Chapter 4
Early morning, and Damien found himself fully dressed lying on the bathroom floor.
He always woke at the same time no matter what state he was in. It must have been his boarding-school drill.
7 a.m., eyes wide open, brush teeth, a cold shower, dressed and ready for porridge at 8 a.m.
‘Good training,’ his mother had said. ‘Rigorous discipline will keep you on track.’
If only she knew.
Come on, pull yourself together , said the Voice.
Damien lifted himself up and staggered to the basin.
Brush teeth.
Damien glanced at his face in the mirror.
He noticed that his left cheek was swollen.
He couldn’t recall having a fight. Then it came to him. He had woken up at 4 a.m. and had gone to the bathroom feeling dizzy and nauseous.
He must have fainted, banged his face on the black and white tiled floor.
Shower next. Cold.
And then breakfast .
Earl Grey tea with a spoon of acacia honey, porridge made with water, followed by apricot jam on toast.
He switched on the radio . Sunday Worship , BBC 4.
Morning has broken, like the first morning. Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird… Damien loved to sing along with the choir.
Better now? said the Voice. You see, Mummy was right. A strict morning routine sets you up for the day. Such a pity it all goes to pot at night.
‘Aren’t you funny? Quick as a whippet.’
Angus called. The ringtone jangled Damien’s nerves. ‘Are you coming this evening?’
‘Where to?’ Damien poured himself another cup of tea.
‘The Olga Krilova exhibition at the White Space.’
‘Oh! I forgot about it.’
‘Don’t you keep a diary?’
‘Yes. But only for things I need to remember.’
Damien took a sip of tea. ‘And to be honest I’m not really keen on the artist. I’ve seen her work in a gallery in Paris.’
Watch it. Don’t say anything you might regret , said the Voice. Bad karma.
Damien didn’t care. He was ready to let rip.
‘I find her art miserable and nihilistic.’ He stabbed the butter and spread it on a second piece of toast. ‘She could make you lose the will to live. Absolutely depressing! How could anyone want to live with those grim paintings? I can’t understand for the life of me why she’s so famous.’
‘Well, that was venomous!’ Angus said. ‘Apparently, she’s read all your books and is a great fan. Asked the PR to invite you.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘Yes I am.’
‘Okay, so I won’t be coming.’
‘Fine, but maybe I can change your mind.’ Angus paused…
‘Well?’
‘Well, I just happen to know that Sophie Fox is going.’
‘I’ll have a think. Let me ring you back.’
Go on, Damien, you need a bit of circuit training , said the Voice. You’re networking in the wrong places. Last night was such a waste of time. Cost you a fortune and for what? You couldn’t even get it up. Had to go home with your tail between your legs. Not good for your street cred.
‘Oh, button up with your lectures.’
All right. If you don’t want my advice, just do what you want. But you’re a mess. And I’m the only one who can sort you out .
‘Okay,’ Damien sighed. ‘I’ll tell Angus that I’m going.’
Good. That’s the spirit. Visits to whore houses are not the place to find a soulmate.
‘I didn’t go there looking for a soulmate,’ replied Damien, reaching into the back of the freezer for an ice pack to nurse his swollen cheek.
Clear your head and keep off the ganja , said the Voice. You know that after a couple of spliffs you talk gibberish.
***
It was late afternoon when Damien left his house. He trod carefully down the stone steps and unlocked his car, mercifully parked outside.
He arrived at the White Space at 6 p.m.
The flat pedestrian concrete building in Bermondsey had that cold, edgy look that was popular with the new guard.
Damien preferred the welcoming architectural glory of the RA, the National Portrait Gallery and Tate Britain.
It was the contrast that excited him.
The old with the new.
‘Damien Spur,’ he said to the woman who stood at the entrance with a clipboard and pen.
‘Ah yes, here you are.’ She scrolled down the list and ticked him off with a flourish. ‘It’s good that you could come. I really enjoyed Writing in the Sand .’
‘Thank you.’ He gave her a friendly smile. He was used to being recognised but it always gave him a buzz.
‘It’s a pity I hadn’t seen the guest list before today or I would have brought my book in for you to sign.’
‘Never mind, maybe another time,’ he replied.
He liked her face. Big intelligent eyes, a sweet smile – and that lilting Jamaican voice.
Too young for you , said the Voice.
Damien walked through the open door.
The vast white room hummed with clusters of people dressed in minimalist gear milling around with glasses of champagne, picking at the trays of sushi and edamame beans offered by young waiting staff dressed in black T-shirts and trousers, topped by purple aprons.
Damien read the graffiti splashed on the first wall in big black shiny letters.
My art is subjective. No questions, no answers. Olga Krilova is me, and me is my art.
The next wall read:
Let your mind flow. Choose what you want to see. But don’t ask me what I think or what I know .
Well, that’s a conversation stopper , said the Voice.
Damien scanned the crowd. There she was, across the room – with a man.
Keep your cool , said the Voice. Don’t jump to conclusions. If she catches your eye, give her a casual wave. But take your time to amble over. Don’t want to seem too eager.
Damien nodded to himself, but his attention was quickly diverted by Angus, talking to a pale-skinned guy with long grey hair and large, black-framed glasses. Even from a distance he recognised him. It was Lazarus.
Better steer clear. Just in case Angus had been to the Haunt. Probably not. He was far too mean to spend a ￡1,000 for a night in the sack.
Damien started to amble his way towards Sophie. A painting caught his eye – a black square on a grey canvas and a girl in a white dress holding a bleeding heart on a cushion, titled Sacrifice to Unrequited Love .
Poor woman , said the Voice, she definitely needs cheering up.
He moved on to the next painting. A man with a gun to his head and a woman lying on the floor, covered in cockroaches.
Death of Love
Damien stared at the picture open-mouthed.
‘Outrageous,’ he muttered.
An incendiary rage coursed through his body like a hand grenade. ‘What kind of world do we live in when this vile piece of rubbish is considered art?’
Steady now , said the Voice, or the security men will throw you out.
Luckily most of the guests had moved on to the next room, save for a Japanese couple who ignored him.
You really need to calm yourself , said the Voice. CAN YOU HEAR ME?
‘Yes! You don’t need to shout,’ Damien whispered.
You’re very embarrassing , the Voice hissed. Just because you can’t look further than Picasso or Matisse, doesn’t mean that everyone else has to agree with you when it comes to other artists’ work.
‘Just tell me why anybody would want to buy this depressing piece of ugliness.’
Damien had fired his last shot when a tiny woman with owlish eyes and thin lips suddenly appeared next to him.
‘Someone already has,’ she said in a thick Russian accent. ‘The little red dot means sold in case you didn’t know. By the way, I’m Olga,’ she added casually.
Touché. Serves you right. Now apologise! said the Voice.
‘And who are you?’ she said.
‘I’m Damien. Damien Spur.’ He held out his hand.
Olga patted his fingers. ‘Why would I shake hands with somebody who has just stabbed me in the back?’ she said, all softly sweet.
She’s good, Damien. A light touch with a deadly blow .
‘So sorry I insulted you,’ Damien said, his voice oily with regret. ‘Please forgive me.’
Very good, Uriah Heep , crooned the Voice.
‘Actually, it’s okay,’ she replied. ‘I couldn’t give a damn who likes my work.’
‘Quite right. Art for art’s sake. But can I ask you one question?’
‘As long as you don’t ask anything that makes me think,’ she replied. ‘What I do know is that when tonight is over, I will be happy to go back to Moscow. All this bullshit about art. I paint from the heart and I don’t need the critics to tell me what I mean.’
‘I get that. And now may I ask the question… please?’ Damien said.
‘If you must,’ she said.
‘Do you hate having fun?’
‘I love being miserable.’
‘A true Russian,’ Damien said without any irony.
Olga proudly lifted her chin and stalked into the main room.
‘LISTEN,’ she commanded.
The guests fell silent.
‘How can I see the light when there is so much pain? Democracy is dead. Leaders talk about freedom, but the truth is it’s all lies. We are not in control of our lives. Money rules us. Today life without profit is worthless. We are slaves to the cash machine. We are living in dark times. Lost souls, all of us.’
Wow! said the Voice. Step away from this little lady’s toxic aura, Damien . Step away.
He noticed Sophie leaving with her man. She looked back and waved at him.
Too late , said the Voice.
A touch on his shoulder. He turned abruptly.
‘Hello,’ a woman said. ‘I can see you’ve had enough of the Krilova charm. You look as if you need a drink.’ She handed him a glass of wine. ‘I’m Claudia Madden.’ She smiled. And something in the directness of her gaze made him pause. Those ice-blue eyes.
‘Thank you,’ said Damien, accepting the glass. ‘I’m Damien Spur,’ he said.
‘The thriller writer.’
‘Yes, the very same. So, what do you think?’ he asked, gesturing with the wine glass to the miserable walls.
‘About the paintings? Not a single one here that I would choose,’ Claudia replied.
‘To be honest,’ Damien said, ‘I can’t imagine how she lives with herself.’
‘That’s very judgemental.’ Claudia gave him a challenging glance. ‘How do you know what she’s really like?’
Claudia’s right. There you go again , said the Voice. Why assassinate the artist’s character? You’ve only just met her.
‘Actually, I think it’s part of her brand.’ Claudia took a sushi roll from a passing tray. ‘Depression paintings sell. Maybe it’s a case of “There but for the grace of God go I” or perhaps people buy the work because it expresses how they feel inside.’
‘Not my bag either way,’ Damien said. ‘So, Claudia, let me guess what you do…’ he said.
‘All right!’ she replied with a secretive smile. ‘You have one chance.’
‘Well, you talk so freely and I can see that you really connect with people, so maybe you’re a therapist?’
‘Not quite,’ she replied, ‘but close. I read tarot.’
And so the conversation continued, and Damien forgot the paintings and the angry woman.
Clever Claudia edited her thoughts, allowing only a tiny chink of light to tempt him. Her talk of tarot was just enough to fascinate him.
‘Is there such a thing as free will?’ he asked. ‘Can the cards really change the destiny of hapless souls buffeted by the wind?’
‘Do you see yourself as a hapless soul?’ she asked.
Didn’t expect that direct response, did you? said the Voice. Well, are you a hapless soul? Better make sure you think before you speak, cos this tigress is going to pick you up on anything you say and file it in her mind.
‘Depends in what context,’ Damien replied. ‘I know where I’m going in my novels, driving my characters and story through red herrings and minefields, and steering back on course to a satisfying denouement. But me? My personal life seems to have no particular direction. And far too many delicious deviations.’
‘So, Damien, what are you frightened of?’
‘What exactly do you mean by that?’
‘Well, usually anybody who comes up with your questions, my first response would be, do you really want to know the answer? And do you really know what you’re searching for?’
‘Well, I know what I’m searching for in my work, but I don’t necessarily know what I’m searching for in my life.’
‘Ah, well, the art of tarot is all in the questions asked. So my only question to you would be, what would you like to ask the tarot?’
Claudia read him well. His suave disguise hid the truth.
‘Okay, let’s put the theory into practice,’ Damien said. ‘I would love you to read my cards. When I was a young man, I was interested in Aleister Crowley. Used to dabble in the black arts at Oxford. In fact, I still have a pack of his tarot cards.’
‘My preferred deck is Ryder Waite. Far more subtle and informative.’ Claudia was back in the jousting arena.
‘Well, you’re the expert.’ He saluted her. ‘But I liked the drama. Still do.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I can see you might have been the “sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll” type. Addiction and obsession are dangerous bedfellows. It sounds to me like you need to find some answers. Let me know when you’d like to come. Appointments are from 8.15 a.m. to 7 p.m. Monday to Friday. Here’s my card.’
Damien slipped it in his pocket. He’d forgotten about Sophie and Angus.
He was drawn to this fascinating woman, who was both direct and ironic at the same time. She seemed to know, and be smiling, at his dark side.