Chapter 16

CAROLINE, DUBAI, 2023, THE NIGHT OF HARRY'S DEATH

Surveying myself in the hotel room mirror, I smoothed my hair, then dabbed more concealer under my eyes to hide how little I had slept the night before, tossing and turning in an unfamiliar bed, freezing under air-conditioning I couldn't work out how to turn off.

Was my dress too low-key? I had wandered out of the hotel briefly that afternoon to see whether the nearby boutiques had anything more obviously glamorous, but everything was well out of my price range: Gucci. Prada. Dolce Gabbana.

Relax, Caroline, I told myself. Everyone there is going to be interested in what you have to say, not what you are wearing.

Give me a lecture hall, give me a seminar room, even a live TV studio and I'm fine. It was events like this one that always gave me the social jitters.

The butterflies in my stomach, the sense of being rooted to the spot even though there was somewhere I absolutely had to be, reminded me a little of the day Patrick and I got married, of staring at myself in the bathroom mirror and telling myself that I could do this, I could make myself do this, for Patrick's sake. That love could overcome my fear of loss. That hope could overcome dread.

It did not help knowing that Athena was going to be there, that tonight would be the first time we had seen each other in thirty years.

I slipped my feet into my shoes and tucked the invitation into my clutch bag.

"Caroline Cooper!" a voice boomed from across the courtyard outside the Lambert Gallery, where the party had gathered. It was Giles Pemberton, his face shiny above a silk cravat, his white linen jacket already showing signs of being sweated through.

I arranged my features into a smile and started toward him, scanning the other guests as I passed. For tonight's party, as expected, Patrick had assembled exactly the sort of glitzy art crowd I usually went to great lengths to avoid. Giles—famously the cattiest art critic in London—must be loving all this. I could imagine him mentally sharpening his quill already.

"Ma'am, can I offer you a glass of champagne?" a waiter asked as I passed him.

"Don't mind if I do," I heard Patrick's voice announce behind me.

How had he paid for all this? The entire eye-wateringly expensive production—the vintage Krug, the caterers, the set design, and afterward, apparently, an intimate VIP dinner. Not to mention the immaculate, bespoke suit he was sporting.

"To Juliette Willoughby," Patrick smiled, lifting his glass. Behind him, the lights in the towers of Dubai's financial district were flickering. The hulking gray arch at its heart—like a giant Lego version of the Arc de Triomphe—loomed over us.

"Has Harry not arrived yet?" I asked, suddenly aware that I hadn't seen him. Patrick's smile flickered.

"I dropped him off at the hotel this morning—he's staying at the same place you are—and I haven't heard from him since. Texted, called repeatedly, even asked the concierge to slip a note under his door. Nothing," Patrick said. "I'm just a little bit worried about him, actually."

"He didn't seem in a good way when I saw him at Longhurst," I said.

Patrick nodded grimly.

"I keep meaning to have a word with him about it. Rattling around that house on his own, I wouldn't be surprised if he has been hitting the bottle a bit hard. Still, it seems a real shame, coming all this way only to miss this. On which note, do make sure to grab one of those."

Another waiter was now circulating with a tray of flashlights, offering them to intrigued guests. Someone used theirs to illuminate their face from below, to laughs.

"Join us, on a descent into the subconscious," boomed a recorded voice from a speaker adjacent to the door of the gallery, causing several guests to spill their champagne in shock.

As a line began to form to enter the gallery, with people trying to turn their flashlights on, speculating about what was about to happen, I felt a tap on the shoulder. I turned to find myself face-to-face with Athena Galanis. I was not sure how she had managed it, but she had not aged a day.

"All very impressive, no?" she said. "Patrick told me you were going to be here, but I was not quite sure whether to believe him."

"He said you would be here too. Listen, Athena, about what happened, what I said..."

She made a gesture with her hand as if to brush the topic off.

"Let's not talk about that now. Ancient history. It's your verdict on this painting everyone is waiting to hear. You saw that's Dave White over there?" Athena gestured with her chin in the direction of a tall, middle-aged man in what I took to be designer sunglasses and a collarless silver leather jacket, standing in the center of a circle of admiring younger people. It sounded like he was halfway through a story about himself.

"I'm not sure I ever met Dave at Cambridge," said Athena. "But he seems to remember you and Patrick very well. And these days he is a very serious art collector indeed."

I bet Patrick wishes he had given him a lift back from Longhurst now, I thought to myself.

Dave White's hair looked a lot darker than I remembered it. His chin looked stronger, also.

"Has he had...?" I asked.

"So much work," confided Athena.

As we surveyed the line, she gave me a brief rundown of everyone else. The buyers. The advisors. Who already owned several Kahlos. Who had a villa with wall space they needed to fill. Who was actually surprisingly informed about art, despite what appearances might suggest.

"It's basically everyone who is anyone on the Dubai art-buying scene, is what you're telling me," I said.

"Dubai? More like the whole Middle East. There are people who've flown in from Qatar to be here. Bahrain. Riyadh. Jeddah."

Watching Patrick working the crowd, welcoming people, making them feel noticed, a little compliment for everyone, as happy as I had ever seen him, I could not help feeling proud. He had slogged long enough to get here, weathered enough setbacks. The disappointment of never quite achieving what everyone had predicted for him. The grind of constant precarity. The way it tells on you, year after year, having to make decisions constantly, all of them with a price tag attached, other people's livelihoods as well as your own depending on your making the right call, never quite knowing if there is even a right call to make. And now here he was, on top of his world.

And then Harry Willoughby shambled in.

He had immediately located a glass of champagne and was holding it at a slightly odd angle, as if he couldn't quite work out how to drink it.

"If you'll excuse me for a second, Athena," I said, and spotted Patrick exiting another conversation simultaneously.

He and I got to Harry at exactly the same moment. Unfortunately, so did Giles.

"Harry! Thank you so much for the invitation—I was thrilled my editor agreed to send me out here. This painting of yours is causing quite the stir."

Harry stared at him blankly. Neither of Harry's shoelaces was done up, I noticed. He was perceptibly swaying on his feet.

"Patrick, Caroline. Wonderful to see you too, of course," Giles continued. "So I was wondering if I could ask the three of you..."

Patrick offered an apologetic smile.

"I'm afraid we can't talk right now, Giles. We must have a proper catch-up and we'd love to give you an exclusive quote for the paper, but if you don't mind, we need to steal Harry for a moment now to talk through the running order of the evening."

As he was saying this, Patrick had placed his hand on the small of Harry's back. He was now steering him toward the gallery. I followed. "Harry," he said when we were out of earshot of Giles. "You could get yourself in trouble, being out and about here in a state like this. Not to mention, you could fuck up this whole thing."

Harry swayed again, to the extent I thought he might actually fall over, and glared at us balefully. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked like he had been sleeping in his dinner jacket, and his shirt was peculiarly buttoned up. He assured us in a slurring voice that this—the gesture itself spilled some of his champagne—was the first thing he'd had to drink all day.

"Sure," Patrick said. "Listen, Harry. We've got a little while before dinner starts. Why don't you come up to my office, gather yourself?"

We walked around the side of the building, in through the back entrance of the gallery, and into Patrick's office. Perhaps, Patrick suggested, Harry should have a nap right here on the sofa. Just a little twenty minutes to sharpen him up.

"Is everything okay, Harry?" I asked him.

"Of course," he snapped. "I'm fine. It's hot. I'm tired and I've come a long way, that's all. The question is will it all have been worth it. I can see they are enjoying the champagne, but will any of these buyers bite? Because I'm relying on this, Patrick. I'm relying on you."

"We are both relying on this," said Patrick. "Caroline has thrown her weight behind the work, and with the level of media attention we've received, I am pretty confident we'll secure a sale, and I am hopeful it will be swift. But nothing is ever a certainty in this business, Harry."

Patrick paused. His tone softened. "And I know that Longhurst is important to you, but it isn't everything," he said.

"Oh God, you don't understand," said Harry, his head dropping into his hands. "You can't possibly understand. This isn't just about Longhurst, Patrick. If we don't sell that painting tonight, I genuinely don't know what I am going to do."

PATRICK, DUBAI, 2023, THE NIGHT OF HARRY'S DEATH

"The VIPs are making their way to the dining room, Patrick," said my assistant, discreetly sticking her head around the office door. I nodded, mouthing five minutes.

"Harry, drink this," I said, handing him a glass of water. "And pull yourself together. There are some extremely big players out there tonight. Let's try not to scare any of them off, eh?"

Harry looked at me. He took a sip of water and grunted his assent. At least he did not obviously smell of booze. We might be able to pass this off as just posh British eccentricity. Now was the part of the evening that really mattered—all the top-tier buyers who had expressed interest in one room, around one table. The last thing I wanted was for the only surviving Willoughby to ruin it. On the other hand, if he was not there it might look even odder.

Usually my approach to a big-ticket sale would be far more strategic—decide on a list of targets and work my way down it in order, showing each the painting privately, saying it was for their eyes only, nudging them to make an offer and moving on to the next if they did not. But with Harry's absurdly tight cut-off point for the sale looming, I had taken the gamble of gathering them all together and giving them a deadline for sealed offers: midnight.

There were twelve interested parties in total: two Saudis, one minor member of the Qatari royal family (advised and accompanied by Athena), a French representative from the Louvre Abu Dhabi, two Emiratis, two Russians, two Lebanese, one American, and Dave White. It was like the start of a bad joke: What do you get when you put twelve billionaires in a gallery?

Rich, I hoped. Because there were only two things I knew with confidence about people this loaded, no matter what their country of origin. One: they love to hang out at extremely exclusive events with other extremely wealthy people. Two: they are always extremely competitive about just how wealthy they are.

We had pulled out all the stops to make the event feel special. There was a jazz band, a bar in the corner, and eight courses with a Surrealist theme ahead of us. There was a melting clock ice sculpture, lobster served on black Bakelite telephones, baked apples with tiny marzipan bowler hats for dessert washed down with Lapsang souchong served in furry teacups (an homage to Meret Oppenheim's Le Déjeuner en fourrure). Caroline was to give a speech. I had originally intended to ask Harry to say a few words too, but given his current state, I had scratched the idea.

The guests were making small talk as they waited to be seated. Most seemed to know one another already, acquaintances from the international art circuit. I had agonized over the seating plan, but before anyone sat, I quietly asked my assistant to swap the name cards so Caroline and I flanked Harry. As course after course arrived, he sat there mostly in silence, breathing heavily, sweating. The few times anyone did try to engage him in conversation about the family connection to the artist, he answered briefly, vaguely. Overcompensating wildly, I did my best to ensure the conversation flowed.

Athena, sitting directly opposite, was impressive. An art advisor's role is tricky—a tightrope. The client must feel as if you're acting in their best interests, but your commission rises with the price they pay for the purchased work, so in some ways in the short term it's in your best interests for them to spend more. She had done her homework and was asking intelligent questions, all the while flipping back and forth from Russian to French to Arabic with casual ease—her client's English was faltering, so she was largely translating—talking confidently to Dave White about his business interests in the region, commiserating with the Russian about those pesky economic sanctions.

Of course Caroline answered all the inquiries addressed to her politely and animatedly, and spoke about Juliette beautifully. She could always bring that period in Paris to life—the context out of which this painting had emerged. She was radiant, her passion contagious. By the time dessert was served, the excitement in the room was unmistakable.

"Ladies and gentleman, if you would like to accompany me for your own, very private view..."

They followed me to the end of the corridor, talking among themselves, Harry and Caroline bringing up the rear. I pushed the door open and stepped through, beckoning them all inside. The only work in the room, it hung on the far wall. One by one they approached it. Leaned in to inspect. Stood back to admire. All the while I tried to read their faces, interpret their body language. They were clearly reading one another's too. Would the person who bought this piece for the price we were hoping to reach be the envy of their peers or a laughingstock? Was it worth reminding them how many different versions of Munch's Scream there were in existence, each one unique? How many versions of Leonardo's Salvator Mundi were currently being restored in the hope that they might be accepted as the master's original, despite one having sold for $450 million to the crown prince of Saudi Arabia?

I thanked them all for coming and reminded them that offers would need to be received shortly. In my office—I indicated where it was—there was a locked box for the sealed bids, my assistant on hand beside it to answer any questions about the process I had set out thus: the two highest bidders—if there were two—would then be invited to submit their best and final. There was a palpable shift of mood in the room, scattered nods, lots of poker faces.

As the band played in the background, the small talk—now slightly more stilted—continued. Athena was deep in conversation with her client. The two Saudi collectors were engaging in an animated discussion I couldn't understand; Dave White and the American were arguing about algorithms. Not a single one of them made any sort of move toward my office.

A waiter passed by with a tray of drinks and offered me one—I shook my head, mentally adding up the cost of every martini on his tray. I stared at Harry, who appeared to be telling a story about a Labrador to an unamused Emirati, wine sloshing from his glass.

I felt a sudden ice-cold hatred run through my veins. Was Harry trying to fuck this up? And if so, what had all that stuff about how much was at stake been about? Then it dawned on me. He was attempting to be charming. He was actually trying to help. Half an hour ago I would have given anything for him to perk up a little, but not like this. I should have locked him in my office, told everyone he was indisposed. If Harry loses us this sale, loses me my gallery, and lands me in jail for going spectacularly bankrupt, I thought, I am going to fucking kill him. I am literally going to fucking kill him.

As if able to tell what I was thinking, Caroline crossed the room to join me, wordlessly resting one hand gently on my arm.

"Count the people in the room, Patrick," she whispered.

I scanned, realizing there were only eleven buyers there. The representative from the Louvre Abu Dhabi was missing. Athena had noticed the same thing and in the far corner was talking quietly to her client, who was nodding. A gap in the jazz band's set exposed a silence. Dave White looked around, suddenly aware that there had been movement in the room too.

It was happening. The painting had got its claws into them.

Athena's client disappeared next, returning wordlessly. Dave White marched to my office, returning with a successful trophy hunter's precise combination of excitement and smugness. Then he walked back across the room toward me.

"Nearly best and final time, Patrick?"

I nodded, asking one of my team to politely alert everyone else in the room that if they were planning to make an offer, they should do so now. Nobody moved.

It was done.

I absented myself and took a seat behind my desk. My assistant unlocked the box, and I retrieved three pieces of paper. I unfolded the first. An offer of two million pounds from the Louvre Abu Dhabi. I swallowed hard. Had I wildly misread the room? That would only just cover expenses once Harry got his 70 percent.

The second piece of paper had Dave White's name on it. Three million. Fuck. I had completely misjudged the amount people were prepared to pay for this painting. My hands were shaking so much I had trouble getting the final envelope open.

Thirty-seven million pounds.I stared at the paper for a moment, then asked my assistant to confirm the figure. She nodded and smiled.

"We'll have to tell the Louvre Abu Dhabi they are out of the running," I said. "Please also let Dave White and Athena Galanis know—so she can translate for her client—that the bidding is set at thirty-seven million, if they would like to submit their best and final offers." I handed their two slips of paper back to her, and she left the room.

Caroline entered a moment later, waiting expectantly for me to speak first, to tell her what was happening. The truth was, I wasn't sure I was able to. She poured me a whiskey from the decanter on my desk, then one for herself, and took a seat in the armchair opposite. A few minutes later, my assistant returned with the two folded slips.

She placed both on the desk in front of me, glanced at Caroline, and left the room.

"Would you mind?" I asked Caroline. She took them, opening first one and then the other. She looked at me. I looked back at her.

"Congratulations," she said, her face breaking into the grin of a lifetime. "Sold to Dave White for forty-two million pounds."

"My God. My God, Caroline, we've done it. We need to tell Harry."

"I'm sorry, Patrick. Harry left five minutes ago. He said he really wasn't feeling well. I did offer to go with him..."

I briefly considered going after him myself, but Dave White, waiting outside my office, was keen that the transaction be concluded that evening. I listened as he instructed someone on the other end of a phone line to transfer the entire amount.

"As for my new painting, I'll send my driver to collect it tomorrow," he said, shaking my hand and kissing Caroline unexpectedly on the cheek as he made his way to the door. "If you'd like to spend some more time with the piece, Professor Cooper, please do call my assistant to arrange," he said, handing her a card.

And with that the party was over.

By the time I reentered the main room, most of the VIPs had left, without a goodbye. Athena congratulated me distractedly, tapping away on her phone, making a show of being disinterested. She said something noncommittal to Caroline about meeting up before she flew home. Dave and the American, when I went over, were discussing whether to have a cocktail at Zuma.

And then it was just me and Caroline. Smiling in the sudden brightness of the room as someone from the catering team circulated, collecting furry teacups. Caroline made a comment about having a nightcap at her hotel. I misheard and thought she was inviting me. "We could maybe grab a drink..." I checked the time. It was much earlier than I had imagined. I had my car. It would not take me a minute to drop her off at her hotel, I said.

The hotel bar was almost empty apart from a pianist murdering some jazz standards in a corner. We exchanged a look. Caroline shook her head.

"I do have a minibar in my room," she said. "Do you want to come up and celebrate this life-changing event with a very tiny and extremely expensive bottle of wine?"

I had texted Sarah to tell her the big news and to ask how the wedding was going. Both messages remained unread. She was in Abu Dhabi, would not be home until the next day. If I went home now, I would be driving back a rich man to an empty house.

"We should go up separately," I said.

Caroline raised an eyebrow. I shrugged.

"It's not likely to happen, but not impossible we could find ourselves in a bit of trouble. Legally, I mean. With the police. Us not being married. Me being married to someone else."

"What do you think is going to happen up there, Patrick?" she said, rolling her eyes.

"It's just how it looks. You go up first. Tell me the room number. I'll wait here and be up in five minutes. You can open the tiny wine and have a tiny drink on the balcony while you wait."

She checked her room number. We parted. She glanced back from the elevator as the doors were closing. I smiled. She smiled back. There are some people in the world who just by looking at you can make it feel like they are squeezing your heart gently in their hand. It was just a drink, I told myself. A drink on the balcony to unwind after an extraordinary day. What was the worst that could possibly happen?

JULIETTE, PARIS, 1938

The stairs were what I had most been dreading on that tense walk home, remembering how hard it had been wrestling those mannequins up five flights, knowing any sound I made at this time of night would bring the concierge out, bleary and curious in his slippers.

It was past midnight when I finally got there. The whole building was silent and dark.

I abandoned the wheelchair on the landing, for disposal later. The body, once I had it over my shoulder, was surprisingly light. They do say the desperate are capable of superhuman feats of strength sometimes.

I offered her another silent apology as we began our climb.

The slam of our front door behind me gave me such a start that I almost screamed aloud. Oskar was still lying on the floor exactly where I had left him—was I expecting him to have moved, somehow? I could not have said how long I had been away from the apartment. Two or three hours at least. Already the skin I could see on the back of his neck, on the hand emerging from the sleeve of one outflung arm, was beginning to mottle. I felt a sudden urge to sink to my knees, to beg his forgiveness. Instead, I forced myself to focus. It was only a few hours until dawn. There would be time for self-recriminations later. A lifetime, perhaps.

My first task was to arrange both of them on the bed. I did this with much effort, putting his arm around her, again apologizing. Then I removed the necklace from around my neck—the one with the wedjat eye pendant, one of the matching pair my sister and I had always worn—and gently fastened it around hers.

I had the other, Lucy's, in my suitcase still, to remember her by. Into that same small suitcase, I gathered my paints and brushes, camera and photographs, my journal and both passports, my real one and the forgery that had cost me and Oskar so much, one change of clothes, and all of the money, stepping over a dark puddle of blood each time I crossed the room. I set the suitcase by the door and put on my coat and shoes.

I fetched the long matches from the top of the stove and—whispering more apologies and wiping silent tears with my coat sleeve—I made my way around the room, lighting matches, scattering them. On the floor. On the bed. By Oskar's discarded canvases. By my second circuit, things were already catching. I took another bundle of matches, struck them at a single go, and forced myself to hold the flame with a quivering hand to the bottom of the curtain. Then, closing the door behind me—quietly this time, feet light on the stairs as I descended—I left.

Crossing the courtyard, I looked back to see the window already illuminated orange. Something caught, and for a moment the room glowed incredibly brightly, then a window shattered. The landlord and his wife were asleep on the ground floor, their windows dark, shutters drawn. I paused, hesitated. Then before I had a chance to change my mind, I made a fist with my hand and hammered it, four or five times against their door.

Then I ran. As fast as my feet could carry me in my shoes, into the night, carrying my little case. What surprises me now is how calm I was. How ruthlessly pragmatic I could be. What I proved to be capable of. What I have since proved capable of forgiving myself for.

Then again, ever since I was six years old, I can hardly remember a time when I did not feel like a murderess.