“HURRY UP, MA. WE’LL be late.” Rory stood juggling my car keys. Both boys were standing in the hall, waiting impatiently for me to appear. “I’ll drive so you can get as pissed as you like on the proceeds of your sales,” he went on.
“Fat chance of that. But okay. Off we go.”
We were headed for the opening of the exhibition. Vanessa and I had spent the previous day hanging it, and even if I have to say so myself, it was looking pretty good. Ness had put her networking skills into overdrive, and half the world seemed likely to be there. I would have been too diffident to ask many of the people she had contacted, but I had to admit I was glad she had done it.
The first people I saw when we walked in were Simon’s parents. His father gave me a hug and remarked on how good the work was; his mother smiled as if it hurt her (it probably did) and cornered the boys. But I was amazed that she had actually appeared. My parents were there as well, keeping their distance from their one-time fellow in-laws. Dad whispered to me that one of my paintings already had a red sticker attached to it, pointing to the one of the china in a cupboard. At the same moment, Vanessa whirled up, hugged me and told me I had made the first sale of the night. Two of hers boasted green stickers, but mine had actually been paid for.
My father had bought most of the wine – it was significantly better than the usual chateau cardboard that all too often is dispensed at exhibition openings. I was touched that he had volunteered, and Ness had immediately taken him over, telling him what we would need, and the best place to get it. He had taken it all in good part, Ness being one of his favourites. I had a long conversation with Verne and Chantal. Verne was kind about the work, and slipping his hand into his jacket pocket, gave me an envelope.
“I was in Joburg for a meeting last week – another heritage one, with a major change of personnel as you can imagine – and I managed to slip out and see Daniel. He gave me this for you, and said he was sorry he couldn’t get down for tonight. But he’s got a job, working for a guy who makes water features and needs someone to paint the fake rocks, make them look real. He says it’s actually quite fun, and still leaves him time for his own work.” I started to say something, but Verne held up his hand. “I know, I know. It sounds terrible. But he needs to feel that he’s earning, and settling down a bit after what happened. Anyway, read his letter.” I thanked him and slipped it into my bag. Now was not the time.
The gallery director made his way over to the microphone and welcomed everyone to the exhibition, making kind remarks about Vanessa, Ben and me. Ness responded with her usual lively charm, telling everyone what a wonderful opportunity it was to buy art. We had agreed – or at least, I had – that she should be the person to speak. I’m not much on promoting myself in public, but it seems second nature to her. I had a feeling Ben had not been asked for his opinion. Verne then officially opened the show, and the party went on.
I continued to circulate, noticing people I had no idea I had invited. Mrs Golightly’s formidable bulk hove into view, looking rather pleased with me. One of her teachers seemed to be scoring a modest triumph, and she was prepared to be gracious. “This is excellent, Laura,” she said, waving a solid arm in the direction of one of Vanessa’s abstracts. “I do hope it goes well for you.” The subtext was that this was the kind of thing she liked to see her staff doing, not getting themselves mixed up with murders. But I was, to my own surprise, enjoying myself too much to do more than smile and thank her.
I noticed that my favourite painting, the still life looking inside through the window, had a red sticker on it. I had priced it high, rather hoping I could take it home with me when the exhibition was over. I fought my way over towards the desk to find out who had bought it. It was my father. Not only had he paid for the wine, which was dwindling at an alarming rate, but had also overpaid for a painting. But when I tried to tell him he could have had it for free if only he had asked, he stopped me.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Laura. I love it. We’ve wanted it ever since we saw it in your studio, but we wanted to pay for it. So no more nonsense. You’re doing well, by the way. Look over there.”
The two hand paintings, the apple and the mango, both had red stickers too. “Good Lord! I thought they were a bit esoteric, not likely to sell. Who bought them?”
“There. That chap standing next to them, looking proprietorial. He was ahead of me at the desk.”
I looked across the crowd, and there was Adam Pillay, neat in dark jeans and a light-green open-necked shirt. He was looking at the paintings with the fixed stare I remembered from the day he had first seen the apple one; the day I had first seen him; the day Phineas Ndzoyiya’s corpse had been dumped in the plantations.
I made my way slowly through the crowd to his side. “Hello, Adam. I believe you bought these two.” And then I stopped. I wasn’t quite sure what to say next. I could thank him. Or tell him he shouldn’t have. Or ask him why. But it all sounded silly. What I did say was that I remembered him looking at the first one, that day.
“I was fascinated by it,” he said, simply. “And then, when I saw the other one, I really felt I wanted to have them both. I love the idea, the contrast. They appeal to me, somehow.”
“The associations, the murder, don’t bother you?”
“No. Why should they? They have nothing to do with it. And if they do bring things back, well … not all the memories are things I would rather forget.” He turned and looked at me. “Could I ask you … Would you come round to my flat one evening and help me to find the right place for them, so that they can be seen at their best? The way you envisaged them when you were painting them? I could even cook you my special prawn curry.”
“I can think of nothing I would like more,” I said.