He had to hand over a kidney on a golden platter. She looked around for the leather portfolio and saw that, yes, it had gone upstairs with him. Was he broke, too, after his divorce? Given the gallery’s hefty commissions, it seemed unlikely but the running costs must be hefty as well, that Mayfair location, and who knew what went on in people’s lives. Maybe Sophie Lawrence was extracting punitive maintenance payments; maybe he was paying for elderly parents in care; maybe he had unmanageable debts, a gambling problem. She wondered again who would benefit financially from Marianne’s death. People would know by now; the will must have been read.
She waited half an hour before going up and took the final flight of stairs quietly, just in case, but when she reached the studio, Greenwood was sitting on the old wheel-backed chair at the mouth of Adam’s space, the paintings surrounding him on three sides. The portfolio was open on his knees, a pad of lined yellow legal paper attached by leather corners inside. A ballpoint dangled between his fingers, unused. He seemed not to be aware of her and as she got closer, she saw that his cheeks were wet.
‘James?’
He whipped around, eyes wide.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘No, no, you didn’t.’ He put his hands to his face as if to say, God, look at me, then brushed his cheeks with his fingers. ‘I knew it would be hard, that was why I was putting it off but . . .’ He shook his head. ‘These girls, getting thinner and thinner – it’s like watching her disappear in front of me.’ He frowned, making a vertical crease between his eyebrows, and Rowan saw a glimpse of Bryony, the straight genetic line between them.
‘You know Michael Cory’s been here?’ she said.
He looked at her. ‘Yes.’
Rowan turned to the painting on her right, the last, most ravaged woman. ‘He said he thought they were a self-portrait, the pictures.’
‘What?’
‘Not individually, obviously – taken all together, as one.’
‘Did Marianne tell him that?’
Rowan shook her head. ‘No, he said not.’
‘Well, I don’t know where he got that idea,’ Greenwood snapped the portfolio shut and zipped it, ‘but he’s way off-beam. They’re a statement about the pressure on young women to conform to an approved body image, to be good enough. Her mother’s work’s in there, she’s a huge influence, of course; Susie Orbach and Naomi Wolf as well.’ He stood, thrust the portfolio under his arm and picked up the chair.
‘How much do you think she drew on her own . . .’
‘They’re portraits of the individual girls, too – that must be apparent.’ Even to you. He looked at her, eyes hard again, the chair between them a barrier or, she thought suddenly, a potential weapon. ‘Marianne spent months – months and months – going to the clinic, getting to know the girls, talking to them about their illness. Before she could even broach the subject of allowing her to paint them, she had to win their trust – they thought they were so ugly, so . . . despicable. It was a huge achievement, and to suggest anything else is very hurtful. Hurtful and insulting.’
‘I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean . . .’
‘What did you mean?’ He dropped the chair back into its corner and spun round. ‘Do you have any idea how damaging it is to go around broadcasting that kind of rubbish? What are you trying to do? Turn her into Sylvia Plath? Let her talent be eclipsed by some utter bollocks,’ he spat the word, ‘about the poor tragic woman plagued by mental illness just because she was depressed when her father died?’
‘No, of course not. Again, I’m sorry, I didn’t . . .’
‘Do you think that’s what her family want? Jacqueline? Adam?’
‘I know it isn’t.’
‘Well then, perhaps you should just keep your . . . bloody mouth shut.’
She followed him down the stairs, pulse beating in her ears. She’d heard the tremor in his voice, as if he was barely keeping the lid on a bubbling vat of rage. The contrast with his usual gentility, the sophistication and manners, made it so much worse, as if an elegant curtain had been pulled aside to reveal something malevolent. He’d wanted to swear at her, really let her have it, she could tell; even now, as they made their way down in silence, the air seemed to vibrate with the force of what he was holding inside.
At the front door, he took a deep breath and turned to face her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I apologise. That was . . . uncalled for. I’m afraid you caught the brunt of my anxiety. Even though she’s gone, it’s still my job to protect her – her reputation. I can’t let her become some sort of tragic footnote. I won’t.’
‘I shouldn’t have said what I did.’
‘No, I’m glad you did. I needed to know. I have to talk to Michael before he bandies that idea around any more. It’ll be taken as gospel immediately, of course, if it comes from him.’
‘Well, if I’ve helped – in however round-about a way – then I’m glad, too.’
He nodded quickly, as if to say, Well, good, so let’s leave it at that. He looked down, checked the zip on the portfolio and reached for the door handle. Then, just as Rowan had allowed her shoulders to drop a half-centimetre, he turned around again.
‘Bryony said you went to find her at school yesterday.’
Fuck.