a giant wasp, tore past the doorway at breakneck speed.
‘Good God!’ Jack turned, tracking it as it narrowly avoided a couple of girls, coming out of a coffee shop. ‘They’re a menace! One of these days someone’s going to get hurt!’
‘Jack.’ Rachel pressed her hand over his and gave him her most winning smile. ‘Do this for me, please? I think it will be good for her; a trip to the country, time with someone closer to her own age.’
‘Ha!’ He squeezed her fingers lightly before moving his hand away. ‘I’m not a babysitter, Rachel. Where is this house anyway?’
‘On the coast in Devon. Endsleigh. Have you ever heard of it?’
He shook his head. ‘Look, I’m not…you know, good with people.’
‘Maybe. But you’re a good man.’
‘I’m an awkward man,’ he corrected, wandering over to the fireplace.
‘You don’t need to worry. Katie won’t be a problem, I promise. You might even enjoy it.’ She caught his eye in the mirror hanging above the mantelpiece. Her voice softened. ‘You need to make an effort now.’
‘Yeah, that’s what they tell me.’
Rachel was quiet. A rare breeze rustled the papers in front of her.
‘Well. There we go,’ Jack concluded. He picked up his briefcase from where he’d left it, on the seat of one of the sagging leather chairs, and headed for the door. ‘I’ve got work to do.’
‘Jack…’
‘Tell your niece we leave at eight thirty tomorrow.’ He turned. ‘And I’m not wasting the whole morning waiting for her, so she’d better be ready. Oh –’ he paused on the threshold – ‘and we’ll be listening to Le Nozze di Figaro on the way down, so no conversation necessary.’
She laughed. ‘And if she doesn’t like opera?’
‘She doesn’t need to come!’ He waved, striding out, quickly lost in the stream of people on Jockey’s Fields.
Rachel pulled off her glasses, rubbed her eyes. They hurt today; not enough sleep.
Digging through her handbag, she pulled out her cigarettes.
This job wasn’t good for him. He needed to be somewhere he could be around people, back in the thick of life, not picking through the belongings of the dead. Perhaps she ought to hire a secretary. Some cheerful young woman to bring him out of himself. A redhead, perhaps?
Catching herself, she smiled. He was right; she wasn’t a Jewish matchmaker.
Swivelling round in her chair, she flicked through the piles of paper, looking again for the phone number. Her late husband always claimed her very distinctive filing system would fail her one day. Today was not the day though; she needed more than anything to talk to her sister Anna. Especially now that Katie was back. The role of matriarch was Anna’s forte. Rachel did Bohemia, Anna domesticity. That was the way it had always been. At least that was the way it had been until Anna’s recent decampment to a small town outside Malaga left Rachel feeling unexpectedly abandoned and strangely affronted. Her shock was purely selfish, she knew that. Her sister had dared to change the well-worn script of their roles without consulting her, tossing off her old life as if it were nothing more than a garment, grown shapeless and illfitting from too much use.
‘I’m tired of London,’ Anna had declared, as Rachel helped her pack up the flat she’d owned in Highgate for twenty-two years. ‘I want to start again, somewhere fresh, where nobody knows me.’
She’d had a child’s optimism that day; a purpose and energy Rachel hadn’t seen in her for years. And secretly she’d envied her courage and the audacity of her sureness. Anna’s life hadn’t been easy. The childhood sweetheart she’d married failed her, turning into a desperate, unreliable alcoholic. She’d struggled to raise Katie on her own, only to endure her silences and rebellion, followed by her sudden desertion to America. It was no wonder Anna decided to escape. And she deserved a new life in a country bathed in sun and warm Latin temperament. Still, when she’d rung last week, Rachel had been short with her; fractious. She’d scribbled her number down on some scrap, promising herself she’d transfer it to her address book later. Now it was later and she couldn’t find the damn thing.
Hold on. What was this?
She tugged at the corner of something jutting out beneath a pile of overdue VAT forms.
It was a postcard.
At first glance it appeared to be of Ingres’s famous painting Odalisque. But on closer examination the blue eyes of the reclining courtesan were painted pale green, the same clear celadon as Katie’s. One half of her face was bathed in shadow, the other in light. Her unnerving gaze managed nevertheless to be elusive; her very directness a mask behind which she remained hidden. Turning it over, there was a message scrawled across the back in Katie’s near-hieroglyphic hand.
‘Portrait of the artist’ xxK
Across the bottom it read, ‘The Real Fake: Original Reproductions by Cate Albion’.
Cate. She’d changed everything she could about herself
– her name, her hair colour, even her work. Reproductions of old masters were a far cry from the huge triptychs she produced in art school; full of rage and surprising power. But then again, part of her talent was always her ability to reinvent herself, ransacking wide-ranging styles and iconography with a ruthlessness and speed that was frightening.
Nothing was pure and simple about Katie. Even her career was layered with illusion and double entendre.
It wasn’t what she was looking for, yet Rachel slipped it thoughtfully into the large leather handbag at her feet.
The real fake.
As a child Katie was shy, introverted; looked like she was made of glass. But if there was something broken, something missing, she was invariably behind it. Or, later on, if there was a party when someone’s parents were out of town, it would turn out to have been Katie’s idea. The girl caught not only smoking behind the bicycle sheds at school, but selling the cigarettes too? Katie. There was fire, a certain streak of will that burned slowly, deeply, beneath the surface; flaring when challenged. It was surprising, perverse; often funny and ironic.
Rachel thought again of the lost young woman, wandering around her flat in Marylebone. So quiet, so unsure.
When she’d asked Katie what had brought her back to London, she’d simply shrugged her shoulders. ‘I need a break. Some perspective.’ Then she’d turned to Rachel, suddenly wide-eyed, tense. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘No, no of course not.’ Rachel had assured her. ‘You must stay as long as you like.’
She’d dropped the subject after that. But the expression on Katie’s face haunted her.
Lighting another cigarette, Rachel cradled her chin in her hand, taking a deep drag.
It wasn’t like Katie to be frightened.
Secretive,
