday morning; it had happened yesterday morning. What did she forget yesterday, what important ritual did she fail to observe? Then she remembers the rip in her purse. It had appeared sometime in the morning yet she had not noticed
it until well after lunch, almost four p.m. If she had seen it earlier she could have replaced it immediately; instead it had sat there in her bag, festering like an open wound, inviting bad things in, taunting death. If she had been alert, if she had not been so preoccupied with the report she could have rectified it, she could have saved her father's life.