34. Five Months Later
FIVE MONTHS LATER
A light evening in May, with the smell of wisteria in the air and the promise of summer beyond it.
I am walking toward a small neighborhood gallery just off Portobello Road.
In the window, there is a wide piece of hanging silk, and painted on it are letters in green ink: Melrose Academy Fundraiser Sale .
Cleo is smoking outside as I approach, talking to a dark-haired man in a long gray mackintosh and pearl earrings. I steal a glance but only very briefly, so she will not notice: Her looks have aged considerably.
Your fault for what you did to her sister , I taunt myself, until another, kinder voice overrules it. Not your fault. Jean’s fault.
The sale has been organized to raise support for the school, which lost most of its funding around the time Lawrence was permanently dismissed from his position in early January.
Without the support of key donors, like the Finbows, the school was struggling to stay in its building on Via Renella.
When I heard about the sale online, I knew I shouldn’t attend.
That it would be foolish to allow myself anywhere near that crowd again.
However curious I was, I resolved to do the sensible thing and stay away.
But then, by chance, I was in London that day anyway, participating in a group sale with some other ceramic artists. My own show was only a couple of stops further west. Would anyone recognize me if I briefly stopped by?
It was the wrong thing to do, which compelled me toward it.
The Finbows had not only withdrawn their funding for the Melrose, they also ended up closing Bellinter.
The damages Anna had to pay Jean were so significant, they were forced to move manufacturing to Asia, where it was cheaper.
But, however much she lost, Anna continued to profit from the trial in her own way.
A defensive PR campaign was quickly mounted after the judgment, announcing her intentions to appeal the high court outcome.
I always scoured each article for news of Mary.
For months, there was nothing; then, at the turn of spring, a pixelated image of Anna jumped out at me in the supermarket queue.
Anna had penned a column all about how she had fought valiantly for her marriage during the trial. Halfway down the page, Mary’s name was mentioned. There had been some shaky attempts at reconciliation. She was living on a canal boat near their home in London.
Close enough for us both to feel comfortable , Anna wrote. I am told that her status on Regent’s canal waterways is a “continuous cruiser.” Perhaps I must get used to her permanently living this way.
Back in the spotlit gallery, there is no sign of Mary in the crowds.
None of her pieces are on the walls either, from what I can tell.
Weaving my way through the tightly packed bodies toward the back, I encounter a huge canvas that is staggeringly different from the other portraits.
It is a self-portrait, depicting a beautiful blond girl in front of a mirror.
She is propped on one elbow and surveying herself, her legs folded prettily beneath herself, like a deer.
Around the mirror, there are books and other canvases, but the most arresting detail is in the center of her forehead.
Under the artist’s skin, there appears to be a drop of black ink, paler at the edges, but racing outward in straining black branches.
It looks to be a terrible blot, an imposition on the girl’s mind.
A woman draws next to me. I glance at her. My heart lifts.
“What a talent she had,” I say.
Lucy Ayres nods and adjusts the strap of her handbag. “Hello again,” she says, in her kind, breathy voice. Together, we study the painting.
“Truly remarkable,” I add.
Lucy thanks me modestly and asks a female attendant to reserve it with an orange sticker.
“This is my fifth,” she says, turning more squarely to face me.
“I came to buy all of Oriel’s works. Apparently, she made a bunch of canvases in between her portraits, then just left them at the school.
People keep thanking me for my support. But I couldn’t give a toss about the school.
I just can’t bear the thought of anyone else having them. ”
I ask Lucy if she’d like to get some air. She tells me she’s heading home.
“I’ll come out with you, then,” I say.
She hesitates. “I’ve driven here.”
“Then I’ll walk you to your car.”
Together, we stroll past the pub on the corner, then uphill along the brightly colored facades of the antique shops. Our elbows lightly touch as we walk.
“All that.” She gestures backward toward the gallery, where the swell of boisterous laughter still chases behind us.
“All that was very confronting for me. You know, I used to walk up and down this road at night. We had a flat right around the corner, and just after Oriel went missing, I kept searching for her. It drove my poor husband to despair, but it became an obsession for me. I’d try every pub. ” Her eyes lower. “Every doorway.”
“And now?”
Lucy shrugs. “I’m still looking for her, but now,” she says, pointing to her temple, “it’s up here.”
She mentions that since the judgment, more victims have come forward.
The police have reopened a file about Jean Guest. “It’s a bit like that business with Lawrence.
The news spreads and people start to reassess their experiences.
They realize, perhaps, what they experienced was wrong.
Or they start to feel guilty about what they didn’t stand up for. ”
I feel my pulse quicken. “But what charges can the police bring?”
“There are new laws in place now, criminal laws, against coercive manipulation. And there are other pieces of evidence at our disposal. For the first time, the police think we might eventually have a case for a criminal prosecution.”
“What kind of evidence?” I ask. I picture Jean being arrested. Despite everything, the thought still scares me.
“Oriel’s note, for instance. We couldn’t use it before.”
Her walking slows and she gestures to a muddy Volvo. “This is my battered old thing.” We pause and face each other. “Well,” she says briskly, “nice to see you again.”
“Have you eaten?” I ask, suddenly desperate for Lucy to stay with me. “We could get a pizza? I think there’s somewhere just on the corner. I’ve heard it’s really nice.”
“Thanks, but I have to get back. The dogs…” She trails off.
“It’s just up there,” I persist. “We could talk a bit, about the trial? You know, I’m sorry I wasn’t completely honest with you about who I was when we first met. I was told not to talk to anyone.”
“Don’t worry, Gus.” Lucy shakes her head sympathetically. “I always knew exactly who you were.”
As she says this, I feel an unexpected warmth, and with that, the certainty that I can’t let Lucy go. When she turns to put her key in the door, I panic.
“I had a dream about her the other day,” I blurt out suddenly. “About Oriel.” I feel my face color at the lie I have told, the lineage of this phrase I can trace back to Jean. I walk over toward the passenger door. “She was just visiting me, she said. Just asking me if I was okay.”
Lucy and I survey each other over the car roof. A sad shadow crosses her face. “Is there something you need, Gus? Perhaps a lift somewhere?”
I accept a ride to the Tube station, feeling a thrill as I settle next to her on the worn leather seat. But accompanying that thrill is another voice that tells me to leave the case alone. It reminds me that Mary is safe now. It’s time to start over.
Let’s rewind the tape, Gus.
But then I notice Lucy’s key ring dangling by the steering wheel. The faded image of a young girl and a horse, held between plastic. It rocks to and fro as Lucy makes one, then two attempts at the ignition. Oriel.
“There isn’t anything I need, Lucy,” I say as she lifts the handbrake and the car rolls forward. “But I do have something to tell you.” I remove my phone from my pocket and leave it to rest warmly on my knee. It is the handset with Jean’s recording. I take a deep breath.
“Not something I need, necessarily. But something you might want.”