It had all started to go downhill at that horrible party when Connie had been found dead in the south wing at Toddington. Olivia had been inconsolable and Julian had become sullen and withdrawn. She was surprised how hard it had hit them both. Julian had refused to talk about it with her and became angry when she pressed him about it. By contrast, Olivia had cried on her shoulder for a week and as a consequence they had become much closer, spending more quality time together. Grace supposed that Liv had been brought face to face with mortality and didn’t want to lose her mum in the same way. Whatever it was, Grace was glad to have her daughter back. In fact she had spent the weekend helping Olivia move into her new Chelsea flat, which had been bought with an inheritance from her grandmother. Two days of painting, cleaning, lifting boxes, unpacking had left her with a vague fluey feeling. Onset of middle age, she thought to herself.
Piling a stack of sandwiches on a plate, she took the narrow staircase to Julian’s basement den. Grace was not a big fan of this part of London. It was too trendy, intimidating and gritty. But she loved Julian’s Georgian terraced house, tucked away just past the market; it was light and roomy and it had the whiff of Dickens about it. As she approached the study door, she could hear Julian and Lars talking.
‘Do you honestly think we can get fifteen million for the Zoltar?’
‘Not normally, no,’ said Lars in his crisp public school voice. ‘But if we get Chris Abrams and Hugh Benton bidding against each other then we’ll make it.’
Julian did not sound convinced. ‘But we’re barely out of recession. I know the Russians and the Chinese are still swimming in cash, but are Chris and Hugh prepared to pay eight figures in this climate?’
Lars laughed. ‘The purpose of this auction is for them to pay over the odds for your work. To bid against each other until one of them pays an inflated price.’
‘Why?’
‘Because both of them own at least a dozen of your works, Julian. Estimated value may be one hundred million dollars. This auction will set a new benchmark price for your work and the value of their collection increases twenty, maybe thirty per cent overnight. That’s better than any stock pick, I tell you.’
Grace left the sandwiches by the door and tiptoed back up the stairs.
Julian came into the bedroom an hour later. Grace had been trying to get to sleep but she couldn’t; too much was going around in her head. Julian took his shirt off and threw it on the armchair. His belly was round and slack, hanging over the edge of his waistband.
‘I heard you talking about the auction.’
‘Really? Learn anything?’ he said without looking at her, his voice bored.
‘Actually I did. You’re rigging it.’
He didn’t even deny it. ‘Get off your fucking high horse, will you,’ he said. ‘Since when have you been all art is for the people? You seem pretty happy to live off the proceeds.’
She gaped at him, stung. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You know exactly what I mean,’ he said. ‘I know you like pissing about taking your little black and white photos of slum kids, but two hundred and fifty quid a day jobs don’t buy houses like Toddington.’
‘Well I’m sorry that it’s not all about the money for me, Julian,’ she replied. ‘I’d rather people wanted to look at my little black and white photos because they were interesting, not just because some self-interested collector decided they were valuable.’
‘I didn’t see much of this gritty integrity when you were swanning about hob-nobbing at Cannes.’
Cannes again. Every time they argued he brought up Cannes. She had taken her documentary to the film festival and it had been a roaring success. There was even talk of a possible Oscar nomination for El Tumba in the factual film category. And yet Julian had used this success against her like a weapon and his mood had been on a hair trigger ever since. She couldn’t swallow it any longer.
‘Why don’t you just admit you’re jealous of my success, Julian?’ she said. ‘You’re happy when I’m buttering sandwiches and making small talk with your collectors, but as soon as I step out of your shadow, you become a child.’
‘Jealous?’ he sneered.
‘Yes, jealous.’
He snorted and started to pull his shirt back on.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out,’ he said.
‘Julian, it’s nearly midnight.’
‘So?’
‘Well where are you going?’
‘Dunno,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders defiantly. ‘Anywhere where I don’t have to listen to this sanctimonious shit.’
And as the door slammed shut and she heard his footsteps fade away on the cobbles outside, Grace wondered how a person like her – a person who had so much love in her heart – had ended up with a man she was beginning to despise. And then she began to cry.