Part 4 (1/2)

David tapped the polished surface of his desk. The door to the gallery opened; voices murmured but didn't linger. 'So tell me, what are you trying to achieve here?'

'I take a d.a.m.n good picture,' said Gina, wis.h.i.+ng he wouldn't put her on the defensive.

'Sure you do, hon, but you know what, I think you're too influenced by your day job.'

'I don't have a day job. This is what I do.'

'I mean your newlyweds. All that romantic touchy-feely stuff. I think you could be harder, know what I mean? It would make your work stronger, more acute. There's a lot of potential here.' He continued to toy with some of the nude studies. He picked up one in which the jagged scar on Yusef's thigh was echoed by the play of light and shadow across his torso. 'These are a bit sub-Mapplethorpe, but there might be a market for them.'

She had to grit her teeth. She'd always had a problem with her temper. She'd once thrown a bottle of nail varnish at the Lion King. Another man might have thrown it back, but he'd ducked and then, being a priest, he'd crossed the room to take her hands between his and calm her down. David might simply put everything away and show her the door. He was influential and it would be foolish to antagonise him.

'I hoped you'd say that.'

'There could be an issue with their age, permissions and so forth. Though no way do these look like kids to me.'

'I have the boys' consent. I've told them that anything I can get I'll pa.s.s on.'

'You want me to make enquiries?'

'That would be great, but it isn't...' She fidgeted in her seat, uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. 'I mean, those are a side line, to try and help them make a living. There's also the question of... We did talk about a show.'

'We did?' He drew his hand across his stubble and tugged an ear lobe, ruminating. His ears were remarkably small, Gina had always thought, delicate pink whorls that you might see on a young child. And weren't those scars behind them? His jawline was so tight she suspected a facelift. Gina and David were more or less the same age, both trying to preserve the illusion of youth. Unlike him, she didn't have the money for plastic surgery but she knew how to work magic with cosmetics.

'I'm programmed up until next March,' he told her. 'I figured I could put on a group show in April. There are a few other guys who've sent me some interesting work.'

'Other photographers?'

'Well, sure.'

This was a blow. But hadn't she already learnt that life was a b.l.o.o.d.y race and there were always compet.i.tors snapping at her heels? What was the alternative? To pickle herself as her mother had done? As far as she could tell, Phoebe lay on a couch in her hacienda hooked up to a constant drip of Gordon's gin and Latin American TV soap opera. She still danced at parties but only in that brief window between inertia and inebriation, when she'd fall over.

Gina would have preferred to be the sole exhibitor, but she had to be realistic. Even a group show offered exposure; it was better than nothing. 'I'd be happy for you to consider me,' she said, not wanting to seem too eager.

'It's a question of balance,' he began, as if delivering a lecture. 'Between one's instincts for art and the need for... I guess you'd call it saleability.'

'Oh G.o.d,' said Gina. 'Not that old chestnut again. Anyhow, I don't understand what you're getting at do you think I'm too commercial, or not enough?'

'Your work is charming,' David said, 'but you know what: charming doesn't command the same price, not with serious collectors. You could be way more hard-hitting.'

'Of course I could! If you want challenging I'll give it to you.' Images flashed through her brain of the crypt, the dark unsavoury s.p.a.ce, barred windows, a brooding ma.s.s of vaulted stone; the scarred youths with wounds both mental and physical. 'And then you'll be telling me to tone it down.'

'No, hon. I could double your prices. So here's the deal: I'll pencil you into the programme. Show me some more stuff later in the year and if I like it and you fit in with my other choices I'll take you on. Happy?'

She nodded although she didn't see how this was an improvement. He had hedged his offer with so many qualifiers his commitment was negligible.

'These,' he added, making a neat pile of the nudes and returning the rest to the folder, 'I'll hang on to, shall I? You got anything else you'd like me to sell?'

Once, two or three years ago, when she'd had a bad run of late payments and nothing much on the horizon, she'd drawn the line at hocking her equipment or calling her mother, so had sold a couple of paintings instead. Felix wouldn't have minded, she knew, but she'd felt treacherous all the same and a failure for not keeping his collection together. David's eyes had lit up he hadn't charged gallery commission rates, but he'd taken a cut none the less.

'No I haven't.' He'd riled her with his sub-Mapplethorpe reference and now he was expecting her to be grateful for his largesse. 'And I need to know if you're buying those off me straight? Because this is a sensitive area. I don't want Father Leone to find out or he might forbid me access. At the same time the boys need money, and I need to cover my costs.'

'Sweetheart, you know I'd no more screw you over than jump your bones...' He drew his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and handed her a fifty euro note. 'Take them out to lunch on me. I'll give you a call if I get any offers.'

'Lunch,' echoed Gina, enjoying the crisp feel of the cash and feeling mildly insulted at the same time.

David swept back his hair and checked his handsome watch. 'Yeah, it's darn near time. I'm meeting Sergio and a couple of friends for a bite. I booked the table for four but I daresay you could squeeze in if you wanted to hang out with us some more.'

Gina marvelled at David's ability to make an invitation sound discouraging. It had been Sergio, amiable, good-natured Sergio, who'd asked her over for the Sunday meal; he loved to cook for a crowd. 'Thanks,' she said, 'but I already have a date.'

'Sure you do.' His eyes travelled to the note she was tucking into her purse.

'No, not with them.'

His thin lips cracked into a smile. 'Ah, do I detect a new man on the horizon?'

'Sadly, I'm making do with the old one. It's not what you think. I've arranged to see a girlfriend who works near here. She finishes at one, so I should get a move on. Thank you for...' For what, exactly, an offer he might not keep? 'I know it will be great working with you.'

He gave a stilted little bow from the waist. 'Take care, hon.' Then he called her back. 'Hey, Gina, you've left your portfolio behind.'

She beamed at him sweetly. 'Do you mind? I don't really want to lug it around. I'll call back for it in a day or so. Give you a chance to take another look.'

She was on the street again before he could argue, fired up for her next encounter: one where she would be calling the shots.

6.

The person Gina intended to haul over the coals for the next hour was her former roommate, Vicki. They'd shared a flat when both had first come to Rome, but they no longer shared a circle of friends. Vicki had captured a dentist and lived several kilometres away on a housing development that had tried to copy the English model, with garages and unsuccessful areas of lawn. Gina visited rarely: for the christening of the couple's twins and two or three blind-date dinner parties, equally disastrous. As a rule they met in the city for occasional c.o.c.ktails or lunches.

Vicki worked for an accommodation agency, whose windows displayed wide-angled shots of seemingly s.p.a.cious apartments with huge monthly rents. When Gina entered, Vicki was talking into the mouthpiece of a headset and scrolling through an online magazine. She clicked off the screen and completed her conversation with a flurry of 'ciaos' and 'grazies'.

'Gina, darling!' Vicki seized her bag, pushed her chair beneath her desk and waved her colleagues goodbye. She used to be small and thin but was now small and plump, like a full-breasted robin. 'Where do you want to go?'

'I don't mind,' said Gina. 'You're paying.'

Vicki flushed and hunted for her dark gla.s.ses. By the time they were out in the melee of office workers lighting cigarettes and drivers mounting the pavement to negotiate inadequate parking s.p.a.ces, she'd hidden her eyes. 'You're right. My treat, I said, so let's go to La Fontana.'

Gina could have put money on La Fontana a week ago. It was a traditional trattoria with an uninventive menu, but you could always find a seat. It was their default option. They agreed it would be cooler inside and sat towards the back, near the wall-hung air conditioning unit. A paper tablecloth was clipped over the gingham fabric one; colourful ceramic flasks of oil and vinegar and a vase of yellow daisies squatted between them.

'Heavens, it's been ages,' Vicki said with false enthusiasm. 'I feel so bad about not getting in touch. But it's been one thing after another with the twins. Everything comes in double doses... Anyway, I'm really glad you rang.'

'You are?'

'Well, of course.'

'Don't you want to know why?'

Vicki leaned forward. 'I have to take my shoes off, my feet are killing me.' There was a smack of leather hitting the tiles. A waiter was hovering so she lifted her sungla.s.ses to study the menu but, as usual, chose a salad. Gina ordered soup, followed by veal and half a carafe of wine; she was hungry.