Unwilling to wander aimlessly through the gloom, Becky inspected the painting nearest to her, a bland still life featuring some wilting freesias. Most of the other paintings on display were small watercolour landscapes, dwarfed by ornate golden frames.
Even straining her imagination, she couldn’t see Charlie’s large bright canvasses in the space. They wouldn’t fit in, physically or stylistically.
A door opened behind her and Becky turned to receive her host.
While Barbara Stone was well-preserved for her age, she was also proof Botox could only do so much. Her brow was frozen smooth, but many years of smoking and disdainful pouting had produced a thick barcode of creases along her upper lip. ‘Ms Watson. Such a pleasure,’ she said, shaking Becky’s hand using her fingertips.
Liar, thought Becky, as she watched Barbara withdraw her hand and trail her fingers down the skirt of her pink Chanel suit. Becky wouldn’t have chosen pink for her; a green or blue would have better complemented the warmer red tones in her hair. Such a shame too that Barbara’s welcoming smile was not as bright as her appearance: a sincere beam would have helped her upper lip no end.
Insincere pleasantries completed, Barbara made a convincing pitch as to why the Stone was the natural home for Charlie’s comeback show. All things considered, with its illustrious history of supporting local talent, where else could do justice to the work of a resident, if slightly tarnished, star and restore his career to its former glory?
Becky was a patient audience, and her responses were non-committal, though not discouraging. Barbara had to believe this show was hers and, as she tried to persuade Becky her gallery was the only venue which had the right to this exhibition, she was also convincing herself.
‘I’m pleased to be able to say my husband was one of the first collectors to appreciate Mr Handren’s talent, over twenty years ago,’ Barbara said, lifting her hand to pat her hair. ‘Naturally, once those in the know recognised the value of his work, his success was guaranteed.’
Becky was surprised by this compliment for the late Peter Stone. According to Clarice, the Stones’ was a marriage of mutual inconvenience and the fatal car accident ten years ago had saved Barbara the hassle and ignominy of a divorce.
By the end of their twenty minutes together, although Becky made a point of saying she had other galleries to visit, Mrs Stone was sure Mr Handren’s January show would be the event of the season and an unparalleled triumph for her family business. Her certainty radiated from her, a pompous glee so potent it nearly melted her forehead into movement.
Becky spent Thursday in a number of smaller galleries. Being polite to people who regarded her as unfit to lick their shoes left her exhausted and pleased her next meeting would be her last.
Her keenness to be done with it all caused her to arrive at the Coulson early on Friday morning. As she had hoped, Charlie’s crush was busy talking to some customers, leaving Becky free to appraise both her and the gallery. And it didn’t take Becky long to see that Rachel Stone was a gifted salesperson. Entranced, her audience followed the graceful movements of her fingers as she explained the form and significance of the lumpy sculpture next to them. Her taupe jersey dress clung to her like a second skin revealing not a single flaw in her svelte shape and she wore her four-inch heels as if they were natural extensions of her slender legs. Her voice was gentle and conspiratorial, drawing her customers closer to her glossy dark hair and brown Disney princess eyes. Becky sighed: damn but Charlie aimed high! Right up at a face that could probably launch a couple of thousand ships.
She shivered and stared out through the floor-to-ceiling glass panes which formed the storefront. On the street, a group of flushed, sweaty tourists trekked past in shorts, T-shirts and sandals. While they were enjoying another warm July day, Becky felt as if she were trapped in a snow globe. Under the frosty glare of abundant strip lighting, the whitewashed floorboards and the blank ivory walls glowed. The blasting air conditioning dispersed an aseptic, dentist’s waiting room smell, making Becky hanker for the Stone Gallery’s faint odour of cigars and Chanel.
She meandered between the current exhibits—a series of bronze abstract sculptures balancing on plinths—waiting until Rachel had completed her sale before approaching her. The gallery manager did an excellent job of being delighted to receive her, though Becky noticed some familiar lip pursing. However, unlike her mother, Rachel’s scepticism was also directed towards the potential success of Charlie’s exhibition.
‘Mr Handren could be seen as something of a toxic asset these days. After that unfortunate business with New Aesthetics.’
‘I understand,’ said Becky. ‘But everyone’s career has less successful periods. And Mr Handren is confident his new work is his best yet.’
Rachel frowned and Becky hoped the woman couldn’t detect her outright lies. ‘Hmn. Even if that were the case, I don’t see Mr Handren’s work as a natural fit for the Coulson.’ Rachel trailed her immaculately painted nails down her neck, leaving faint red marks on her alabaster skin. ‘I don’t expect you understand our project and vision, but we’ve been trying to champion new, young talent.’
Becky noted the use of the royal ‘we’ while Rachel outlined her personal agenda for the Coulson, which Becky would have summarised as ‘to be as different as possible to what my mother does at the Stone’.
‘I’m no art expert,’ Becky said. ‘I leave that to people like you.’
As Rachel preened in response to what she interpreted as flattery, Becky decided it was time to go in for the death blow.
‘And, of course, someone like Barbara Stone. Such a knowledgeable woman. Any relation?’
Her best clueless expression elicited the desired response from Rachel: another lemon-sucking lip pucker and a reply which was almost a growl. ‘My mother.’
Becky widened her eyes. ‘Ohhh. How silly of me! I should have seen that.’
‘You’ve met my mother?’
‘A couple of days ago. She’s convinced the Stone is the ideal setting for Mr Handren’s new work. Her gallery has such a long and illustrious history of supporting local talent. What better place to host Mr Handren’s comeback and most successful show yet? After all, as you say, here at the Coulson you usually display works by younger artists.’
She left it there. Having scattered her words like breadcrumbs, she had to hope Rachel would follow.
Rachel scratched her neck again and Becky gave her a verbal nudge. ‘Your mother even suggested she would curate the show herself.’
Rachel clasped her hands behind her back. Her reply was slow and careful. ‘But the Coulson would be far more suited to Mr Handren’s style. The Stone, while a great traditional gallery,’ she conceded, ‘wouldn’t be my first choice.’
‘Mr Handren himself expressed that opinion. He also mentioned you. I believe he’s met you on several occasions and been impressed by your knowledge and approach.’
Rachel smiled, straightened and brushed a perfect wave of hair off her shoulder. ‘How kind. I only remember having met him once, but I’m glad I made an impression.’
‘He also had his doubts as to whether the Stone was the natural home for his work. Perhaps it’s too abstract—’