Part 22 (2/2)

The bus was approaching. She caught her breath, didn't breathe out until she had swung aboard. Then she dialled, the mobile sweaty in her palm. 'Hi, David, it's me. Mission accomplished.'

'How did it go?'

'Good, I think. Morani's offered me first refusal on the commission.'

'You aren't going to refuse it, are you?'

'I need to check over the terms before I sign but, you know me, I'll do anything that raises the profile.'

Progress as they wound towards Castel Sant'Angelo was slow. The area around the Vatican was always a bottleneck and in addition they were halted by a temporary traffic light. She had a good view of a piece of stone wall. She added, 'So if you're looking for grat.i.tude, darling, you have it. In spades. He wouldn't have noticed my work if you hadn't given me the show and nudged him to come along... so do you want me to lick your shoes now or later?'

'You sound high, hon.'

'I feel high. Get on with it, tell me the big news.'

'Are you sitting down?'

'Well, I'm on a bus, but yes, I've managed to get a seat. It's not that crowded, but they're digging up some gas pipe in the road so we're stuck a while. You have my full attention.'

'You got my text?' said David. 'I think we may have a buyer.'

'That is so delicious! I hardly dared hope money would change hands. I thought the subject matter would be too challenging. Anyway, no matter. Tell me which one?'

'Two, as it happens. Numbers 42 and 43.'

'I can't remember your d.a.m.ned numbering, David! What are their t.i.tles?'

'You numbered them yourself. Aftermath 1 and Aftermath 2.'

'Aftermath?' said Gina as the bus finally lurched forward and gathered speed along the riverside. Through the streaky window she could see a party of schoolchildren strapped into backpacks, a daredevil scooter nipping along the narrow s.p.a.ce between their crocodile and the side of the bus.

'The pair you produced,' he said, 'when we had to take down your young football player. You are one h.e.l.l of a chancer, Gina, I'll give you that. But it turns out to be the best thing you could have done. No?' She didn't respond. 'Are you still there? We have to figure out a price. Do you know which shots I'm talking about?'

'Aftermath,' she said slowly. 'Yes, I know exactly which prints you mean. And they're not for sale.'

That steely voice of David's sharpened a fraction. 'Not for sale? What's your problema?'

'They were a last minute subst.i.tute, weren't they, because Bertie was putting pressure on and because you'd planned everything so rigorously we couldn't possibly allow any blank s.p.a.ces. According to you, the whole world would cave in if the proportion of gallery wall to frame was not absolutely precise. So I had to come up with the Aftermath pictures. But I don't want to sell them.'

'Why the h.e.l.l not?'

'Because...'

Because Sasha Mitch.e.l.l was back in Rome, and might actually still be in her apartment. This was extraordinarily bad luck and something she could never have foreseen. She hadn't expected the girl to return, let alone seek her out. But it seemed she'd only just arrived. If Gina acted fast enough there need be no repercussions, but she couldn't explain all this to David. He'd berate her for being unprofessional. 'I have my reasons,' she said.

'They'd better be good ones.'

'Just take them both down, will you?'

'What, in the middle of the show? Gina, you can't do this to me.'

'I'll find you something else.'

'We already went through your portfolio. Those were the most stunning. And the buyer thinks so too. What am I going to tell the guy? He's coming in to the gallery this afternoon and my instructions were to find out your price. Capisce?'

'Let me think about it then.'

'Half an hour,' said David. 'Don't keep me waiting.'

'Okay. Okay. I got the message.'

She switched off her phone, too agitated to make or receive any more calls. At Piazza Trilussa she stumbled homewards through the narrow streets. Moments ago she had been on cloud nine; why should anything change because Sasha Mitch.e.l.l had reappeared? The girl need never know. In fact, the sale of the pictures presented a solution. If the buyer took them away at once and she replaced them, David might not be happy, but hey, she'd have the money and he'd get his cut. She should ask for the highest price she dared. She toyed with numbers in her head and her step lightened.

Signora Bedini was out on the pavement in her slippers, pulling down the shop's shutters for lunch. She hardly ever left the premises or the flat above where she lived with her younger son. He sat at the till by the door collecting payment or raced around in a delivery van, dealing with orders. 'Ciao, come stai?' the signora hailed her, as if hoping for a chat: another chapter in the battle with her daughter-in-law. In the last instalment the grandchild had developed a shocking McDonalds habit.

'Bene grazie,' Gina called, not wanting to be delayed, speeding up as she neared her front door.

She was, she had to admit, apprehensive about dealing with Sasha and her friend. Arguably, since the girl's face was scarcely visible, permission should not be necessary. She'd prefer to get it, naturally, but doubted it would be granted. Gina had learnt, in her years of being photographed, to detach herself from the end product. The extraordinary looking person on the magazine page wasn't her; it was a two-dimensional creature, preened and primped and painted. In real life no one would recognise her. But try telling that to Sasha Mitch.e.l.l. She would be far too self-conscious to appreciate the power of the image Gina had created.

She needed to find a way of getting rid of the girls without arousing suspicion. If she could sweet-talk them, send them on some wild goose chase to another part of the city, out to the Catacombs for instance, it would give her time to get over to the gallery. Whereupon she'd have to sweet-talk David, who was a much tougher proposition, but she'd think of something.

She reached the top landing. No voices in her apartment: perhaps the girls had left, which would be a temporary relief. The tension constricting her neck and shoulders eased. She pushed her key into the lock. At least, she tried to push it but met resistance. Perplexed, she tried again and then thumped on the door.

'Sasha, are you in there? Stop playing silly b.u.g.g.e.rs.'

Silence. Why on earth would the girl block up her keyhole? She banged and listened once more; it was hard to tell whether there was anyone inside. She knelt and peered into the lock: nothing was visible. She poked at it uselessly with the key. Glue, that's what it must be. She'd heard of it as a student prank, like an apple-pie bed. Then it struck her that Sasha might have been after revenge, that she might already have visited the exhibition and seen the shots of herself in abandonment.

Gina grew cold. The day that had begun with such promise was splintering into fragments. She would not let the bad luck win out. She still had the girl's number on her phone, though she'd need to do more arm-twisting than sweet-talking at this stage. Standing in the small square of suns.h.i.+ne pooling from the rooflight, she thumbed through her contacts' list. She didn't preamble. 'This is Gina Stanhope,' she said when Sasha answered. 'What are you doing right now?'

'Right now?' Evidently the girl was too fl.u.s.tered to think of lying. 'I'm having lunch.'

'Where?'

'Oh, um, in a pizzeria called Ivo's. I'm sorry we didn't wait for you but the plumber came and fixed whatever it was, and then '

'Ivo's? San Francesco a Ripa?'

'Yes.'

'Don't leave,' said Gina. 'Wait for me there. I need to speak to you.'

She hung up without giving the girl time to reply. If she hurried she could get to the pizzeria in five minutes. She wouldn't allow Sasha Mitch.e.l.l the chance to run out on her. Meanwhile she had another call to make and she was well within her allotted half hour.

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