Mick shouted, struggling to unearth a particularly ugly brown velour armchair from the back of the van. ‘Won’t be a moment.’
Simon stared at it. ‘What is it?’ He gingerly picked up the yellowed lace doily from the headrest.
But Rose recognized it immediately. It had belonged to her father’s neighbour, Mrs Henderson. She’d been a sweet old lady, like a grandmother to Rose. Unfortunately, she’d passed away two weeks ago.
‘Oh no!’ she murmured, her eyes filling with tears. It had been a tense morning and now just seeing it made her feel emotional. ‘No, no, Dad!’ she whispered. ‘Put it away! I can’t even look at it!’
‘But wait!’ Mick insisted, bending down to demonstrate the reclining feature; he pressed a lever on the side and a faded footrest shot up, nearly knocking Rory over. ‘It’s a beauty, Rose! It was broken but I fixed it. Another Moriarty original!’
Simon’s eyes lit up. ‘A Moriarty original? Rose! At last! I knew you’d come through!’
Rose shook her head. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said to Simon.
‘Oh, yes,’ Simon smoothed the doily back in place. ‘I think I do.’
‘But Mrs Henderson died in this chair!’
‘My God! That’s powerful!’ Backing away, he stared at Mrs Henderson’s recliner in awe. ‘An entire tale of life and death in a single chair! The … sheer … ordinariness of the whole thing is so moving!’
‘What’s he going on about?’ Mick wanted to know.
Rose ignored him. She grabbed Simon’s arm. ‘You don’t understand! It’s junk, Simon! Nothing but old junk!’
‘It’s always the same!’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Everyone thinks their work is junk when they deliver it. Nothing more than nerves!’
Rory was clambering all over it now. The parking warden reached for his pad and pen. ‘Look here, there’s no stopping any time …’
‘Except,’ Simon interrupted, ‘when unloading valuable new pieces of art!’ He plucked Rory off, handed him to Rose and picked the chair up. ‘You have surpassed yourself, Red! I can’t wait to show Olivia! Now, if you don’t mind!’
He nodded imperiously to the parking warden, who, somewhat confused, held the door open while Simon pushed the chair inside.
Rose knew her father was staring at her but she found it hard to meet his gaze. After a while, he took Rory from her, turning him upside down until he giggled.
‘So, I guess you’ll take it,’ he said, flinging Rory onto his shoulders.
Rose nodded. ‘I guess I will.’
‘Well, maybe Rory and I will go and have an ice cream, eh?’
‘Ice cream!’ Rory shouted, refreshed from his nap. ‘Chocolate! Banilla! Ice cream!’
‘What about Islington?’
‘It’ll be there tomorrow. Anyway, I think we need a break, eh, champ?’
Rory beamed up at him.
‘Thanks, Dad.’
Rose gave Rory a kiss and watched as her dad strapped him into a booster seat. ‘Drive carefully! Please!’
As they pulled away, the parking attendant smiled shyly. ‘Would you mind?’ he said, handing her the pad and pen.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your autograph! You’re a famous artist, right?’
‘Oh! Yeah, I suppose so.’
‘You never know, it might be worth something!’
‘You never know,’ she agreed.
And then she signed ‘Red Moriarty’ across the page in a strange, firm hand. It glared back at her, full of sharp angles and unfamiliar shapes. She passed it back to him. He was looking at her in a different way, as if she were a completely new person from the one she had been ten minutes ago.
He walked back down the street, grinning proudly at the signed parking ticket.
Rose stood by herself on the steps of the Mount Street Gallery.
Maybe, she concluded, the whole art thing was like being a top model; you got loads of attention for doing nothing. And maybe, just like a naturally beautiful woman, she’d never be able to really see what everyone else saw or what the fuss was all about.
It was sad.
Still, there were probably worse things in life.
Hughie spent the next morning at Gieves and Hawkes being outfitted by Jez. They bought one suit off the peg and had another two ordered. Hughie had never had a suit tailored for him. It was amazing how natural it felt to have all these people fussing about him, kneeling at his feet, measuring and recording each detail of his anatomy as if it were vital state information.
Jez, dressed in jeans, a crisp white shirt and a creamy soft leather jacket, lounged in one of the deep armchairs, drinking tea and leafing through magazines. Just when he appeared to be disinterested, he’d bark out more instructions. ‘No, get the lighter wool! I don’t care what season it is! You’ll be sweating like a pig from nerves most of the time. And there’s no way you’re wearing braces with anything! A plain waistline, gentlemen. More schoolboy than barrow boy, understand?’
Hughie was impressed; he watched as Jez deftly selected half a dozen daring shirt-and-tie combinations in about two minutes, and his views on socks were practically revolutionary.
‘It’s like this,’ he explained to Hughie, ‘it’s no socks or knee socks.’
‘Knee socks!’ A radical suggestion indeed.
But Jez remained firm. ‘It’s all about a clean line. No ruched-up ankle socks with hairy legs poking out when you sit down.’ He grabbed a sock and began pulling at it. ‘See? A knee sock, made with cotton and a bit of Lycra, guarantees you a clean line at all times.’
‘They won’t fall down?’
‘Fogal, man. You get them from Fogal.’
‘But what about … I mean, I’ll look stupid in them!’
Jez sighed. ‘Shoes and socks off first. Then trousers. No one will ever know. And rethink those boxers. Baggy spoils the silhouette. We’re talking classic Calvin Klein jocks from now on. It’s all about the line, man. Line first, colour second.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I used to model.’
