Guns in the Gallery

Carole grinned. ‘I’m afraid I agree. Denzil Willoughby isn’t my cup of tea either.’

‘It’s rubbish, that’s what it is, just rubbish.’ He leant forward, overwhelming her by his proximity. ‘If Giles brings in more rubbish like this,’ he went on earnestly, ‘the Cornelian Gallery will be, like, closed within three months. And what’s going to happen to Bonita then?’

What’s going to happen to you then? Would it be easy to find another job as a picture-framer? Carole’s thoughts were instinctive, but she didn’t voice them.

‘I think Giles bullies her,’ Spider confided. ‘She can’t stand up to him. Bonita never wanted this exhibition, but Giles bullied her into having it. Then he insisted on it being on a Friday, and Friday’s, like, Bonita’s day off, her special day when she goes to London. She never misses that, but Giles just doesn’t listen to her. He needs someone to tell him to, like, stop meddling in his mother’s affairs.’

‘That someone being you maybe?’

‘I might at that,’ Spider replied, and then looked almost embarrassed at having said so much. Big speeches didn’t come naturally to him.

At that moment Ted Crisp lumbered up to join them. Carole introduced the two men, who to her surprise seemed instantly to get on and start talking. Or, that is to say, Ted started telling his stock of old jokes and Spider seemed more than happy to listen to them. Carole Seddon would never understand masculine conversation. She slipped away unnoticed into the throng.

In the confusion at the end of Fennel Whittaker’s tirade, no one had noticed that Jude had been one of the few people who left the Cornelian Gallery. Outside the warmth held the promise of summer evenings not too far ahead.

While the other departing guests went on their way, Jude lingered, looking along the line of shops for Fennel. But in vain. There was no sign of the girl. For a moment Jude was about to go round the back of the parade, suspecting that Fennel might have taken her sorrows down to the beach. But then she noticed some movement from inside a Mini parked along the road.

She moved towards it. In the passenger seat sat Fennel Whittaker, the bottle of red wine tipped up, pouring its contents into her mouth. When Jude tapped on the driver’s side window, the girl appeared not to hear her. She tried the door handle, but it was locked.

That sound made Fennel Whittaker look towards her visitor. After a moment’s hesitation, she clicked a button which released the central locking. Jude opened the door and slipped into the driver’s seat.

‘Didn’t realize it was you, Jude. Thought it was my parents. Haven’t got the energy to have another boring heart-to-heart with them.’

Though the girl was undoubtedly very drunk, she was still in control. Her words were not slurred, just a bit faster and louder than normal.

‘So you had a relationship with Denzil Willoughby?’ asked Jude.

‘Yes. Dreadful word that, isn’t it, “relationship”? Sounds like a purely business arrangement. Some bank managers these days are called “Relationship Managers”. Did you know that? I think the word should be kept for people like them, to refer to professional dealings, not to cover all the messy business of living with someone and having sex and making plans and being disappointed. There ought to be another word for that.’

‘Was your . . . whatever this new word is . . . with Denzil Willoughby particularly messy?’

‘I don’t think particularly messy. They all are, aren’t they? At least all of mine have been. What about you, Jude? Have you had a lot of messy ones?’

‘My fair share, I’d say.’

‘Well, I think I’ve had more than my fair share.’ Fennel Whittaker let out a bitter laugh. ‘Though I don’t think “fairness” really comes into it. And to be fair to the men who’ve had relationships with me, I don’t think it can have been easy for them. Never knowing from one minute to the next what person, what version of me, was going to come through the door.’

‘I’ve had depressive friends,’ said Jude gently, ‘who’ve said that the comfort of having an ongoing relationship is that you’ve got someone who knows you’re the same person, whatever mood you’re in.’

‘Well, your friends have been luckier than I have!’ Fennel’s anger was less as she went on. ‘Men are always making jokes about women’s moodiness, uncomfortable jokes about menstrual cycles, but in my experience the women I know have been models of consistency compared to the men. Mind you, any man who takes me on gets a bellyful of moodiness.’ A wistfulness crept into her tone. ‘That’s why I got so excited when I met Denzil. At first he seemed to understand my personality, even see virtues in it. He said that all great artists are volatile, that the volatility is an essential ingredient in the art. He was very understanding.’

‘From what I saw of him this evening he didn’t seem very understanding.’