“Thanks for seeing me so close to Christmas,” I say, setting my bag on the table. I never got a chance to see inside the meeting room of the Montague Club before now. The decor’s more to my taste: a white Scandi-style table, pale blue wallpaper. A vase of twigs lit with fairy lights. And at the head of the table, a female president: Florence DiMaggio.
“You’re welcome... Gives me something to do. It’s dead this week and I like to keep busy.” Her smile seems genuine; she has a good solid handshake. When she’s not here, she’s a specialist recruitment lawyer, a professional who can wear oversize cat-eye glasses without looking ridiculous.
“I don’t know if you heard about what happened.” She takes off the glasses, rubs the bridge of her nose. “But last month, one of our long-term members took his own life, right here in the club.”
“Yes, I heard about that. I’m sorry.”
“Just between the two of us, it’s been a complete nightmare. I’m not belittling what happened or being cold-blooded about it, but as far as trying to keep this place afloat?” She shrugs with her mouth. “Our numbers are the lowest since records began.”
“Well, hopefully, that’s where I come in.” I slide my business card across the table to her. “I think I might be able to help.”
“I’ll admit, I took the meeting because I’m intrigued.” She taps the card with her fingernail, smiling at me teasingly. “Let’s hear it, then. Tell me how you’re going to save me.”
I like her, even though she’s into this place. I can’t help it.
But then I liked Max too.
“Okay, Florence, so here’s the thing—recently, I acquired some art. It’s been evaluated by experts who’ve been using words like meaningful, original, impactful. And if you knew these guys and how uptight they are, then you’d know this is high praise indeed.”
“So, it’s good stuff.” She adjusts her necklace: three coins on a chain. “What’s that got to do with the club?”
“Well, I need somewhere to showcase the artist’s work. It’s a she,” I add, in case that matters.
It does. She smiles. “Excellent.”
“There are thirteen paintings in total and a series of charcoal sketches, and I need to find somewhere to hang them. But more than that, I’d like to create an artists’ hub—a local communal space to showcase artists from disadvantaged backgrounds. The idea would be to give them somewhere to talk about their work, somewhere where the right conversation with the right person could launch their career.”
“Go on...” She’s adjusting her clothes now—a black V-neck dress with a thread of silver woven through. Is she even listening?
“So, I’m proposing that you choose a day to suit and that every week, on that day, the artists’ hub is held here.”
“At the club,” she says flatly.
“Uh, yes. That’s right. All you’d be doing is providing the venue and we’d handle everything else... We’d need the usual facilities to be open so that the visitors could buy refreshments, and they’d have to be fairly priced, as many of them would be on modest incomes. But it would be enough to cover your expenses for central heating, cleaning and so on. And—”
“Let me stop you there.” She frowns, fiddling with her necklace again. “This all sounds lovely. But why would we do it?”
Lovely? Helping the disadvantaged?
“Well, like you said, this place is empty, on account of one of your members blowing his brains out upstairs.”
She lets go of her necklace, which falls onto her chest. I shift in my seat. Perhaps that was a little heavy-handed.
I wait, my eye resting on the portrait of a man at the end of the room; some dandy in a wig with very dark under-eye shadows.
“What’s in it for you?” she asks.
“Quite a lot, as it happens. We’d put the word out in the industry—make sure plenty of local artists knew about it and, more importantly, lots of investors, critics, movers and shakers.”
“Does anyone say that anymore?”
“I just did.”
“Carry on.” She picks up a fountain pen, playing with it, clicking its lid on and off.
“So, the artists would not only gather here to swap ideas, meet influential people and network, but they’d also exhibit work on a rotational basis in the Green Room.”
“The Green Room.”
“Well, yeah. That’s the main room where the bar is, isn’t it?”
What was she thinking? Put the riffraff upstairs? In some gloomy corner?
We’re not putting them up there.
“Go on,” she says.
“Okay. So, they’d exhibit their work and we would handle negotiations and acquisitions, taking a cut.”
“I see. So, this is a moneymaker for, uh...” She glances at my business card. “...Moon & Co.?”
“Not really. I mean, it would generate profits, yes. But we’re proposing to give them to charity.”
“Which charity?”
“Rape Crisis.” I don’t even blink.
There’s a tinkle of her bracelets as she lifts her arm, smoothing the ends of her hair. “What’s your motivation for setting this up?”
I tap my teeth together silently. I guessed that she would ask this. “I knew the artist. She was a distant relative.”
“Was?”
“She passed away recently. Didn’t I mention that?”
I tap my teeth again, watching her. She’s good at hiding her thoughts. I haven’t a clue whether she’s interested or bored.
“Then what’s the point of exhibiting her work?” she asks.
“Because she was gifted, but she didn’t have any money or connections.”
“I thought you said she was a relative? Surely you were well-placed to help her in your line of work?”
Somehow, I manage not to blush. “No. I didn’t know about her until recently.”
“I see.”
I look at the dandy in the wig again, steeling myself. She won’t break me, get to me. Not here.
“Look, Florence, I know it’s too late for the artist, but posthumous success is better than none. Van Gogh sold only one painting in his lifetime. Did you know that?”
“No,” she replies. “I’m not exactly an art buff.”
“Well, it’s true. History’s full of talented people who died in poverty and were only recognized afterward.”
“So, your motives are altruistic?”
“Kind of,” I say. “Although that makes me sound better than I am.”
“Modest too.”
I smile politely, shift position. The cushions are very padded, bouncy, perhaps to make people feel taller, more important, than they really are. I wonder whether Max ever sat in here, whether Florence DiMaggio knew him, fancied him.
“I still don’t understand how this would solve my problem,” she says. “Members may be slim on the ground right now, but memories are short. Once a few months have passed, if we can ride it out, we’ll be back to normal.”
“With all due respect, I beg to differ. I think there’s an energy that hangs around places. I don’t mean ghosts rattling chains. Just that people are more superstitious than you might think.” I gesture around the room. “You can decorate with as many twig lights as you like. But there are plenty of other places in this city where posh people can meet, places where someone didn’t—”
“Okay. I get it.” She rests her elbows on the table, linking hands. “Look, all this is very interesting, but obviously I’m going to need to go away and think about it.”
“Absolutely.” I know when I’m being fobbed off. “Although there are some stipulations that I haven’t mentioned yet, which you would need to hear before making any decisions...”
“What stipulations?” She raises her eyebrows at me.
“It may sound a bit strange but the—”
“Oh. I think we went past that point a while back.” She smirks, laughing lightly.
I ignore this, keep my face straight. “Well, firstly, we’d insist on the thirteen paintings and the charcoal sketches being displayed in the hallway, with plaques identifying the subject and the artist. I’d need a legal guarantee that the artwork would remain there permanently, no matter what happened to the building in the future... So, basically, you could keep that picture of the club’s founder, Sir What’s-his-name, but—”
“Sir Graves.”
“Yes, him. He could stay. But the others—all those photos would have to go.”
She looks astonished. “Why?”
“Because they’re all men, for a start. It doesn’t reflect current times. There’s not even a picture of you there, and you’re the president. And besides, one of them is the man who committed suicide.”
She gazes at me. I can tell she wasn’t aware of that. “You seem very knowledgeable on the subject.”
“Not really. I’m just thorough when I undertake a project.”
“And possibly when you have a personal stake?” She cocks her head scrutinizingly.
“Only insomuch as I’m passionate about the idea,” I say. “I don’t like elitism. And the whole premise of this club is divisive, selective and exclusive.”
“And yet you want to do business with us.” She folds her arms. “I find that very strange.”
“It’s not for me. It’s for the artist.”
“So you keep saying.”
She’s tough; I can see that I’m going to have to be tough right back.
“I think you should know that the man who killed himself upstairs did it because...” I twist in my seat. These words never get any easier. “...He sexually assaulted someone here on these premises. And if word were to get out, well, you can imagine what that would do to the club.”
Two perfect circles of red form on her cheeks. “I don’t believe you,” she says huskily.
“Believe it,” I reply. “It’s true.”
Her tone changes to accusatory. “What is this?” She doesn’t take her eyes off me. “What do you want?”
“For you to consider my proposal in good faith.”
“Good faith?” She smiles in a way that I don’t like.
I reach for my bag, setting it on my lap. “Look, you either accept the proposal or you don’t. But I’d seriously think about it, if I were you. It’s win-win. You keep the club alive and do something good for the community at the same time. The PR would be a dream—art, charity, equality... Clubs like this can’t operate like they used to. You, of all people, must know that. Only a few decades ago, you wouldn’t even have been allowed to set foot in here.”
I’m on a roll now, stabbing the table with my finger as I speak, my tongue disconnecting from my brain. “And that’s what this project’s all about—opening doors for others. Not just the chosen few. Holly, the artist, knew all about that. The charcoal sketches I told you about? All of closed doors.”
She pulls a silver thread from her dress, perhaps not meaning to. “You’re obviously very invested in this, but would you be able to produce a legally binding agreement for the venture?”
“Being drafted as we speak.” That’s not quite true.
“Well, then, I’ll take it to the board.” Standing up, she flicks her hair over her shoulders. “We won’t be meeting until the New Year, but I’ll give you an answer as soon as I have one.”
Her voice is icy, all camaraderie gone. We shake hands. “I look forward to hearing from you, Florence. Thank you for your time. Sorry if I went too far.”
“You didn’t.” She gazes into my eyes, and I wonder whether I’ve shaken her world or whether it’ll be business as usual. Impossible to say. “I still think there’s something you haven’t told me.”
I smile briskly. “Isn’t there always?”
Florence DiMaggio doesn’t show me out. She remains in her Scandi-boardroom, adjusting her coin necklace, pulling strands from her dress. I walk in silence along the hallway, stopping in front of the photograph of the three men.
I’m sorry; of course I am. I make myself look at Daniel Brooke, taking in the juvenile acne, the army buzz cut.
I don’t know whether Max or Andy will ever come back here again, but if they do, I hope the first thing they see is Nicky—her haunting eyes tracking them from her portrait on the wall.
Letting myself out, I realize with a start what day it is today.
Twenty-second December.
On my way back to work, I wonder whether the date will add extra power to my cause. It’s a nice thought, but I know things don’t work like that, not in the real world. All I can say is that I gave it my best shot. Sometimes, that’s all the consolation we get.