‘Precisely.’ Henry turned off the light. ‘Goodnight.’
Hughie snuggled down. ‘Goodnight.’
Outside, the view of the Embankment and South Bank dazzled. The Millennium Wheel turned almost imperceptibly, Big Ben chimed, the inky black waters of the Thames curved into the distance, reflecting every glowing detail in duplicate.
‘She’ll be back,’ Hughie whispered.
Henry wavered, a dark silhouette by the door. ‘Of course she will.’
But for a man who’d waited so long, he sounded oddly unconvinced.
Standing alone in the middle of the gallery, Olivia took a deep breath. She’d made it. She wasn’t sure how but somehow she’d got through the hours, minute by minute, until now, here she was, at the end of the day.
At last the show was ready.
And what’s more, it worked; there was a clear flow from one piece to another, a subtle dynamic of unexpected juxtapositions and parallels. She hadn’t believed it was possible; until the last piece was in place it had seemed nothing more than an incoherent jumble. But slowly, surely, she and Simon had worked it through.
‘You never know just how they’re going to play off one another,’ he assured her, as they wrestled a giant canvas of an erect penis into position. ‘That’s the fun of the thing!’
Olivia had had her doubts, in fact it terrified her, but he was right. What was more, she was good at it; her instinct to move the giant teddy to the foyer, for example. ‘Inspired!’ Simon congratulated her, delighted. Now it stood like a bold, cartoon Colossus ushering the viewer into another world.
She walked on.
Here were the dustbin photographs, the human-hair tepee, the Myra Hindley Jubilee teaset, and then on into the next room: Red Moriarty’s ‘What’s the Point in Carrying On?’
Olivia stopped.
Here was her life: her velvet sofa, her books, her Holbein drawings … Soon people would wander in, stare at it; reach profound conclusions as to its meaning.
She had lived it; was still living it. Did she dare to read the reviews and subject herself to social dissection? Or did she already know everything she needed to know; in short that it had failed to relieve her of the terrible sense of internal weightlessness?
Only, strangely, she realized, that feeling wasn’t here now.
The room and its objects receded from her identity, ebbing away like a bad dream. Her drawing room was empty now, she reminded herself. A vacuum waiting to be filled.
So much of the house was empty now.
Walking on, she came to the last room.
There was nothing in it except for Mrs Henderson’s brown velour chair.
‘Mrs Henderson Died in this Chair.’
Ugly, common, powerful; it refused to be anything other than what it was.
At first it had revolted her. But the more time she spent around it, the more she appreciated its uncompromising blandness. It would never be beautiful yet it possessed a horrible integrity all its own.
That in itself made it rare.
Then she noticed a pair of legs sticking out of it.
She walked round. There was Red Moriarty, asleep in Mrs Henderson’s chair.
‘Red!’ She gave her shoulder a shake. ‘Red! Wake up!’
Her eyes fluttered open. ‘Oh! Oh, God, what time is it?’
‘Late.’ Olivia pulled her up.
‘I’m sorry. I guess I feel asleep.’ She stretched out like a cat. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind and Rory’s not sleeping at the moment. It’s doing my nut in.’
They walked back through the gallery together.
‘How old is Rory?’ Olivia asked. ‘I’d like to meet him. It must be a challenge being a single parent.’
‘He’s three. Yeah,’ Red yawned again. ‘Challenge is a nice way to put it. Though to be honest, sometimes I think I have it easier. I’ve got friends who are always bitching about how their partner won’t help out, blah, blah, blah, or when they do do something, it’s wrong. They spend the whole time arguing. For me, the buck stops here,’ she pointed to her chest. ‘If you don’t expect anything from anyone else, it’s simpler. Na, looking after Rory’s not bad. But I do get lonely.’ She thought about Hughie Armstrong Venables-Smythe, the guy who never showed up again at the café. ‘You know, it would be nice to have a little attention. Someone who noticed you.’
‘That would be nice,’ Olivia agreed wistfully.
‘I feel invisible. It’s like, ever since Rory was born, I was just the person pushing the pram.’
Olivia wanted to say the right thing; encourage her. ‘But you’re a beautiful young woman, with a wonderful new career!’
Red looked doubtful. ‘Yeah, well …’
‘I think you’re brave. I don’t think I could do it,’ she admitted.
‘You could if you had to. You can do anything you have to, especially for your kid.’
Olivia made no answer. Unlocking the front door, she asked, ‘Are you all right to get home? Do you want me to call you a cab?’
‘A cab?’
She made it sound as if Olivia were suggesting she be airlifted home.
‘Na, I’ll take the train. Actually,’ Red lingered, pulling at a stray strand of hair, ‘I wanted to talk to you about something.’
Olivia turned, interested. ‘Of course.’ She closed the door. Pulling up a couple of chairs, she patted a seat invitingly. ‘Come on. Tell me how I can help.’
‘Well, it’s just that … you see,’ Red stared at her hands, ‘the thing is, look, I’m just going to say it: I don’t know anything about art.’
‘Oh!’ Olivia laughed with relief. ‘You had me worried there for a minute! Red, you know everything there is to know about art! You’ve created two of the most accomplished pieces I’ve ever had the privilege to represent!’
‘Yes, but …’ Gathering her courage, she looked Olivia in the eye. ‘I need to come clean. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.’
‘Oh, yes!’ Olivia nodded. ‘I’ve heard that thousands of times. Real art has a life of its own. It’s like the universe is co-creating the piece with you and you’re just a witness.’
‘Well … sort of. See, it’s not like I went to art school or anything.’
‘Vincent van Gogh didn’t go to art school.’
‘You don’t understand …’
Olivia smiled. ‘I think I do. Look, it’s your first show and you’re worried about what to say to the press and critics.’
‘But I’m a fraud!’
‘Red, I won’t hear you talk that way! That’s just nerves! You’re under a great deal of pressure. But look,’ she took hold of her hands, ‘I’m here to help you. We’re going to do this together. You know what? This is my first show too!’
‘Really?’
‘I’ve never hung a show before or helped select the artists or overseen the guest list. You