I can see she’s thinking about her own apartment being repossessed and the gallery being taken away.
‘Yeah, exactly,’ agrees Artsy. ‘That’s why I’m so excited to be exhibiting with you guys. I’ve never felt the need to show my work before, never wanted to, but now I know this is totally the right home, totally the right thing to do,’ he enthuses, flinging his arms around.
‘Great.’ I smile. Gosh, this is amazing. Finally something is going right.
‘Yeah, I’m totally stoked about the concept of having an exhibition and not selling my art but giving it away for free. I mean, it’s genius!’
There’s a pause.
‘Excuse me?’ Magda looks suddenly confused. ‘Free?’
‘Yeah, it’s, like, your philosophy, right? Art should be for everyone, no matter if you’ve got a million dollars in your pocket or not even a dime.’
I feel a cold, creeping dread. He cannot be saying what I think he is saying.
‘You want to give your art away?’ I venture cautiously, the smile freezing on my face. I hardly dare speak the words. ‘For free?’
Making a gun with his fingers, he points it at me and pretends to pull the trigger. ‘Bullseye!’ He grins, looking pleased with himself.
‘Bullseye?’ croaks Magda in a strangled voice.
‘Rather than sell it?’ I persist, in dazed disbelief.
‘Hell, yeah.’ He nods, still grinning. ‘It’s the future of art. Art for the masses.’
I’m trying to remain calm, but inside I’m that little figure on the bridge in Munch’s The Scream. I swallow hard. OK, don’t panic, Lucy. You’ve got to turn this around. You’ve got to change his mind. Think, goddam it. Think. ‘Yeah, it’s an amazing idea, truly genius.’ I summon my courage and take a deep breath. ‘It’s just . . .’
‘Just what?’ Pausing from bouncing cheerfully around on his big purple Nike trainers, Artsy looks at me and frowns. ‘Temperamental artist’ is screaming all over his pouting face.
I stall. It’s just that this will mean that Magda will lose everything, because she’s relying not only on the publicity that his exhibition will bring, but the commission on sales to save her business, her livelihood and her home. I glance across at her. Her face has paled and she looks slightly bewildered, like my nan used to look when my granddad had died, as if she can’t quite comprehend what’s going on.
I glance back at Artsy. How can I tell him all that?
I can’t, can I?
‘It’s just such an incredible idea of yours,’ I say at last, forcing a bright smile. ‘Truly genius.’
It’s like flicking on the flattery switch. ‘I know, right?’ His smile snaps right back on. ‘OK, well, if that’s all sorted . . .’ He goes to high-five me and Magda. ‘Later, peeps.’ And striding across the gallery in his lederhosen, he disappears out of the door and on to the streets of Manhattan.
For a moment neither of us speaks. I’m still trying to absorb what’s just happened. One minute everything seemed to be going so fantastically well and then the next . . .
Apprehensively I turn sideways to look at Magda. Crumpled into a chair, she looks tinier than ever, almost childlike.
‘Magda, I’m sorry,’ I begin falteringly.
For a moment I don’t think she hears me. It’s as if she’s miles away, staring into space, and then her head tips slightly and she looks up. ‘Sorry?’
‘About the gallery, about everything.’ I wave my arms helplessly.
Her heavily mascaraed eyes flick around the gallery, as if taking everything in, before turning to face me. ‘Don’t be sorry,’ she says quietly.
‘I know, but—’
‘Never be sorry.’ Her voice is still low, but there’s a steeliness to it, and drawing herself up to her full height, she seems to summon an inner strength from somewhere. ‘So I lose the gallery? Lose the apartment?’ Her eyes flash with determination. ‘So what? My relatives lost everything in the war. They lost each other.’
Our eyes meet and all at once I see a depth in Magda that I’ve never seen before. I’ve seen her being loud and outrageous, witnessed her exaggerations and dramatics, listened to her crazy stories and been amused by her innate humour, even when she doesn’t realise it. But this is something else. Something different. Something noble.
Something pretty goddam special, I think, feeling a sudden surge of respect.
Seemingly galvanised, she takes a deep breath and stands up. ‘This is not a reason to be sad. This is reason to celebrate,’ she declares, beginning to pace around the gallery. ‘We are going to exhibit the hottest artist in town. In the world most probably!’ Flinging her arms out wide, she turns to me, her eyes flashing with exhilaration. ‘This is wonderful, Loozy, wonderful!’
Her enthusiasm is infectious, and despite everything I feel myself getting swept up in it. She’s right. Artsy is the hottest artist out there right now. No matter what happens afterwards, the fact that he’s chosen our gallery to stage his first proper exhibition is a huge achievement. The publicity will be incredible.
‘We’ll have to have a really great party,’ I say with a smile, ‘and this time we’re getting real champagne.’ Even if it means putting it on my credit card, I tell myself determinedly.
‘Real champagne, real everything! It will be incredible,’ cries Magda. Bending down, she scoops up Valentino and hugs him to her tightly. ‘People will talk about it for ever. This gallery will not close quietly. Oh, no, we will go out in a blaze of glory! Like The Titantic!’
‘The Titanic?’ I ask, slightly bewildered.
‘It was sinking, but the band still played on,’ she says, her lips quivering. ‘The band played on to the very end.’ She looks at me misty-eyed and, reaching for my hand, pulls me into a group hug: me, Magda and Valentino. ‘That’s what we’ll do, Loozy. We will play on to the very end.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
The rest of the morning is spent brainstorming ideas for the exhibition, which is going to be in six weeks’ time. That’s if Magda can hold off the bank until then. Apparently they’ve issued her with a foreclosure notice, as she’s been defaulting on the mortgage for months.
That’s not all. Now that her finances are no longer a secret, she tells me about how she’s been racking up credit-card debt, remortgaging her apartment to free up capital, gaining interest on the interest with no hope of ever being able to pay back the loan. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the whole time this has been going on she’s kept it a secret from everyone. She didn’t want to worry anyone. She didn’t want to admit how it was all falling apart, not even to herself, so she shouldered it alone.
‘Have you told your children yet?’ I ask, as she finishes telling me everything.
For the first time she falters. ‘No, not yet.’ She shakes her head. She’s being remarkably upbeat, Olympian, in her determination, but I can see in her eyes that telling her children is the worst thing and my heart goes out to her. I have a great affection for Magda and I really respect her. I just wish there was something I could do, some way I could help.
But all I can do is be supportive and try to be positive. So, pinning on a happy face, I attempt to mirror her mood and be upbeat, but it’s difficult. As soon as the gallery closes, I’ll lose my job, and with it my visa to stay in America. I’ll have to move back to London and say goodbye to New York.
At the thought I feel a stab of sadness and my mind flicks to— I stop it, before it can even go there. Like I said, I’m not thinking about that stuff any more. That’s it. I’m done.
With Magda’s blessing I leave work at lunchtime and head uptown to the hospital, where I’ve arranged to meet Kate. According to her, it’s one of the best, and I don’t doubt it. Knowing my sister, as soon as Jeff got his diagnosis, she will have gone full throttle into research mode, finding out the best treatment, the best hospital, the best doctor. She will have made it her mission to become an expert on everything there is to know about testicular cancer.
&nbs
p; Sure enough she meets me in the lobby clutching several colour-coordinated files and a briefcase that’s bulging with paperwork.
‘What’s in there?’ I ask, going to give her a hug.
‘Research,’ she says briskly, greeting my embrace with her customary statue-like stiffness.
My sister’s husband might have cancer, but there’s obviously no need to get affectionate about it.
‘Where’s Jeff?’ I ask, glancing around.
‘He went to the bathroom. He’s nervous,’ she says in a way that couldn’t seem less nervous. ‘I told him this was perfectly routine. I’ve got all the statistics.’ She waves a green file at me. ‘According to a recent study done by the National Cancer Institute, if the cancer hasn’t spread outside the testicle, the five-year relative survival rate is ninety-nine per cent.’
But what about the one per cent? pipes up that tiny, terrified voice inside my head that likes to scare me with ‘What if?’s. Determinedly I ignore it.
‘He’s going to be fine.’ I nod.
‘Of course.’ She nods back. ‘No question.’
‘Hey, ladies.’
We both turn to see Jeff walking down the corridor towards us. He’s lost even more weight since I last saw him and I try not to let the shock of his appearance show on my face as I go towards him and give him a hug.
‘So, do you come here often?’ he quips, injecting his easy humour into the situation as always.
I laugh. ‘Is that the chat-up line you used on my sister?’
‘No, she was the one chatting me up,’ he replies, throwing her a mischievous smile.
She tuts indignantly. ‘No, I was not. I remember it distinctly. It was at a Halloween party and you asked me if I’d ever kissed an Irish man.’
‘And what did you say?’ Amused by their quarrel, I turn to my sister. I’ve never heard this story before.
‘I said, “Yes, several, when I worked for McGrath’s law firm in Dublin.”’
She says it completely straight-faced and I can’t help laughing. That is so Kate. She has an answer for everything. Even cheesy chat-up lines.
‘So what did you do?’ I look at Jeff, who’s loving this.
‘Oh, you know, I hit her on the head with my club and dragged her back to my cave.’
‘You did not,’ gasps Kate, her feminist principles visibly rising up within her.
‘No, she’s right, I didn’t,’ he acquiesces with a grin. ‘I told her that I’d never kissed a beautiful blonde English girl before, and could I?’
There’s a pause as they exchange looks.
‘You old romantic,’ says my sister quietly, giving him a little squeeze.
I watch them. It’s a tender moment. Her keeping it all together with her colour-coordinated files, sharp suit and business-as-usual attitude; him looking ready to fall apart, his face unshaved, his eyes betraying his fear. Two people lost in a moment while all around them the big busy machine of the hospital churns.
‘Speaking of softies.’ Jeff turns to me. ‘I hear you tried to rescue a cat the other night, got into a little bit of trouble.’
Oh crap.
‘Trouble? What kind of trouble?’
I swear my sister’s ears are like a metal detector. They detect the slightest thing and that’s it, she’s off, bleeping away.
‘Oh, there was no trouble,’ I say hastily.
‘I have a couple of friends working down the Ninth Precinct. One of the guys recognised the name, said it was a British girl and wondered if Kate was related.’ He winks. ‘I didn’t realise we had a criminal in the family.’
‘Lucy, what on earth have you been up to?’ demands Kate accusingly. My sister is looking at me in the exact same way she looked at me when she caught me giving her Sindy doll ‘a haircut’. Well, how was I to know it wouldn’t grow back? I was four!
‘Nothing,’ I protest, shooting a strangled look at Jeff. ‘There was a misunderstanding. The police didn’t charge me.’
‘Oh my Lord, you were arrested?’ Kate almost shrieks.
‘Well, sort of . . . but I was released without charge,’ I add quickly.
‘Lucy, I’m a lawyer!’ she gasps. ‘If my CEO finds out, this could potentially damage my bid for partner! My God, you’re always getting into trouble.’ She shakes her head and glares at me furiously. ‘It’s always been the same, me having to bail you out, me being the one to pick up the pieces, me being the one—’
‘Hey, honey, it was no big deal,’ interrupts Jeff, stepping in to defend me. ‘My friend told me. No one’s getting into trouble, OK?’ He rests his hand on her arm and I see her calm down. She’s like a tightly coiled spring, which under the circumstances is understandable, but still, I can’t help feeling a bit hurt. ‘Said some guy Adam had to come pick you up,’ adds Jeff, turning to me, eyebrows raised.
His name stings.
‘Who’s Adam?’ frowns Kate.
‘I told you about him the other day,’ I say quietly, in reference to our lunch at the weekend. ‘You probably don’t remember. I was going on about stuff, and you had a lot more important things on your mind.’ I glance at Jeff, then stare awkwardly down at my sandals.
‘New boyfriend, huh?’ he says good-naturedly.
‘No, we just went on a couple of dates. It didn’t work out.’ I shrug. I catch Kate’s eye. She’s looking at me and I can tell she’s thinking of something to ask me, but I glance quickly away. I don’t want to talk about Adam, especially not now. ‘Not everyone’s as lucky as you two,’ I add with a small smile.
‘He obviously didn’t use the Irish line,’ says Jeff with a grin.
‘No, he didn’t,’ I say softly, my mind flicking back to the cinema, sitting together in the darkness, his fingers shyly interlacing mine. ‘He didn’t use any lines.’
‘We should go up to your room.’ Kate suddenly checks her watch and I snap back. ‘You have your appointment with Dr Coleman in ten minutes.’
‘OK, boss,’ salutes Jeff, making a joke of it, but I catch him blanch slightly. He glances at me. I pin on my most encouraging smile and he winks. ‘Right, ladies, let’s do it.’
Dr Coleman is a kind-faced man with frameless glasses, a white coat, which sports about a dozen different pens in his breast pocket, and a patch of white bristles on the side of his chin that he missed when he was shaving.
It’s odd how you notice these trivial details, as if your mind tries to distract itself by concentrating on the minutiae, rather than face the bigger picture.
This is Jeff’s oncologist. He’s a cancer doctor, and the only reason he’s standing here now, in front of me, shaking Jeff’s hand and making polite small talk with Kate, is because Jeff has cancer.
I leave the room and sit outside in the waiting area so they can have some privacy. The doctor is here to talk through the operation, which is scheduled for later this afternoon, and knowing my sister, she’ll want him to answer all of her questions. As I left she was already pulling out sheaves of paper from various folders and asking him to ‘clarify a few points’, as if she’s discussing a high-powered merger and not her husband’s illness.
I flick idly through a bunch of magazines, not really paying attention. My heart’s not in reading about celebrities and goggling over their bikini pictures. Putting them down, I look around the waiting room, my gaze landing briefly on the other people waiting for loved ones and family. I knew there would be a lot of hanging around and I meant to bring a book to read, but at the last minute something stopped me reaching for one of the dozens of unread paperbacks on my shelf and instead grab an old sketchbook of mine.
I pull it out now. It’s all dog-eared around the edges and half the pages are filled with drawings from years ago, but I turn over to a fresh, blank page. I stare at its whiteness, momentarily nervous. It’s been so long since I drew anything that maybe I’ve forgotten how to, maybe I can’t do it any more. Nevertheless the same something that made me reach for this sketchbook makes me rummage around in the bottom of my
bag and dig out a pencil. It makes me look around, at the different faces and their expressions, the different emotions – hope, fear, boredom.
And makes me start sketching again.
I’m not sure how much time passes. I vaguely notice the doctor leaving the room, but Kate remains inside, so I remain outside.
Finally I see two nurses pushing an empty stretcher into Jeff’s room and a few minutes later he’s wheeled out. He must be on his way for his operation. I don’t get up. I don’t want them to see me. Instead I watch as Kate follows him down the corridor to the lift, her head bent over him, her thick curtain of blonde hair providing a screen of privacy as she gives him a kiss. Then he’s gone, disappeared into the lift and taken to theatre.
Then I’m there, right beside her, just as I promised, suggesting a walk outside and telling her not to worry, that he’ll be fine.
‘He’ll be fine,’ I say for the umpteenth time, as we sit outside in the quadrangle, drinking coffee. It’s a universal thing: bad coffee and hospitals, the same the world over, I muse, as I sip the bitter dregs from my plastic cup.
‘I know,’ nods Kate for the umpteenth time. ‘Of course.’ She stares silently into her cup, chewing her lip, and then, unexpectedly, I notice a lone tear roll down her face and splash into her coffee. One tear, that’s all, but it speaks volumes. I can’t remember the last time I saw my sister cry. In fact, I’m not sure I can even remember my sister crying. Ever.
I stare at her in shock as she lets out a whimper. ‘Oh, Luce, what if he’s not fine? What if it’s spread? What if—’ She breaks off, unable to say the words.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ I say quietly. ‘The operation will be a success.’
‘How do you know?’ She rounds on me angrily. ‘What if he’s not OK? What if he’s in the percentage that doesn’t make it?’
I flinch slightly, but hold firm. ‘Jeff’s a fighter. He’s not just some random per cent,’ I say determinedly, forcing my voice to remain steady. ‘He’s married to you, remember. He’s got to be made of strong stuff.’