But that wasn’t the worst part. Far worse was the damage his deception had done to Becky’s confidence in her own judgement. A great deal of her career success was built on her ability to jump to the right conclusion, to make educated assumptions, to read people and between the lines. How could she not have seen he was married?
Outside the carriage the fields shot past, gradually giving way to an urban landscape. Staring out the window, Becky continued her journey back through her recent past.
‘I was thirty-seven and I knew it could be my one chance to have a baby.’ She shrugged. ‘So I went ahead with it. But I didn’t want him to be involved in any way. He’s either a psycho or just an ordinary stone-cold bastard. And I don’t want him anywhere near my son.’
Charlie propped an elbow on the window ledge and ran a hand over his mouth. ‘You didn’t consider making him take responsibility, at least financially?’
‘When money’s been tight, I’ve considered it. But only for a second. If he pays, he gets a say, and he’s not having that. And as for his wife …’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think I have the right to possibly ruin her and her kids’ lives just to make a man I despise acknowledge my existence.’
Charlie nodded. He stared out the window and, behind his hand, muttered something which sounded like, ‘total wanker’, but Becky dismissed this as her brain colluding with her ears to hear what she wanted.
When he dropped his hand away from his mouth and returned his gaze to her face, his final pronouncement on the matter was delivered in a clear and definite tone. ‘His loss. Dylan’s a great kid.’
Chapter 16
Arriving into Waterloo station only ten minutes behind schedule, they decided to make the most of the sunshine by completing the journey to the gallery on foot.
Charlie would have liked to stroll to their destination, pause to admire the view from Waterloo Bridge and enjoy the art deco architecture on the Strand. But as they crossed the Thames, the gaggles of tourists became densely packed and more concerned with getting a good photo than ensuring their own safety. Their thoughtlessness forced Becky to perform several tricky swerves to pass them without letting the buggy fall into the road and under a double-decker bus. While Charlie saw the increase in obstacles as a reason to slow down, Becky accelerated. As she barrelled towards Charing Cross, her glare burned holes in the crowds and her cheeks glowed an ominous shade of red. Charlie lengthened his stride to keep up, but was happy to drop back from her side and follow at a safe distance. Becky’s momentum was probably the only thing preventing her from snatching a selfie stick out of its owner’s hand and shoving it somewhere only a doctor could retrieve it.
Perhaps sensing her mood, the pigeons in Trafalgar Square took flight before she reached them, leaving a clear channel between the fountains to the columned and domed façade of the building that dominated the square. Planning to offer her a break from driving, Charlie pulled level with Becky and glanced at her face. The angry flush had gone and her stare was friendlier: more likely to stun than kill. But she was still muttering to herself and he decided it would be best to say nothing and leave her to lead the charge.
It came as a relief when they were finally inside the gallery’s central rooms. A safe distance from Crazy Becky rage triggers, the buggy’s wheels rolled unimpeded over the wooden floors, under the glazed ceiling and between masterpieces. But Becky seemed immune to her surroundings and didn’t pause to admire Constable’s glowering skies or the glossy flanks of Stubbs’s racehorse; instead she made a beeline for the double doors at the end of the room. Not wishing to fall behind and risk irritating her further, Charlie could only throw wistful glances at the walls and hope he would have more time to view the paintings later.
Becky pulled up in front of the doors. They were closed and two black panels behind the glass obscured the view of the space beyond. A sign apologised for the lack of public access and reassured the reader the room’s closure was merely a temporary necessity.
She glanced at her watch, then down at Dylan. ‘It’s three oh four.’
Charlie peeled his attention from the Turner to his right. ‘So?’
‘First,’ she said, pointing down at Dylan, ‘he is likely to wake up any minute. And second—’
She was interrupted by a click and a subtle creak as one of the doors opened.
‘Quick, inside!’ She pushed Charlie through.
A po-faced security guard stood in front of them. His features were so meticulously motionless that Charlie imagined his family had always been in the profession, the craft of being a sullen blank passed down from father to son. He stared past them as he approached, his gaze locked on a point above their heads.
‘Hello.’ Becky smiled and extended her hand.
The guard didn’t move his hand or his eyes.
Undeterred, she asked, ‘Ten minutes ’til your colleague comes on shift?’
He gave a curt nod. ‘Get out before.’ He shoved past them and through the door.
Charming, thought Charlie.
From the way Becky was glaring at the guard’s back, he guessed her thoughts were similar, but she didn’t seem to have time to make comments about absent manners. ‘This way,’ she said, moving deeper into the room.
As he made to follow, he scanned their surroundings. His feet froze and his eyes bulged as he glanced from one corner of the room to another.
Standing between the red wallpapered walls was a series of tall temporary dividers. Beams from the afternoon sun fell through the skylights, throwing shadows across the irregularly placed white walls which were arranged to form a small borderless maze. Immediately visible were a number of paintings, including a Picasso, a Chagall and a Manet.
She tapped his shoulder. ‘Come on, Charlie. I know it’s impressive, but what we came to see is on the other side of that wall.’
He blinked. What the hell was going on? ‘Why is no one in here?’
‘The exhibition doesn’t open for another week. They’re still waiting to receive a couple more paintings,’ she said, tugging at his sleeve.
‘There is no way we should be alone in here.’
‘Shhh! I know. That’s why we don’t have much time and need to keep quiet. We should get out before Dylan wakes up.’
‘But what if someone comes in?’
‘Then we’re tourists who took a wrong turn.’
Charlie made a strangled gargling noise and turned to look at the exit.
‘It’s not like we’re going to steal or deface anything!’ she said.
He reluctantly accepted she was right, but despite her encouragement his legs had taken on a leaden-jelly consistency. Unable to do anything other than gawp at her, he cringed inwardly. He must look ridiculous. Like a wimpy teenager scared to join the cool kids smoking behind the bike sheds.
She gave an exasperated growl, grabbed his hand and dragged him around the first wall, where he found himself face to face with the Starry Night. He’d seen it in Paris, years ago. Back then he had been jostled by tourists and irritated by pompous guides who droned on about Van Gogh as if they had known him personally. He’d been an undergraduate and unable to fully appreciate the variety and richness of the blues the artist had seen in the darkness, accentuated by the dancing lights on the Rhone. The peacefulness of the scene was a perfect backdrop for the two lovers in the corner of the canvas, and so different to the dizzying movement in Van Gogh’s other Starry Night, painted a few months later. He’d seen that one too, in New York …