Black Valley (12 page)

A tear rolled down her face, and she wiped it away.

Just at that moment, the front door opened and Nella walked in with Gareth. They were laughing and talking. When Nella saw her mother in the corridor, she made an odd gesture, pulling her baggy
cardigan tightly around her. Then she stepped forward and greeted her mother with a smacking kiss on the cheek.

‘Hiya Mam.’ She seemed oblivious to Jess’s mood. ‘Me and Gareth are cooking tonight.’

Jess felt her spirits lift. Nella was such a buoyant presence around the house when Gareth was there.

‘Lovely. What are we having?’

‘We’ll have to see, Dr Mayhew.’ Gareth spoke in a mock serious voice. ‘It depends on what we can hunt and gather.’

Gareth always called Jess Dr Mayhew, as if she were a GP rather than a psychotherapist with a PhD. They were a quirky pair, Nella and Gareth, both sharing the same odd sense of humour –
and dress. Today, Gareth was wearing an intentionally hideous sweatshirt with a large horse on the front, while Nella was swathed in the large cardigan of his that reached to her knees.

‘Well, I’ll leave you to it.’ Jess always felt faintly nervous when the two of them cooked a meal. They came up with the oddest combinations of foods, and often left a dreadful
mess behind in the kitchen. ‘But make something Rose will like.’

She watched them offload their bags and walk down the hall to the kitchen. Nella was putting on weight, she thought. Just a little, round the hips. She was growing up, becoming a woman, rather
than a slip of a girl. Or perhaps it was just the jumper that was making her look more curvaceous than usual.

‘And don’t forget to clear up afterwards,’ she called after them.

Good, she thought. I can have a soak in the bath now, and maybe catch up on some paperwork after we’ve eaten.

She heard a clatter of pots in the kitchen, followed by a burst of laughter. For a moment, she was tempted to go and investigate. Then she thought, what the hell, and walked up the stairs to run
her bath.

‘Sorry I’m late.’

‘You’re not. I’m early.’

‘Well, I should have been here first.’

‘Not at all. Drink?’

‘I’ll get it.’

‘No, let me.’

‘No, please . . .’

Jessica was nervous. So was Dresler. Their words came out too quickly, in a rush. When she’d seen him sitting at the table, she’d come over, and he’d stood up, and she’d
stayed hovering at the table, unsure what to do; and then there’d been a silly ‘after you’, ‘no, after
you
’ kind of conversation about where to sit, what to
eat, and so on. By the time they’d settled down, their drinks in front of them and their food ordered, Jess was beginning to wish she’d never embarked on this venture. She was too old
for dating, out of the habit of it. When after much deliberation, she’d phoned to see if they could meet up, he’d immediately invited her to dinner. Now she wished they’d arranged
morning coffee, or afternoon tea, or a walk in the park. Something less formal, less intense.

Not that the place she’d suggested was particularly formal. It was a welcoming gastropub in Pontcanna, not far from her consulting rooms in Cathedral Road. Pontcanna was the one area of
Cardiff that reminded Jessica of the more salubrious parts of London: it was all pretty town houses, chichi florists, gift shops, boutiques and restaurants, with a few rather more workaday
establishments – a post office, a butcher’s, a chemist – thrown in. Nowadays it was home to Cardiff’s small but thriving community of media folk. The gastropub was a lively
place, and Jess felt that the relaxed ambience would be helpful in what was bound to be a slightly tense situation – for her, at least, if not for him.

‘So. You’re looking well.’ Dresler gave her a warm smile.

‘You too.’

He did look well. He was more handsome than she’d remembered him. Perhaps it was the low light in the pub, or the grey-blue shirt he was wearing, but his eyes looked bluer, his hair
thicker and darker than before.

‘I like your dress.’

‘Thanks.’

After much thought, Jess had chosen a simple black shift with a contrasting cobalt-blue panel down the front. She’d dressed it down with opaque tights and black ankle boots. Around her
neck was a pendant, an antique carved mother-of-pearl disc on a silver chain.

‘That’s unusual.’ Dresler leaned forward to take a closer look at the pendant.

She felt her neck heating up. Having him scrutinize her chest, although it was fully covered, made her feel flustered.

She held up the pendant, away from her body, so that he could see it more closely. And her less closely.

‘Ah, I see. A button.’ He studied it. ‘Early nineteenth century, I’d say. Where d’you get it?’

‘It was a present from a former client. I’m a psychotherapist, you see.’ The heat from her neck began to spread to her face. She hoped it wouldn’t show. ‘He was
scared of buttons. I . . . well, I think I helped him get over it.’

She withdrew the pendant, suddenly feeling shy. This is ridiculous, she thought. I’m behaving like a teenager on her first date.

‘That must be a very satisfying job,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. He seemed genuinely interested to hear more.

‘Well, not always.’ She paused. ‘But I like my work, actually. Although it can be a little wearing sometimes.’

‘I’m sure. But to be able to help people in such a concrete way . . .’ He leaned forward again and refilled her glass. ‘What’s your approach? Dynamic?
Gestalt?’

‘Existentialist, actually.’ She took a sip of her wine. ‘We try to work with what you know about yourself, rather than what you don’t. And how you can use that to change
your behaviour.’ She paused, aware that she might be sounding didactic, then added, ‘If you want to, that is.’

He looked puzzled. ‘But how does that approach tally with the notion of the unconscious? Freud says we’re determined by forces we know nothing about, doesn’t he?’

‘Of course. But we still have a choice, you know. We can choose whether to explore our unconscious wishes, bring them to the fore, or leave them where they are, buried deep, and continuing
to confuse us and thwart our progress.’

‘So how does one make that choice?’

‘Well . . .’

Jess realized, as they talked, that she would never have had this kind of conversation with Bob; he’d been supportive of, but not actually interested in, what she did. And now she thought
of it, she realized that the same had been true vice versa. They’d operated in separate spheres, intellectually speaking, as if that was the normal way couples behaved. Perhaps it was; but
just half an hour in Dresler’s company was giving her an entirely new perspective on a marriage that had lasted twenty years, revealing what had been missing from it. It was a disturbing
realization, but an exhilarating one.

When the food came, both of them ate with relish: Jess, a dish of locally caught grey mullet with cockles and laverbread, and Dresler a warming plate of liver, bacon and lentils, both of which
married well with the wine they’d ordered, a hearty Tempranillo. Jess asked him about his own work, and he described his life as an art critic and academic, writing and teaching, and
occasionally presenting arts features on radio and TV.

‘So you’re nurturing new talent,’ Jess said. ‘Helping get artists’ careers off the ground.’

‘That’s the general idea. But it doesn’t always work like that.’ He paused. ‘I don’t like the way the art world is going at the moment. It’s not good
for artists, and it’s not good for art.’

‘Oh?’

‘Don’t get me started. I’ll be like one of your patients once I get going.’

Jess grinned. ‘Try me.’

‘Well, if you really want to know.’ He put down his knife and fork. ‘You see, it’s all a bit of a mess at present, in my view. There’s been a drift away from
independent critics towards the interests of a few rich players. There’s a cartel of important people – dealers, collectors, auction houses – who pick a tiny selection of
“hot” artists just out of college, usually selected for their shock value, and hype them up, through their friends at the fairs, so their work sells for millions.’ He checked
himself. ‘Sorry, I’m not boring you, am I? I feel rather strongly about this.’

‘Not at all.’ On the contrary, Jess was fascinated. The world of contemporary art was one she knew nothing about.

‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘the prices hit the headlines, the artists become celebrities, their work sells for more – it’s a self-perpetuating cycle. Everyone’s
invested in it, so whatever rubbish a so-called hot artist produces, no one’s got the guts to criticize it.’

‘But isn’t that your job?’

‘You’d think so. But if you get too out of step with current fashion, you run the risk of being excluded from the game. You see, the critics have no power these days. No one’s
interested in listening to an independent, objective voice. There’s too much money at stake.’

Jess was sceptical. ‘But hasn’t there always been a hook-up between art and money? I mean, think of the great patrons of the past. The nobility, the Church, and so on.’

Dresler nodded. ‘But the thing is, there’s so much more money around these days. We’re talking billions, not millions. You take these hedge fund guys. Because of the digital
revolution, they can buy and sell shares in seconds – and destabilize the economy in the process, I might add. Spending twelve million quid on a stuffed shark represents a few days’
work to them. And they don’t really care if their investment fails. Art, to them, is just another way to add to their status. And get rid of their cash.’

Jess took a sip of wine. ‘Perhaps they’re addicted to risk. Not just buying and selling shares, but art, too. Maybe they like the fact that when they buy a contemporary work, they
might lose their money.’

‘I’ve never thought about it like that. Buying art as a form of neurosis. But I suppose it is.’

They laughed. She was enjoying herself. Sometimes, after a day in the consulting room, she felt introverted, preoccupied; Dresler made her feel part of a bigger world, one that promised wider
horizons.

Dresler reached over for the bottle and refilled his glass. He was drinking faster than her.

‘Anyway, the whole thing drives me mad. People don’t listen to us critics any more. You’ve got all these people running round the scene now, telling the collectors what to buy.
Take Blake Thomas, for instance. The guy who introduced me at the private view for Hefin Morris.’

At the mention of Blake’s name, Jess pricked up her ears.

‘He knows his stuff,’ Dresler went on. ‘I’ll give him that. He’s got taste. And that’s what these bankers want. They’re not interested in conspicuous
consumption any more; they want to show they’re cultured. But what does he actually do? He gets people with money to buy work, and takes a huge cut himself. How does he do that? By cosying up
to everyone – the collectors, the dealers, the curators, the auction houses, the artists, you name it. So you get this crazy situation whereby mavericks like Blake are dictating the market.
Telling the rich what to buy, because they don’t have the time or knowledge to judge for themselves. And everyone’s in on the game. It’s just so corrupt.’

An angry note had crept into Dresler’s voice. Jess wondered whether he was simply impassioned by the situation, or perhaps harboured a personal animosity towards Blake.

‘How do you know Blake, then?’ Her question was innocent enough.

‘Oh, we go back a long way. He was a student of mine at the Courtauld. Very bright. Very able. He’s done extremely well for himself, as I knew he would.’ Dresler picked up his
glass, and took a large swig. ‘Unfortunately, he has no moral scruples whatsoever. Which has helped his progress considerably.’

Jess thought for a moment. She wanted to ask Dresler if he thought Blake could have had anything to do with the robbery of the Gwen John, or worse still, covering up the murder, but she decided
against it. There would be an opportunity to find out more later on, when she’d got to know him better.

‘But surely Blake’s not all bad,’ she said. ‘I mean, he’s championed Hefin Morris, hasn’t he? And you admire Morris’s work.’

‘Well, that’s the exception that proves the rule.’ Dresler frowned. ‘I must say, I’m surprised Blake’s taken a punt on Morris. He’s a complete outsider,
someone who didn’t go to art school, isn’t trained, won’t play the game. An artist with a true moral purpose.’ He drained his glass. ‘It’s not like Blake at all
to support someone like that. But thank goodness he has.’

‘Have you ever met this Hefin Morris?’ Jess was curious.

‘No. Very few people have. He writes to me occasionally, though.’

‘What about?’

‘Mostly the paintings. What he’s working on. What he’s planning. That kind of thing.’

Dresler didn’t seem inclined to say more, but Jess persisted.

‘How do you reply to him?’

‘Through a box number. He’s very secretive. He lives and works up in the valleys, but nobody knows where.’

‘Not even Blake?’

‘No.’ Jess thought she detected a tone of satisfaction in Dresler’s voice. ‘He detests Blake, as it happens. Can’t bear the idea that he’s trying to sell his
work to what he calls those “motherfucking brokers” in the City.’

‘Why doesn’t he find another agent, then?’

Dresler shrugged. ‘They’re all the same. It’s a case of better the devil you know. There’s no way round the system, at the moment, anyway. Though Morris wants to change
that. Make an intervention, as he calls it.’

Jess was intrigued. ‘What kind of intervention?’

‘Ah, that I’m not at liberty to discuss. My lips are sealed.’ Dresler was half in jest, half serious.

He changed the subject, picking up the menu. ‘Now, what shall we finish with?’

Jess didn’t feel hungry. She’d begun to worry about Elinor. Up to now, she’d believed that Elinor’s suspicions about Blake were coloured by her emotional state; but
Dresler, who seemed perfectly rational, had confirmed that he was a man without moral scruples. What if Blake really had masterminded the stealing of the Gwen John? And covered up Ursula’s
murder in the course of the bungled operation? What if he was pressurizing Elinor to leave the therapy for fear that she might incriminate him? If that were the case, wouldn’t he try to find
Elinor, wherever she might be hiding out, and try to silence her? She thought of their body language, Elinor’s and Blake’s, at the party. Perhaps their intimacy had been one of abuser
and victim. Perhaps Elinor had gone on the run because she was secretly in thrall to him, trying to escape . . .