Chapter Eleven
Darcy stopped stirring her sauce as she heard the front door close, turning to find her flatmate rounding the corner a moment later. Freja had run back from the lab – her running kit was a migraine-inducing combination of teal leggings, bright blue padded jacket, Barbie-pink socks and yellow trainers – but she had clearly stopped en route, for she was carrying a shopping bag.
‘Well, fancy seeing you here, stranger!’ Darcy drawled. ‘I thought I lived alone these days.’
‘You should be so lucky. Did you miss me?’
‘Miss you? Miss Petals and I could talk of nothing else.’
Freja grinned, plonking the bags down on the counter and peering into her saucepan. ‘What are you cooking?’
‘Pasta a la Darce...But there’s enough for two if you want some? Or are you just passing through?’
Freja groaned, sagging slightly against the worktop. ‘Girl, I need a full night’s sleep. I’ve not slept more than a four-hour stretch in over a month.’
‘Great! Thanks for that,’ Darcy quipped. ‘Way to remind me I’m single.’
Freja dropped her head onto Darcy’s arm and groaned. ‘Now I know how new parents feel.’
‘I have no sympathy. If you want endless hot sex with your rich, older boss-boyfriend, it’s going to come at a price.’
‘Just you wait,’ Freja tutted. ‘You’ve got your hot date tomorrow. We’ll see how lively you’re looking on Wednesday morning.’
‘Hot?’ Darcy gave a bemused shake of her head. ‘Tepid, perhaps.’
Freja straightened and walked over to the fridge, pulling out the opened bottle of wine. She poured herself a glass and topped up Darcy’s. ‘I thought you said he’d got better?’
‘Well, yes, but it was a pretty low bar to begin with.’
‘What are you going to wear?’
‘I guess whatever I wear to work tomorrow.’
‘You’re going straight from there? You’re not coming back here first?’
‘No time. We’re meeting at seven thirty and I need to wring out every single minute available to me in the gallery. In for seven. Leave at seven. That’s all I’ve got to work with, and leaving work early is not on my horizon until after Christmas.’
Freja frowned, emptying her shopping bags and decanting food into the fridge. ‘Dare I ask how it’s going?’
‘You do not.’
‘Oh.’
‘I had my meeting with Otto this morning and let’s just say, I’m not his star pupil right now.’
‘Oh.’ Freja dropped some oranges into the fruit bowl, then jumped up onto the counter. ‘...And how did it go at Max the Lawyer’s yesterday?’
Darcy swallowed, stirring faster. ‘...It went.’
‘Nothing to report?’
She shrugged. ‘No breakthroughs.’
‘That’s not what I’m asking and you know it.’
Darcy stopped stirring and looked back at her. She bit her lip. ‘...Did you know Geranium does takeout?’
‘Huh?’
‘Yeah. He ordered it for lunch.’
‘He ordered Geranium for takeaway lunch?’ Freja’s tone was incredulous. ‘Wait till I tell Tristan.’
‘I wouldn’t. Apparently Max has a friend who works there. I think he was just showing off because I mentioned we’d gone to Noma the night before.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He’s such a narcissist.’
‘Well, we knew that on sight,’ Freja said, watching closely as Darcy chopped some peppers with careful savagery. ‘So he was actually around, then, yesterday?’
‘Yep.’
‘Was the girlfriend there too?’
‘No. At least, not till much later. And it was a different girlfriend that turned up. Seems like she broke the date schedule or something. He was pretty pissed off.’
‘He has a date schedule?’
‘But of course, Freja! How else could he possibly manage all these models otherwise?’ Sarcasm dripped from the words as Darcy lifted the chopping board and scraped the vegetables into the pan.
‘Sounds like you really dodged a bullet, deciding to keep things strictly professional.’
‘Mm.’ She looked away quickly, but something in the movement alerted her friend.
‘You did keep things professional, didn’t you? Darcy?’
Darcy swallowed, knowing she couldn’t keep this from her friend. Knowing she didn’t want to. ‘Okay fine – we kissed. But that was it.’
‘Oh my God, you kissed him?’
‘But that was all.’
‘Because...?’ Freja asked in a leading tone. ‘You stopped it? He did? What happened? I need the details.’
‘The model turned up. Unannounced. It rather threw a spanner in the works.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yeah. So I left, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
‘And that’s it.’
‘That’s it ? He hasn’t called? Begged your forgiveness?’
‘Of course not. He just WhatsApped this afternoon asking if I needed another box to be sent over to his house for working late tonight.’
‘No!...That’s cold.’
‘Even colder – when I said no, I wouldn’t need it, he told me that he wouldn’t be there anyway and – get this – not to cut my nose off to spite my face!’
‘He did not!’ Freja gasped. ‘Oh my God, I hate him so much!’
Darcy nodded furiously. ‘I know! The arrogance is astounding!’
‘So then what did you say to that?’
‘I just aired him,’ she shrugged. ‘ Obviously I’m not going over to his house again, whether he’s there or not.’
Freja took a sip of wine, her legs swinging freely. ‘...But don’t you need that extra time?’
‘Viggo’s going to get it sorted for me. We had a chat today, and I made my case for having stuff released here. He gets it. Hopefully he’ll have some good news for me in the morning and in the meantime, I can have tonight off at least.’
‘Fingers crossed, then.’
‘Yeah.’
Freja watched as Darcy turned over the chicken breast and stirred the sauce. ‘...So was it a good kiss?’
Darcy spun on her heel and pinned Freja with a look. ‘Why would you ask me that?’
‘Why wouldn’t I? We always do a post-mortem.’
‘Yes. But in this instance there’s no point in thinking about it, much less talking about it.’
‘Okay, just give me a show of fingers, then. Rate him on a scale of one to ten.’
Darcy shot her a look but Freja batted it right back to her. Slowly, Darcy raised both hands – and a foot.
‘Oh shit – it was that good?’
‘Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? He’s well practised. This is what he does.’ She shook the pan violently. ‘You having some?’
Freja gave a nervous smile. ‘Only if you’re sure there’s enough. I don’t want to add hanger to the mix.’
Darcy took out two bowls and divided the meal between them. She was slightly short of ‘enough’ but she had little appetite anyway and she gave Freja the larger serving.
Her flatmate noticed. ‘You have the bigger one.’
‘I’m not that hungry. Besides, you obviously need to keep your strength up.’ She winked.
They took the bowls and wine over to the sofas and sat cross-legged in their usual positions, opposite one another. Darcy ate without appetite, barely registering the flavours. ‘So what’s Tristan up to tonight?’ she asked dully.
‘He’s on a trip to Antwerp. Back tomorrow, but seeing as a firebreak is being enforced tonight anyway, I’m going to make myself go two nights without him. Just to prove I can.’
‘Wow, a whole two nights. You’re hardcore,’ Darcy quipped. ‘He’s not driving you nuts yet, then?’
‘No, but give it time,’ Freja said, jabbing the air with her fork. ‘I’m optimistic that in another few weeks...’
‘You said that a few weeks ago!’
Darcy’s phone buzzed. ‘Aksel,’ she said, looking down. ‘...Oh no,’ she groaned.
‘What is it?’
‘He’s got to cancel tomorrow night. One of the senior partners at his practice has called a town hall meeting.’
‘Damn.’
‘He’s asking if we can do Wednesday night instead.’
‘Well, that’s okay, isn’t it?’
Darcy shrugged.
‘You look disappointed.’
‘I guess. I was looking forward to...overwriting yesterday’s events.’
‘You mean, the sooner you kiss someone else, the better?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, at least it’s only switching up the days. He’s not bailing altogether. And it’s good you’re feeling a bit mugged off. Shows you do actually like him a bit.’
‘I haven’t met him yet.’
‘But you’ve connected. You’ve been talking every day for a week now, getting to know one another. By the time you do actually meet in person, you’re going to feel like old friends.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Definitely! Plus, Wednesday is a sexier date night than Tuesday. It’s basically the start to the weekend.’
Darcy grinned. ‘Is it, though?’
‘Optimism, my friend,’ Freja said, tapping her temple. ‘Aksel’s going to come through for you, I can feel it.’
‘What news, Viggo?’ she asked brightly, walking into the gallery on the dot of seven the next morning. It was still as dark as midnight outside and she hadn’t expected to find the old archivist upstairs. They didn’t open to the public for another two hours but he was armed with a small electric screwdriver and was attaching a clear plaque, inscribed with a painting description, onto the wall.
He straightened, moving stiffly but looking pleased to see her. ‘Darcy – another early start for you.’
‘Needs must,’ she shrugged, unwinding her scarf. She had cycled in again and her hands and cheeks were pink with cold. ‘Every minute counts at the moment.’
‘Yes...’ He gave an apologetic smile. ‘About that.’
‘Oh, no,’ she groaned, guessing what he was about to say next.
‘I called through to the head office yesterday afternoon and pleaded your case.’
‘But they said no?’
‘It’s a no. The material is either escorted a short distance up the road and overseen by one of the trustees – in this case, Mr Lorensen – or it doesn’t go at all.’ He spread his hands and gave a shrug. ‘I’m sorry. I did try.’
She groaned, pulling her hands down over her face. ‘I know. And I appreciate your efforts.’
‘It’s not so bad, is it? Max Lorensen has left a spare key here so you can let yourself in whenever you need.’
‘No, I won’t be doing that,’ she said with a slow shake of her head.
Viggo hesitated, as if not sure whether to go on. ‘I appreciate it must be a little strange working in someone’s house, but if it helps, I heard he would be away this week.’
Darcy straightened. ‘Really? Where is he?’
Viggo shrugged. ‘His PA didn’t say.’
‘Well, when will he be back?’
He shrugged again. ‘Apparently he is away for a few days this week. That’s all I know.’
Darcy considered it. It was one thing not wanting to have to work in his presence, but if he really wasn’t there...If it was guaranteed that he was gone for a bit, it would be an own goal – face-spiting – to miss the opportunity to put in a few more hours.
She watched as Viggo pottered over to the next display. They were in the Madsen Heritage room, a small parlour at the back of the gallery giving a potted history of the philanthropic family which had done so much for Danish art. A timeline had been painted on the walls, sepia and black-and-white tinted images showing old family photographs. From a distance, they looked like every other rich Danish dynasty of their time – the men neatly bearded and in three-piece suits, the older women still wearing their hair in the old Gibson Girl pompadour style...
She walked slowly behind Viggo, looking at the photographs with vague curiosity. She hadn’t looked around upstairs at all since coming to work here – either because the tourists were always jostling about or she was in too much of a hurry to hit the stacks. But it felt soothing to wander up here in the calm quiet before the doors opened and any of the other gallery staff arrived.
Viggo attached the plaques to the small brass posts already positioned in the wall; everything had been measured up weeks ago, the copy checked and double checked before it had been sent off to print.
She stopped in front of the giant black-and-white photograph that dominated the room and stared at it in silence, wishing the people she saw there could talk. Did they have the answer she was looking for?
The photograph showed the family arranged as a group in an orangery. Vines trailed the walls behind them, the women sitting on fashionable Lloyd Loom chairs, the men behind them looking straight to camera. In the very centre of the photograph sat an older man in a rocking chair. He had white hair and a monocle, a gnarled hand gripping the hand-rest and a small leather book on his lap. Darcy checked the information plaque to the side, her hunch confirmed: Bertram Madsen, 1918. The two young men either side of him were his sons, Frederik and Casper.
According to what Viggo had told her over one of their coffees, Madsen Senior had been a brilliant chemist, once nominated for the Nobel Prize for Chemistry; he had made the family’s fortune. But it was his eldest son, Frederik, who had turned the family into a social tour de force, not least by setting up the Foundation. Frederik wasn’t a handsome man, with his slightly goggly eyes and lantern jaw, but he had a stern, proud look which Darcy suspected had made him impossible to ignore. His brother, Casper, was slighter in build and darker-haired with watchful eyes. The reserved, recalcitrant younger brother? Spare to the heir?
Seated on a sofa beside Bertram, in front of the brothers, sat the mother and daughter – Gerde and Lotte Madsen, their hands demurely clasped in their laps. The girl looked to be in her mid-teens, doll-like and so pale she could have been fashioned from porcelain. Like her mother, she had fair hair and light eyes and looked so mild-mannered in demeanour that Darcy suspected neither one of them had ever encountered anything more violent in their lives than a runny egg or dropped hem.
She wandered to the next picture. Again it showed the mother and daughter, in a garden, but Lotte looked slightly younger here: June 1915, said the plaque. There was a young girl in the image with them, too, and Darcy could see a gardener working in the background, a pair of shears in his outstretched hand as he tended a flower bed. Gerde was sitting in a canopied deck-chair, the girls on a picnic blanket at her feet with books around them. The photograph had a reportage feel to it as the girls were slightly blurry, as if they had glanced up at the call of their names. They were barefoot, wearing cotton summer dresses and making flower crowns. Was midsummer approaching? Darcy knew from her mother’s stories of her own childhood that Sankt Hans Aften – Midsummer’s Eve – was a big deal here: bonfires were lit on the beach, an ancient Viking tradition...
The photograph showed an idyllic scene, with no hint whatsoever that at the same moment, Europe was at war and men were dying in the trenches. Darcy’s own great-great-grandfather had been killed at Ypres; he’d been one of five brothers in a family of nine, cut down in his prime. And meanwhile, these rich little girls had made flower crowns in the garden.
Darcy turned away, feeling agitated by the unfairness of it all even now: why some should suffer so horribly, and others prosper. Others play.
But life wasn’t fair and it never had been. Some people simply had all the luck.
The day passed with its usual gentle rhythm – the constant shuffle of papers, Viggo’s low voice on the phone, soft-soled footsteps, the background hum of the visitors upstairs. Darcy had worked straight through lunch, on a roll with Trier’s diaries now that she had established that none of the women in his official catalogue of work bore a resemblance to the woman in the hidden portrait. It had been a huge relief to realize she hadn’t wasted the past week after all.
‘Time’s up,’ Viggo said, coming to stand by the table at the end of the stack where she was working. He had put on his long overcoat and was setting his trilby on his head.
‘Really? Already?’ she asked, surprised. Another time slip. It had felt more like five o’clock to her, but it was so difficult to tell without daylight.
‘Jens is here I’m afraid.’ Jens was the chief security officer and oversaw a team of three others, plus two dogs.
‘He’s always so punctual,’ she complained, tapping her papers back into a neat pile and replacing them in the archive box file.
‘How did you get on today?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t hear any eurekas.’
‘No, sadly none of those. I did find a very rude pencil sketch that’s made me look at Mr Trier in a new light.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Homoerotic, you might say.’ She glanced at Viggo. ‘Was he gay?’
‘If he was, he wasn’t publicly. Same-sex relationships weren’t legal here till ’33.’
‘Mm. It might just have been a doodle, of course. If he did like men, it certainly didn’t stop him consorting with women too. I think he paid more for prostitutes than he did for food.’ She replaced the box in its position in the stack. She was one column away from the end of the first stack now. Progress, if not achievement.
She grabbed her coat, scarf and bag and they walked up the stairs together. The gallery had closed at six and the shop and reception staff never stayed longer than half past. All the lights had been switched off so that the only light coming through was the early evening twilight through the glass-domed roof.
It always felt special to Darcy, walking through a gallery after hours; maybe even sacred. The space had a pristine quality to it – no litter or mess, of course; nothing so fallible and human as that. But in the silence and darkness, the space breathed, somehow, as if the souls of past lives were caught behind the paint in the canvases. Eyes followed her footsteps. Smiles hovered on lips. Washing on lines billowed mid-blow of the breeze. The gallery was not dead space, but merely sleeping. It had its own slow pulse. Immortality could be captured within these walls, for the long departed were not truly gone for as long as they were looked upon.
‘Got any plans this evening?’ she asked him as they walked through the hallowed rooms.
‘Tonight is my chess club.’
She hadn’t been expecting an answer in the affirmative. ‘Oh? I didn’t know you played.’
‘Oh, yes. It’s my obsession. I attempted a Bird’s Opening last week but it rather backfired on me. I’ve decided to open with an Elephant Gambit this week instead.’
‘You’ve completely lost me, I’m afraid, Viggo.’
Jens was sitting at the reception desk, his dog curled up in its bed. Darcy didn’t know its name and there was little point in asking. It wasn’t a pet. The animal lifted its head at the sound of their approach, eyes following them, but it made no move. Not without Jens’ instruction.
‘Good night, Jens,’ Viggo said with a nod as they passed. ‘We’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Good night, Viggo. Miss Cotterell.’ The security guard had a deck of cards laid out before him and was setting up for a game of patience. ‘...Oh, by the way, Miss.’
She stopped and turned at the door.
‘Is the other box ready to come back?’
‘Back?’ she asked in surprise.
‘Yes, from Mr Lorensen’s. Only we didn’t receive the remittance form yet.’
She stared at him. Hadn’t her message to Max been clear enough that she didn’t need it there? ‘But I told him—’
‘Ah! This is my oversight, I fear.’ Viggo spoke with a slightly frozen look as he turned towards her. ‘I apologize. When we drew up the working plan at the weekend, Max Lorensen asked for a box to be delivered each evening after closing up here. I’m afraid I forgot to cancel yesterday’s delivery after I learned you weren’t intending to go over this week.’
‘So you mean it’s been sitting there all last night and all day today?’
‘Yes, but...’ Viggo looked shaken and suddenly every single one of his seventy-three years. ‘Oh. Oh dear.’
‘Viggo, it’s fine,’ she said, touching his arm and seeing how he paled. The material in the archives was treasure to him and he took its safekeeping seriously.
‘I’ll go over there right away.’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’ll go. You’ve got chess club.’
‘But this is not your error.’
‘I know, but I’m free this evening. I’ll check everything’s okay and I’ll get the form signed and then it can be sent back. No one will ever know.’ She gave a careless shrug.
The old archivist looked pained by the oversight. ‘...You’re sure?’
‘Of course. No harm will have been done.’ She turned back to Jens. ‘How should I communicate to you about when to collect the box?’
‘Text me.’ He scribbled a number down on a piece of jotting paper and handed it to her. ‘Please allow half an hour from the time you send it. Arrival time will depend on whether I’m on patrol.’
‘Okay. I’ll be in touch.’ She and Viggo stepped outside. It was brisk, and Viggo pulled his coat closer to his frame. ‘And you’re sure Max is away at the moment?’
‘Yes. Why?’
She looked down the street, past the tail-lights of the rush-hour traffic as everyone made their way home. ‘I’ll do another hour or so over there,’ she mulled, before looking back at him. ‘May as well, seeing as I’m looking in anyway. And if I’m not going to be in his way...’
‘Here.’ Viggo reached into his coat and pulled out a key. ‘He gave me this. The code is P-E-D-E-R.’
‘Peder?’
‘Exactly.’
The Danish form of Peter? ‘Okay, well...enjoy your chess. Don’t worry about a thing. It’ll all be fine.’
‘You will call me, of course, if there is any issue?’
‘Of course,’ she smiled.
‘Very well. See you in the morning, then, Darcy,’ he said, turning right onto the pavement.
‘Bright and early,’ she smiled, turning left.
She walked at a clip, her breath hanging in cold plumes. Every so often she blew on her hands to keep them warm; cycling would have warmed her up better, but the nearest rental bike rack was a hundred metres in the opposite direction, and it wasn’t worth getting a bike for such a short distance.
Within ten minutes, she was standing outside Max’s house. It was becoming a familiar pilgrimage. She didn’t want to go in – just being there again felt like some kind of defeat – but she reminded herself that she was doing it for Viggo. And there were no lights on inside; the house was reassuringly empty. Max would never even know she’d been back.
She walked up the steps and slid the key into the lock. Almost immediately, an alarm began ticking, but she saw the digital keypad set high on the wall and entered the code Viggo had given her. Immediately, the ticking stopped. No fuss. No drama.
She switched on the lights as she closed the door behind her and found herself returned to the scene of the crime. Cold beauty. Hard elegance. Much like the women he dated, she supposed.
She walked through and straight up the stairs to the kitchen, turned on the light and stood for a moment as the majestic room was revealed again. It really was a dazzling space. She tried to imagine Max hosting dinner parties at that vast table, but it was impossible for her to fathom; she couldn’t imagine what his friends must be like. International bankers? Hedge funders?
The box was sitting on the low coffee table between the sections of the green velvet sofa; a form atop it.
‘See? No harm done,’ she muttered to herself. And why should there have been? What, really, were the chances of a burglary or a fire? Everyone’s paranoia about the safekeeping of the archive material was slightly on the hysterical side, in her opinion, and if it weren’t for the fact that Jens was going to collect the box from here himself, she would have taken it home and worked from there.
She sighed, looking around the kitchen with a more relaxed eye now. A navy jumper dangled over one of the stools; a pair of running shoes had been kicked under the cabinet. The Sunday papers were still lying in a pile on the sofa from when she’d left the other night. A silk tie was coiled up on the kitchen counter...There were tiny signs of his life here, but all they really told her was that his housekeeper didn’t come in daily. Unlike the gallery, there was no pulse in this building.
Her tummy rumbled, and she realized she was starving. Starving and thirsty. She thought of the bottle of sauvignon blanc wedged in her fridge door, just ready for her to come home to tonight – whereas he had a wine fridge with tinted glass, full from top to bottom. She could hear him even now, in her head, tutting and ordering her to ‘just have a glass’, impatient with her mannered reserve. Instead, she shrugged off her coat and scarf, ordered dinner on Uber Eats and sat down to begin work. These little acts of resistance were a small rebellion against his largesse. A rejection of the man who’d played her.
The box, when opened, revealed a medley of material. Topmost were some letters, bundled together with a brown shoelace. She read as quickly as she could – these were letters to Trier’s mother in Odense – but the handwriting was sloppy and rushed as ever and his colloquial language made it difficult for her to gather speed. It was November 1920 and he had returned to Denmark now; he mainly seemed to complain about the cold, having become used to the Mediterranean heat, occasionally asking after Sannie, whom she guessed to be a pet, and whether they had heard from Uncle Malthe.
When the doorbell rang – bringing back bitter memories – she was surprised. Immersed in her work, she had felt like she had only been settled for a few minutes but according to her phone it was actually forty-five. She took her dinner from the courier – a burger, chips and a half bottle of sauvignon blanc – and ate perched on the edge of the sofa while she worked, hoping the smell wouldn’t sink into the velvet and betray her presence here. The wine necessitated fetching and using one of his glasses but she grabbed the first she could find – a water tumbler on the side – rather than rummage through his cabinets. Stepping into his kitchen felt like stepping into his life, and she was resolved to stay well out of that now.
She balled herself up in the corner of the sofa, her legs tucked under as she sipped the wine and continued to trawl through the letters. For all his creative genius with a paintbrush, Trier had been no wordsmith and his letters were turgid and uninspiring. She read without interest, hoping that the next sheet, then the next one, would be the one to give her the break she craved.
But none of them were.
She flicked through an exhibition catalogue from a gallery in Aarhus, but it didn’t appear to be one he had exhibited in himself. Had he been a guest? Below was a sheaf of papers: more sketches, but they were watercolours this time. Botanical studies. Darcy frowned. Obviously, artists would explore different mediums and themes with varying levels of success, but these felt out of character for Trier as an artist: not just generally but at this juncture especially, where he had begun working more in oils than charcoals.
She spread them out on the cushions, hoping to get more of an objective overview. He had done A4-sized studies of lilac, marguerite daisies, European beech leaves, pedunculate oak...Marguerite daisies were Denmark’s national flower. Tokens of home? Had he been homesick?
And what did it matter anyway? It still didn’t give her a name.
She sank back in the sofa, staring mindlessly at the Liebermann on the opposite wall as she felt her hopes fade and her frustration rise. It was difficult trying to piece together the movements of a man from a hundred years ago by sifting through the dregs of his life. If he had been able to foresee that the complaining, banal letters he wrote to his mother would one day be used to judge him as a man, would he have made them better, brighter, kinder?
She was tired by the endless sitting and constant silence and, with a full stomach and drowsy with wine, her gaze began to grow heavier, sinking into the bold oil colours like toes in sand. She could feel herself almost disappearing into the paint. Escaping.
She was so weary.
She allowed her eyelids to close.
For just a minute.