‘I didn’t want you to know. I’m ashamed.’
‘In front of me?’ Another burst of pain. ‘You never have to feel ashamed in front of me.’
Marianne covered her face with her hands. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
The fridge hummed into the silence.
‘How long’s it been going on?’
‘This one? Not long – a few weeks. In general, years. Not continuously but . . .’
‘We have to stop him, Mazz, before your mum finds out.’
Marianne raised her head. ‘She knows.’
‘What?’
‘She always does. She knows him better than anyone else.’
‘But . . .’
‘She says it’s about vanity – he needs it, them, for his ego.’
Rowan hadn’t been able to contain a cry of disbelief. ‘Your mum’s not enough? She’s amazing. He should be counting his lucky stars she even deigns to . . .’
‘He is – he does. It’s . . . different.’
‘How?’ She’d sounded hostile now, as if it were Marianne’s fault.
‘Ro, come on, you know my parents. Can you imagine them apart? They need each other. They love each other.’
‘Then why would he . . . ?’
‘Like I said, ego. It’s the biggest cliché going: middle-aged man chases younger women to make sure he’s still got it, he can still get the ladies.’ Marianne gave a snort. ‘Why do you think he’s spent his whole professional life studying sex? Of course he’s an expert, he’s done enough research. But they burn out. A few weeks, a few months, and he gets bored. It never burns out with Mum. He never gets bored with her.’
‘And she puts up with it.’ Rowan’s voice was flat with betrayal but this time the betrayer was Jacqueline. She, with everything she wrote and argued and believed, let her husband cheat.
Marianne went to the drawer where her mother, who’d been trying to give up since Rowan met her, kept her cigarettes. She got a saucer from the cupboard then lit two and handed one of them over.
‘It took me years to understand,’ she said, ‘but I think I get it now. Most of the time, she turns her back on it, waits for him to get bored, but – you really don’t want to think about this stuff when it comes to your parents but, hey, it’s not like I had a choice.’ She shrugged and took a puff. ‘I think there’s a bit of her that doesn’t mind. Maybe there’s something she even likes about it.’
Rowan stared at her again.
‘Every time he ends one of these . . . flings, it’s an endorsement of their relationship, isn’t it? He chooses her over the other woman. He chooses her over and over again.’
Twelve
At the end of the room, a woman dressed in black sat at a long table. She looked up, said a curt hello then turned back to her laptop. Assessed and dismissed in a second, thought Rowan.
She hadn’t recognised the name of the artist stencilled on the window but the paintings on show were still lifes, apparently traditional: a bowl of lemons and a pomegranate spilling blood-red seeds were the focal point of the first. From a distance, the surrounding canvas looked blank but as she got closer, she saw that a network of fine grey lines like map contours delineated a wine glass, the limp body of a rabbit and, next to it, a mobile phone and a set of keys with an electronic fob, as if it wasn’t a carefully composed still life but an oil-paint snapshot of someone’s hall table. What was the rabbit? Road-kill from the BMW? At closer range still, she noticed that each tiny area of canvas was numbered and at the bottom right, there was a guide. 2: Jaune Brillant; 3: Raw Umber Light. Fine art colour-by-numbers.
The gallery was one long room with white walls and a dark polished-wood floor. The plate-glass frontage provided almost all the natural light; the only other window, high on the rear wall, was covered with vertical bars. Nonetheless, the space was bright, dozens of recessed bulbs in the high ceiling creating a shadowless light.
She looked at the paintings one by one, working her way towards the desk. After a while, she felt the woman’s eyes on her, as if the length of time she’d lingered had marked her out as someone who was worthy of attention after all or – more likely – suspicion.
‘May I help you?’ The cool voice again.
Rowan approached. ‘I hope so. I wondered if James Greenwood was in?’
The woman stood, revealing a pair of black trousers as spotless and well tailored as her pin-tucked blouse. ‘Is he expecting you?’
‘No.’
‘Are you an artist? I’m afraid we don’t meet people on an ad hoc basis. We get a huge number of enquiries and . . .’
‘No, I’m not an artist. I’m an old friend of Marianne Glass.’
The woman looked at her. ‘Let me call him,’ she said after a moment. ‘He’s here today – at work – but he’s popped out. Can I tell him your name?’
Rowan moved away while the woman rang Greenwood’s mobile and spoke to him in a low voice. ‘Rowan Winter. Yes.’ It was impossible to gauge what he was saying.
‘Rowan? He’s just walking back now. He’ll be here in five minutes.’