The atmosphere in the studio is tense. It feels as though the whole room is being tasered. Luke is at the back of the studio, his back to me. I walk over and stand beside him, taking in what is before me.
The portrait of Alice has been slashed. Not just once, not twice, not even three times. It must have at least a dozen slashes through it. The centre, her face, is in absolute tatters. It is beyond recognition. It looks like one of those door streamers from the seventies that your gran would hang up to stop the flies coming in. A silver-handled Stanley knife sticks out from the top right-hand corner of the canvas frame.
‘Jesus Christ,’ is all I can manage to say.
‘You fucking idiot!’ says Luke. ‘What the fuck did you do this for?’ Now I’m used to Luke spouting the f-word now and again. I’m not averse to it myself, but I have never heard such rage in him before. He grabs my shoulders and spins me to him. His face is an inch from mine. ‘You’re demented. You’ve got a screw loose.’ He hammers his own head with his finger. ‘You’re fucking nuts!’
He pushes me away and I stumble backwards. ‘I didn’t do it,’ I say. Even to me, my voice sounds unconvincing and pathetic.
‘Bollocks, you didn’t! You’re a solicitor. Let’s look at the evidence, shall we? We had an argument last night. You told me you didn’t want me to do this painting. You disappear downstairs. Next thing, I find this. Now you tell me, what does the evidence suggest to you, Mrs Big-Shot-Solicitor-Tennison?’
I resist the urge to say that technically it’s all circumstantial. I get the point he’s making. ‘Luke, I swear to you, I did not do this.’ At least, I don’t think I did. I can’t deny the thought didn’t go through my head. What if I had some sort of jealous rage? What if I got the red mist that I’ve heard some clients refer to, where they actually have no control whatsoever over their actions? I’ve always been a bit dismissive of those lines of defence, but now I’m not so sure.
Luke picks up the bottle of white spirit. The one I screwed the lid on last night. ‘Only you would do this,’ he says, almost smacking the lid. He doesn’t need to expand. We both know what he’s referring to. He chucks the bottle in the sink and then strides over to me and grabs my hand. He turns it over. A smudge of green acrylic paint on my wrist stares accusingly at us. ‘You were down here,’ he says.
I can feel tears spring to my eyes. I blink them away, not wanting them to betray me. Luke will think they are tears of guilt, when in reality they are tears of fear. What if I did actually vandalise the painting? I think back to last night. I remember coming down here and looking at the painting. I remember vividly the feeling of jealousy it evoked and I remember picking up the Stanley knife. But I still don’t remember slashing the canvas. I look at the tattered fabric. That was done by someone in a rage. It’s not a calculated act. It’s someone in an absolute frenzy. That’s how I would describe it in court. And if I were defending, I’d probably go for diminished responsibility. Could it have been me? Did I do that? Am I capable of such an act?
Luke must take my silence and tears as an admission. He bundles me to the door. ‘Fuck off to work, Clare. I can’t bear to even look at you.’
I stagger down the hallway to the kitchen. Alice is standing in the doorway, a witness to the whole episode. From nowhere, my own rage rears up.
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ I’m practically shouting. I’m storming towards Alice. ‘You did that, didn’t you?’
A second before I reach Alice, my mother steps out of the kitchen and stands between us. Alice clings to Mum’s shoulders as if she’s a human shield. ‘Clare, stop it. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Clare, please stop, you’re scaring me.’
‘You know exactly what I’m talking about.’ I’m screaming the words at her. Mum is pushing me away, she’s shouting at me to stop it, to leave Alice alone, but I can’t stop. I carry on shouting over my mother at my sister. ‘Admit it! Admit that you did it!’
Two hands grab at my shoulders and pull me away. I know, without looking, it’s Luke. I’d know his touch anywhere, even amongst all this. I want to cry. I want to turn and bury myself in his chest. I want his arms around me. I want him to tell me it’s okay. But I know that’s just fantasy.
I’m suddenly aware of Chloe crying. I look past Mum into the kitchen. Hannah is standing there looking terrified. The house has descended into some sort of pub brawl, except no one’s drunk.
Luke bundles me down the hallway to the front door. He grabs my jacket and briefcase, snatching the keys from the key cupboard. ‘Get the fuck out of here, Clare. Come back when you’ve calmed down and can apologise to everyone.’ He opens the front door and manhandles me out onto the gravel drive.
There’s a chill in the early-morning air and it knocks the anger from me. ‘I didn’t slash your painting,’ I say. ‘I would never do that.’
‘Well, someone did and I doubt very much Alice would do it. She’s the one who wanted the painting done in the first place.’ Luke’s voice is shaking as he fights to control his anger. I get it. I understand his fury. He puts so much of himself into his art, to have it mutilated in such a vicious way is no different to a personal attack of the same ferociousness on Luke himself. His paintings are an extension of him.
‘I wouldn’t do it. I know how much your paintings mean to you. Please, Luke, you must believe me.’
I’m aware I’m begging. I think Luke is aware of this too. He clasps his hands behind his head and turns in a circle, going to walk away but then changing his mind. He exhales long and deep. He drags a hand down his face and drop his arms to his side. I sense that the explosion of anger has petered out but the flakes still float around us like volcano ash. Any one piece capable of sparking another explosion.
‘Clare, go to work. Get your head together. Talk to Leonard, even Tom, if you have to, but talk to someone to get this into perspective. I’m too close to it all, too fucking angry to have this conversation right now.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. My words sound pathetic. I don’t even know what I’m saying ‘sorry’ for.
‘We’ll talk tonight, when you get back. When we’ve all calmed down.’ He holds my gaze with his for a moment, before turning and taking the steps to the door in one stride. I watch him let himself back in, close the door behind him, leaving me standing on the gravel drive looking at the house. My family all together, on the inside. Me all alone, on the outside.
Chapter 14
‘Blimey, you look like you’ve lost a tenner and found a quid,’ says Tom as I get into work.
‘Not in the mood,’ I say. I want to march straight by and into my office, but it seems my feet have other ideas.
Tom takes my elbow and guides me into the kitchen. ‘Coffee,’ he says. ‘Strong, by the look of it.’
I lean against the worktop, my arms folded, as I watch him make the drinks. He’s humming to himself as he does. It reminds me of Alice this morning. I take the coffee from Tom. ‘Have I ever forgotten anything? I don’t mean just normal, everyday things. Like I might have forgotten where I put my keys or whether I picked up my phone. I mean important things. Like something I’ve done. Have I ever forgotten something like that?’