The Perfect Retreat

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE




‘It’s a ghost,’ confirmed Henry to Ivo and Merritt. ‘They all have them,’ he said excitedly. ‘I’ve run these ones through the infrared reflectography machines. There are definitely works underneath them. To be conservative I would say that they look to be a different style of work from the top layers, but I cannot say they are George Middlemists just yet. We’ll need to send them off for further tests.’

Merritt stood stunned in the back rooms of the auction house.

‘How many more did you say there were at the house?’ asked Henry.

‘At least another fifty of different sizes,’ said Ivo, his voice raised to a fever pitch.

‘Let’s get these done first and restore at least one, and then I’ll come back to you,’ said Henry.

‘How long will it take?’ asked Ivo.

‘It depends on how long it takes to take the existing layers off, could be weeks or months,’ said Henry.

Ivo looked at the painting in front of him. It was his favourite so far. He called it The Proposal. A young man knelt in front of his love, a woman in a white dress with dark hair and dark eyes. The garden surrounded them and the man had such an expression of hope and pain on his face that Ivo related to him completely. He knew he could never afford it, not even with his wage.

Ivo nodded. ‘Come on mate, we need to get you a drink,’ he said to Merritt, and saying their goodbyes to Henry they headed for the nearest pub.

‘You could have a fortune on your hands,’ said Ivo as he settled two pints in front of them.

Merritt shook his head. ‘You mean to tell me they’ve been in the house all these years and we dismissed them? I can’t believe it.’

Ivo nodded. ‘I know. It’s crazy but it makes sense. Where else would they have gone? The paintings that are out in public now must have been sold directly by George himself.’

Merritt sipped his beer. ‘If they are what you think then I could sell them and do up the house finally,’ he said.

‘Absolutely,’ said Ivo excitedly. He had taken great pride in his sleuthing work, and the rush of the find was more intoxicating than any drug he had ever used.

‘I have a proposal,’ said Ivo carefully.

‘Yes?’ said Merritt, waiting. What did Ivo want? Money for his trouble? A painting? He sat still in anticipation.

‘I want … I want …’ Ivo swallowed. He had been thinking about this for the last two weeks since the paintings had been with Henry.

‘Out with it,’ said Merritt impatiently.

‘I want to write a book,’ said Ivo finally.

‘A book? On what?’ asked Merritt, puzzled.

‘On George and Clementina. I know these are the paintings, I feel it; and I think it’s the most amazing story. The story of the house and love and revenge and art. It’s perfect,’ he said.

‘Go for it,’ said Merritt, laughing with relief.

‘But I would need to write in peace. In the place where it all began,’ said Ivo, looking at Merritt for a reaction.

‘You want to write it at Middlemist?’ asked Merritt.

‘Yes. If you don’t mind,’ said Ivo, looking down into his pint.

‘Mind? I would love you to stay,’ said Merritt. He enjoyed Ivo’s company, and if the paintings were George’s then he would be indebted to him forever.

‘Really? Wow. Great. I mean f*ck, bloody marvellous,’ said Ivo, beaming from ear to ear.

‘Knock yourself out, although I’m not sure anyone would buy it. I don’t know how interesting it is,’ said Merritt.

‘I think you’d be surprised,’ said Ivo with authority. ‘There’s a market for this type of book. Part academic, part intrigue. Look at The Da Vinci Code,’ he said.

Merritt laughed. ‘Good luck then,’ he said.

‘I can pay rent,’ said Ivo proudly.

‘No rent,’ said Merritt firmly. ‘I owe you, I think.’

‘You owe me nothing. It’s everything I wanted to do, I’ve finally realised,’ said Ivo.

‘Really?’ asked Merritt with interest. ‘You don’t want to be an actor?’

‘No, too much waiting around. I like to make things happen.’

‘There’s a lot of sitting around in writing a book. I should know, I’ve written a few gardening books in my day,’ said Merritt.

‘I know, but it’s different – I would be learning things, writing things down, telling a story,’ said Ivo, his face flushed from the warmth of the pub and his passion.

‘I could put you in touch with my literary agent,’ said Merritt. ‘They might be able to help you get a book deal.’

‘Really? That would be great,’ said Ivo. ‘Things have a way of working out, huh?’ he said, and then he thought of Kitty. ‘Well, almost everything.’

Merritt sat thinking about Kitty and Willow. He hadn’t heard from Willow. Lucy had rung him about the packers. She was formal and polite on the phone, and he hadn’t dared ask her how Willow and the children were. He missed them all more than he thought possible, spending nights poring over the workbook she had put together on the house.

Kitty was settled with Harold, the film’s director. She insisted that nothing was going on, he was merely being a gentleman and helping her. Merritt had no choice but to believe her. He would have liked to talk to Willow about it, but she had clearly moved on, he thought. He had seen photos of her everywhere, in the street, with the children. Jinty was walking, he noticed with pride when he saw images of them in the park together.

Lucian looked happy and Poppy – well, she was still Poppy. Ridiculous clothing and a defiant attitude like her father, he thought, as he saw her wearing wellies with a fairy dress in a magazine he had bought because it had Willow on the front. She was dating too, he read with a heavy heart. First a jewellery designer or something, and then rumours of her and the actor Jack Reynolds, whom she had met with for lunch before they started their next film.

The next few weeks were excruciating while he and Ivo waited for the results of the tests on the paintings, but when the call came through from Henry confirming their authenticity, he and Ivo were exultant.

‘Now I have a book!’ cried Ivo.

‘And I will have the money for the house,’ said Merritt in shock.

And they sat in silence, both thinking for a moment of what they didn’t have. It lingered longer than the short-lived joy they had just felt.

The rest of the paintings were packed and shipped off to London for restoration, but not before Ivo and a photographer had documented each canvas of Clementina’s work.

Ivo worked hard on the proposal for his book and sent it off to Merritt’s literary agent. They were interested; could he write three chapters?

‘Three chapters?’ said Ivo, reading the email to Merritt. ‘I suppose I’d better get started.’

‘You’ll be right,’ said Merritt encouragingly. ‘I’ll be your editor, so to speak. You write and I’ll check,’ he said.

‘Really? Thanks Mezza.’

‘Mezza?’

‘I’m trying to find a nickname for you,’ said Ivo.

‘Not Mezza, please,’ said Merritt with a frown.

‘What about Tits?’ asked Ivo cheekily.

‘No thanks,’ said Merritt, snorting. Ivo made him laugh and he was such good company; he could see what Kitty liked about him. He was fun. A few times he had nearly told Ivo where she was, but he couldn’t break his promise to her.

Ivo had stopped asking now; he knew Merritt was good to his word, and he let it go. Instead he buckled down and started to write. Within two weeks he had his three chapters and an outline of the rest. It was the most productive two weeks he had spent in years, and he was mentally exhausted at the end of each day when he tucked himself into Kitty’s little bed.

Merritt didn’t tell Kitty about Ivo staying, but he did tell her about the paintings. He told her a white lie, that an art historian had discovered the paintings underneath Clementina’s by happenstance. Kitty didn’t care as long as Merritt was happy, and he seemed to be, even though she knew he was mourning the loss of Willow and the children.

Ivo and Merritt settled into a routine of writing and gardening. Ivo sometimes stretched his body and helped Merritt in the garden, and Merritt read what he had written most evenings.

‘It’s a shame we aren’t gay,’ said Ivo. ‘We cohabit very well.’

‘Yes, shame; but if we were, you’d be too young for me,’ said Merritt laughing. ‘I’m an old man now, nearly forty-two,’ he said.

‘Forty is the new thirty,’ said Ivo.

‘Said the twenty-eight-year-old,’ said Merritt as he watched the fire. The weather was turning and winter would soon be here, he thought. He had done as much as he could in the garden and he was nearly out of money. He was considering a new book or a television special, but he had lost his creative urge for anything else besides Middlemist.

He needed the paintings sold as soon as possible.

‘You heard from Henry?’ he asked Ivo each night to the usual answer from his housemate.

‘When I do, you will be the first to know.’

Word came through when Merritt was down the bottom of the garden. Ivo had to run the length of the estate to find him. ‘It’s Henry,’ he said, holding out the phone.

Merritt wiped his hands on the side of his work trousers.

‘Hello? Yes, great. OK, sure, see you then,’ was all Ivo heard.

‘What? What?’ he asked jumping up and down on the spot.

‘Auction in a month, just in time for Christmas,’ said Merritt.

‘F*cking hell, that’s quick,’ said Ivo.

‘Yes it is, but it’s better for me,’ said Merritt, looking back at the house.

He and Merritt walked back to the house together and as they strolled through the orangery, he spotted something pink in the corner. Walking over to it, he pulled out Poppy’s favourite dancing skirt, with tiny bells sewn onto the tulle.

‘Yours?’ asked Ivo, raising an eyebrow.

‘No, Poppy’s,’ said Merritt quietly.

Ivo said nothing, and Merritt clung to the tiny costume until they reached the house, where he hung it on the hook of the back door in the kitchen. The bells tinkled every time the door was opened afterwards.