‘Yes, yes, a great help.’
But she wasn’t at all sure. In fact, she was pretty sure she’d achieved nothing beyond making Julian’s friends hate her even more.
15
In a third-floor gallery at the V&A, Diana stopped to admire the painting in front of her. She knew that it wasn’t particularly fashionable to like watercolours. She had been on the society scene long enough, met enough dealers, been encouraged to buy enough expensive modern art pieces to know that they were the poor relation of the art world. But there was something about these paintings that soothed her – their soft lines, luminosity and dreamy colour palettes – and this particular landscape, a night-time scene of Venice that had drained the city’s life and vibrancy and replaced it with grey melancholy, seemed to reflect her mood perfectly.
‘How are you?’ asked a voice behind her. She felt a hand on her shoulder and spun round to see who it belonged to.
‘Adam, you scared me,’ she said, bringing a hand up to her chest. She was surprised to see him, even though they had arranged to meet in this very spot.
‘Lost in thought?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I’m a bit late. Sorry.’
He kissed her lightly on the cheek, and as she drew close to him, she could see that he was out of breath, as if he had been in a rush. She wondered where he had been, what he’d had to leave, feeling suddenly quite selfish that she had called him that morning and asked to meet. She had done it immediately after her session with Olga Shapiro, not wanting to procrastinate, feeling the importance of seeing him quite acutely, not realising, or perhaps caring, that it was a Friday night and he almost certainly had better things to do with his time than see his grieving sister-in-law.
‘No, no, I was late myself,’ she lied, not wanting to reveal that she had arrived at the museum an hour early. After leaving Greg and Rachel in the City, she had wandered around Knightsbridge for a couple of hours, browsing but not seeing the pretty clothes in Harvey Nichols, succumbing to brief moments of normality as she wandered aimlessly around Harrods, only to remind herself that her husband was dead which made her feel ashamed and frivolous for even being there. The museum had felt like a more restful and sombre place to sit it out and wait for Adam.
‘I didn’t know this place was open at this time.’
‘It’s not that late.’
‘It’s late enough. I feel like Ben Stiller in Night at the Museum,’ he smiled.
‘Well now you know. You can bring all your girlfriends here for Friday-night date night.’
‘What girlfriends are we talking about here?’ he said, loosening his tie and fastening his gaze on to hers.
‘Come on, you must have some Victoria’s Secret model tucked away in London,’ teased Diana, reminding herself that she was under instruction to try and smile this evening.
‘Are you saying I have a type?’
‘I read People magazine.’
‘You must be confusing me with someone else,’ he said idly.
‘Portraits are just through here,’ she said as they reached the end of the gallery.
‘Do you come here often?’ he grinned. He had a good smile. Sincere and broad. The two Denver brothers looked a lot alike, the chief difference being that Adam smiled more. In his smart suit, he looked like a mischievous best man at a wedding about to play a trick on the groom.
She ign
ored his teasing reference to a chat-up line.
‘I love this place. When I first moved to London, I didn’t have any money, any direction. I lived in this cold, damp flat and I used to bring Charlie to all the free places where we could keep warm. The V&A was one of his favourites. I know kids aren’t supposed to like museums, but he was fascinated by all the silver and twinkly things.’
‘Something in common with my mother, then.’
Diana giggled. Barbara Denver was rumoured to have a diamond collection to rival Elizabeth Taylor’s.
A sixty-something couple shot a disapproving look at her laughter.
‘Are we not allowed to talk in this place?’ whispered Adam.
‘Some people think not.’