In those days, they’d spent a lot of time in Jericho. The area was only five or six minutes’ drive away but where Park Town was serene and almost entirely residential, Jericho had pubs and restaurants and a distinct Bohemian vibe. The slope down to the canal was a maze of Victorian terraces built for workers at the old Eagle Ironworks, which had still been hammering away at the top of Walton Well Road when they were teenagers. It was gone now, converted into apartments, and the lovely yew-lined cemetery of St Sepulchre’s was overlooked by modern blocks with names like Foundry House. Some of the old landmarks stood their ground, however: the Phoenix Picture House, Freud’s, the Jericho Tavern, where Turk and the band had played several times, and this place, the Jericho Café, where they’d met on Sundays to read the papers.
Very little had changed here, even the red velvet curtain round the door looked familiar, and they still had Marianne’s favourite carrot cake by the slice. Rowan ordered then took their old preferred table near the window.
In the car, she’d been thinking about Michael Cory. She’d encountered enough celebrities in her time at the BBC not to be star-struck but she was impressed – even a little jealous – that Marianne had met him. Despite keeping a Salinger-style low profile, he was still one of the handful of contemporary artists whose name was public currency. While Damien Hirst and Tracey Emin had been front-page news since the start of their careers, however, Cory’s fame had been triggered by a particular incident.
Taking out her laptop, she entered the café’s Internet password – the WiFi was new – and typed his name into Google. Even now, years later, Hanna Ferrara’s name appeared in every one of the top hits.
Cory was a painter. His work wasn’t sensational in the pickled-shark sense: he worked alone with paint on canvas; there were no piles of elephant dung or giant cartoon figures cast by teams of assistants. If he was unknown to the general public before Ferrara, in art circles he’d been acknowledged as a big talent, both for his technical ability and psychological depth.
Somewhere, Hanna Ferrara had heard him described as America’s Lucian Freud and she’d decided he would paint her portrait. Rowan remembered reading at the time that Cory had always been adamant about turning down commissions, insisting he chose his own subjects, but Ferrara wouldn’t have it. She was the star of The Woman Who Had Everything, one of the first comedies with a female lead to gross more than $300 million at the box-office, and people didn’t say no to her: every time Cory turned her down, she became more determined, as if he were merely testing her commitment. She’d hassled and hassled, apparently, both in person and via her representatives, until, losing patience, Cory said he would paint her for three million dollars, a fee he’d never thought she’d pay. She’d agreed.
As the papers reported, he’d also insisted she agree to his usual terms: they’d work in his studio, and he would have total control over the picture, which no one, not even she, would be allowed to see until it was finished. Also as usual, he would show the work publicly before it became part of her private collection. Ferrara had agreed and blocked out time in her schedule for the sittings.
Eight months later, when she’d flown to New York to see it, she’d had a panic attack in the gallery. People who knew her said Cory had got her in a way none of her photographs did. He hadn’t shown her as a vampy sex object or the approachable if stunning girl-next-door she occasionally impersonated, or even as an ordinary person stripped of Hollywood glamour. Instead, in her face, he had captured a mix of hunger, drive and desperate need. But that wasn’t why she’d been taken to hospital. She’d been dressed for the sittings but Cory had painted her naked. Full-length, the portrait showed her standing in front of a mirror. Between her painfully skinny thighs dangled a long penis. He’d called the painting The Woman Who Has Everything.
Ferrara’s nervous breakdown had stopped her working until two years later when she’d had a supporting role in a film panned in every review Rowan had seen.
Cory’s behaviour had been discussed ad infinitum. Most people thought it was a cruel publicity stunt but many in the art world supported him. He was a serious artist, they said, too serious to jeopardise his reputation like that, and the picture was an outstanding depiction of a woman in acute psychological pain, dealing with body image, female ambition and the struggle of women to succeed in a sexist world. Months later, the Daily Mail discovered he’d secretly donated three million dollars to a foundation for young women with mental illness.
Cory himself said nothing. He’d been there when Ferrara first saw the painting – she’d lunged at him and scratched his face so badly he’d needed stitches – but a minute later, he’d slipped away through the gallery’s back door. By the time journalists had got to his apartment, he’d gone from there, too. He hadn’t answered his phone or been seen in public for a long time afterwards and he still refused to give interviews or attend events, even his own private views. If he really had been at the Greenwood, it was remarkable.
Rowan opened Google Images and typed his name again. The first twenty or thirty thumbnails showed either Ferrara or the portrait, and she had to scroll beyond the bottom of the screen before she saw a picture of Cory himself.