Playing Grace (20 page)

Grace wished Tate had been grudging or snarky. There was too much generosity in the way he listened to other people’s views.

‘I think it’s marvellous,’ Alistair cut in. ‘Stark, concise … the inanimate, plus an inanimate image of the animate. Marvellous.’ He nodded earnestly and took himself and his briefcase off to look at a fish made of shoes. Tate followed him, but Gilbert and Grace hung back.

‘Talking of things that frustrate, anger and irritate, and rarely make me laugh,’ Gilbert said, ‘does Alistair keep having to prove how much he is “up with” the modern art world?’

‘I think the expression is “down with”.’

Gilbert flapped a hand. ‘Is it too much to hope that
there’s a coffee shop? I mean Tate’s doing a wonderful job, but really, there’s only so much of this I can take.’

‘Go on,’ Grace said, ‘I’ll cover for you.’

She watched Gilbert cut back through the room, giving the piece of metal and the eye a wide berth as if it might somehow infect his artistic sensibilities if he got too close. He turned and waved before he left the room, every bit a naughty schoolboy playing truant from a school trip. She wandered slowly after Tate and Alistair, but they seemed rooted in front of the fish sculpture, Tate’s hands swooping up and back to describe something and Alistair responding with a volley of nods. At one point Tate stretched up his arms and put the palms of his hands together as if describing some kind of bridge and Grace stood watching him before realising that her attention had gone from his hands to his backside. She turned away and headed into another room. Safer to go off-piste as Gilbert had done.

She stopped in front of a poster advertising a Bollywood film, upon which the artist had stuck thousands and thousands of pieces of rice painted in jewelled colours. She was surprised at how much she liked it.

She stopped in front of another poster and then another. Yes, these were lovely; perhaps they didn’t call out to her like a Monet or a Van Gogh, but there was something in them that touched her. She read the dense blurb about
the artist and drifted through to another room, not really caring now if Alistair and Tate had noticed she was missing. She sat on a bench and did some people-watching – noting the ones who just skimmed through each room, and the ones who stood and stared. The ones who, like her, seemed glad of a sit-down. Some students were taking photos and others were sitting, cross-legged, sketching a long canvas dotted with splashes of colour. Nobody seemed to be giving tours, except for Tate. She wondered if Alistair had dislocated his neck yet from all that nodding. She wondered if Tate had lowered his arms.

In front of her was a sculpture of a huge white clam on a stark black plinth and the more Grace studied it, the more it reminded her of her father the night before when she had tried to get him to open up about her mother.

The conversation had not started well, mainly as Grace had come home to find more areas of her flat experiencing their own personal crime wave. Her father was in the kitchen ‘working on a spate of post office raids in Surrey’; every surface was covered in paper and books. There were files open on the floor too and the phone was on the table. She knew if she touched it, the thing would be red hot. Her father had a number of pals who were also interested in crime, two of them being ex-policemen, and they were often on the phone to each other swapping theories and
snippets of information. That they called themselves the Newham Gang showed that at least they had a sense of humour about their obsession.

‘I see you’ve been unpacking,’ Grace had said, looking back through the kitchen door at the books and magazines that were now out of their boxes in the hall and arranged in piles that obviously meant something to her father but just screamed mess to her.

Over supper, Grace had broached the subject of her mother’s visit to the office and, in response, got a grunt and a request to pass the salt. When she tiptoed up to and delicately mentioned Felicity’s plans to set up a business, her father began viciously to cut up his lasagne, but said nothing.

‘Is it the idea of starting a business that’s rattled you, Dad?’ She had used her kindest voice, her softest tone.

He had said, ‘No, it might be a goer. God knows there are enough mugs about,’ and clammed up again.

Feeling like a dentist trying not to touch a nerve, Grace probed further, suggesting it was perhaps, then, the person her mother intended as a business partner that was unsettling? Grace had been unable to say Jay Houghton’s name but her father had spat it out as soon as she’d stopped talking and vehemently used the word ‘waster’ to describe Jay, Jay’s father and possibly Jay’s father’s father. ‘He comes
from a long line of wasters,’ he summed up, doing horrible things to his salad with his fork. ‘None of them has ever worked up a sweat at anything.’

Grace did not point out that as a fitness trainer Jay probably worked up quite a lot of sweat.

‘He’s not just a waster, Grace; he’s a looker and a charmer too. And your mother, she gets passionate about things.’ He indicated his papers and files. ‘God knows I don’t mind that. How could I when she’s never complained about my hobby? And I’ve never minded when she latches on to someone and thinks the sun shines out of their backside for a while.’ He brought his hand down flat on the table. ‘But there are passions and there are
passions.’

There was no further opportunity for discussion as her father took himself off for a bath. He had seemed so folded in on himself, so hurt, that she didn’t broach the subject of tidying away his stuff in the kitchen.

Grace gave the clam another look as if she could work out how to get it to spring open and so use that knowledge in any further conversations with her dad. Had Felicity actually done anything specific to make her father jealous? Or was it a general grouchy, jealous feeling he was nursing?

None the wiser, she thought she’d better make an effort to rejoin Tate and Alistair. She began retracing the route she had taken, but there were no Bollywood posters in the
room she entered, or the next one, and she was just turning around again when she stopped. The painting in front of her could have been a window, so clearly did it make her feel as if she were looking out on to the beach in San Sebastián. It was late; the families and the groups of girls flirting with the lads playing volleyball had gone home and, in the dipping sun, the beach was a red gash of paint and sand mixed and swirled and flung on to the canvas. The sky was blue-black as if a storm were coming; lines had been gouged in the paint by what Grace knew were fingernails. Two figures were running on the sand, their bodies twisted and stretched but still recognisably human. Grace could smell the sea, feel the sun on her skin. There was the sound of the waves, the seabirds getting noisier and noisier. She wiggled her toes – her shoes were gone and her toes were caked with sand. God, how she’d loved the fact that she could go days without having to wear any shoes, nothing between her and feeling life beneath her feet.

The gallery was falling away around her, the people like shadows, less real than the ones in the painting. She needed to move, get to a bench or against a wall. Where was the air in this gallery? There was no air. What the hell was the painting doing here?

‘Yay, got you.’ It was Tate’s voice right next to her. ‘Nice
try, Gracie … nearly escaped, nearly made it to the main exit, but I tracked you down. Guess Gilbert’s already gone over the wall, huh?’ There was a laugh. Was it from him or the painting? ‘Well, old Gilb’s out of luck: Al’s gone off to find him and drag him back …’ She sensed he was looking at her more intently now and she tried, really tried to breathe and be bland and hope he didn’t notice the sand on her feet and her wet hair and, God, why was it so suffocating in here?

‘OK, what’s got you so fascinated?’ Tate was saying, ‘Ah, nice one: a Bill Jackson. Well, look at that.’ She saw him lean in for a closer inspection. ‘Early one, I’d say.’ He was walking to the label on the wall. ‘Yup. Kindly loaned by the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art. Painted during the summer of 2004 in Spain and conveys a particularly turbulent time in the artist’s life.’ She sensed he was back at her side. ‘Turbulent? No kidding. Looks like him and the paint had a fight. The energy in that sky! Seen some of his more recent ones in New York. Nothing like this. This is wild. Apocalyptic.’

‘It’s very rare.’ Had Grace said that? No, it was a woman, in black, with something written on her T-shirt. Grace registered that she was from the gallery and with that understanding the sand round her feet was disappearing, going back into the painting. She was standing by Tate, this woman, and
he was no longer looking at Grace but at her. It was going to be all right; the window was closing, the noises fading. She chanced glancing down at her own feet again and saw the shine of her shoes. Her skin was cooling. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ the woman was saying, ‘I heard you talking about this painting. It’s from Jackson’s time in Spain, of course – San Sebastián. As you can see, we only have it on loan from the National Gallery in Edinburgh; they bought it a few years ago from a private collector. We’re thrilled to have it here … it’s possibly the only one remaining from that period of his artistic development. You probably know the story – destroyed the rest, burned them when he left Spain.’

Tate was nodding and as neither he nor the woman was looking in her direction, Grace fought to put the new version of herself back in charge and push Spain and Bill back down the years, away from the present.

She noticed for the first time that Tate no longer had his hat on. It was rolled up into itself like a soft grey ball and he was passing it from one hand to the other, back and forth, back and forth. His blond hair against the blue black of the sky made her want to turn away and run back through the rooms.

‘Jeez, imagine burning all your work,’ he said to Grace, still balling up his hat, and she realised it was because that thought really disturbed him.

She wondered if it would look weird if she went to sit down. She decided it would.

The woman was rattling on again, a smug look on her face. ‘Of course, those of us in the know feel that Jackson didn’t actually destroy his earlier paintings. We think he’s holding on to them until his star rises even further. He’s very collectable, you see, and the longer he keeps them off the market, the higher the prices will go.’

The woman gave the impression that she would like to go on proving to them how knowledgeable she was, but a couple were approaching, obviously intent on talking to her.

‘You all right? Tate asked when the woman had left them. He was frowning. ‘Look a bit clammy there. Wanna

sit?’

‘We should go and find Alistair.’

‘He can wait. You sure you’re OK?’

She nodded and he gave her and the painting another quick check. ‘Think the woman was right, that he has kept them? I mean, everyone knows he’s a nut job, but burning your own paintings. What a fucking waste. Just think if they were all as stunning as this one. A crime.’ He shook his head as if it were unfathomable to him.

‘Where did you say we’re meant to meet Alistair?’ Grace asked, already starting to move. She did not want to look at his sad face one moment longer.

‘I didn’t, but I guess the lobby’s a good place. ’ He seemed loath to leave the painting, as if he feared someone would sneak up with a match the moment his back was turned. She was still walking, with no idea if it was the right direction, and suddenly she felt Tate next to her.

‘It’s this way,’ he said, indicating the route with a nod of his head, and they retraced their earlier steps, Grace feeling calmer the more distance she put between herself and the picture and thankful that Tate seemed more concerned about unballing his hat and pulling it back on his head than talking to her. He’d noticed she had been rattled by Bill’s painting, she was sure of that, but maybe his dismay at hearing about the burned paintings had wiped it from his mind. Now his hat was back on his head, he was giving every impression that there were no thoughts at all in his brain. Watching him bounding along, looking from left to right trying to spot Alistair and Gilbert, he was like an overenthusiastic golden retriever. In a suit. She wondered if he’d be as enthusiastic about everything when he was a bit older and wiser, when life had kicked him around a bit. He suddenly stopped and she had to halt and do a sidestep to avoid treading on the back of one of his boots.

‘So, out of everything you’ve seen today, Gracie, what did you like the best?’ he asked. ‘I mean, I’m guessing it’s
not all new to you – must have seen a lot of good modern stuff when you were in Edinburgh – but you’re hard to read.’ He gave her one of his sidelong glances, that flash of green putting her back on her guard.

‘I liked the paper sculptures a great deal.’ She pretended she was also looking for Alistair and Gilbert. ‘And those Bollywood posters back there. Really clever.’

‘You sure? That’s all? Not that Bill Jackson? ‘Cos I thought if I hadn’t happened along, you might still be standing there gawping at it?’

She frowned. ‘Well, I was … intrigued … by how he’d managed to make it so over the top; you know, dark sky, blood-red beach, all that angst. Oh look, there they are …’ Alistair and Gilbert came into view and she gave them a wave, even though she felt like running towards them and possibly hugging them. ‘To tell you the truth,’ she added, feeling bolder now escape was at hand, ‘it actually made me feel a bit queasy – too much going on in it.’

She didn’t know whether she’d gone too far with her explanation and she didn’t wait around to find out if he believed it. She was advancing on Alistair and Gilbert.

On the way out, the know-it-all attendant passed them and gave Grace a patronising smile, and Grace would very much like to have said to her,
You really, really don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Bill Jackson’s early works did end up on the fire. All except the three sealed up in bubble wrap under my bed, the two I sold to a guy in Houston and that one on your shiny white gallery wall
.

She did not say any of that, just arranged her face into a mask of serenity and passed out into the rapidly cooling autumn afternoon.