Helga read the document and said, “You can go.”
Ava booked the flights and then looked for a hotel. The Hughes Gallery was on Church Street in Kensington. Two months earlier, while on the job for Tommy Ordonez, the Filipino billionaire, she had been in that exact area, at the Fletcher Hotel, and had enjoyed its proximity to Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park. It was right on the High Street, directly across from the gardens, and a short walk from Church Street. The room rate was 235 pounds a night — Hong Kong Peninsula Hotel rates. She clicked onto their website and reserved a room.
Glen Hughes had written to the Sorensens on gallery stationery. The letterhead listed a phone number and a general email address. Ava punched the number into her cellphone. A woman’s voice answered, “Hughes Gallery.”
Well, it’s still open for business, Ava thought. “Could I speak to Mr. Hughes, please?” she asked.
“He doesn’t arrive until ten.”
“Do you expect him today?”
“Of course.”
“And what is your closing hour?”
“We’re open from nine to six every day but Sunday.”
Ava hung up and returned to the computer. She drafted an email saying that she was the representative for a Hong Kong-based art collector and was in London on a scouting expedition. She asked to drop by the gallery at eleven o’clock the next morning to meet with Mr. Hughes. She sent the email without much optimism. If there was no response, she’d phone again when she got to London, or if necessary make a cold-call visit.
Helga had finished making the copies and bundled the letters together. She handed Ava her set. “I want to say that I’m very thankful for the money. I just need you to understand that I am still concerned that Jan’s name doesn’t get dragged through the mud because of this. He is a good man and a good painter, and we are forever hopeful that he will find an audience for his own work.”
“I will do everything I can to protect his reputation,” Ava said.
She walked Helga to the hotel door and stood outside in the drizzle, watching the stout woman make her ascent up the hill. After ten steps or so, Helga turned, smiled, and waved. Ava felt a touch of guilt as she waved back. The truth was, she wasn’t at all sure she would be able to keep Jan Sorensen’s name secure.
When she returned to the hotel, the front desk had been abandoned. She saw that the man who had been there was now in the office, using the computer. She stared at his back, willing him to see her and voluntarily give it up. He ignored her. “Will you be long?” she finally asked.
“A few hours,” he said.
“Could you book me a taxi for the airport?”
“What time?”
“My flight is at two forty-five.”
“I’ll have a taxi here for one,” he said.
In her room, she went through the letters from Hughes to Sorensen. The last one was a completely self-serving, cover-your-tracks kind of letter. The others were more straightforward, each one asking Sorensen if he could do a work “in the style of” a specific artist. The first four comprised a list of most of the Fauvists — Dufy, Vlaminck, Derain, Braque — while the last two wanted repeats of Vlaminck. There was never a hint that Hughes was engaged in anything shady, although in the letter requesting another Vlaminck he did mention that the customer had been absolutely thrilled with the latest work.
Ava pulled out her notebook and recapped the morning’s meeting. She then slid the letters inside the Moleskine notebook and placed it in her Shanghai Tang Double Happiness bag. She lay on the bed. The sheets still smelled of Nina’s perfume. The scent was a bit raw, like Nina herself. She thought about calling Uncle and then dismissed the idea. She had nothing new to add, just a name. And until she met with Glen Hughes, that’s all it was — a name.
(18)
Ava fought her way out of Gatwick Airport to catch the express train to Victoria Station, and then she fought her way through the station to catch the tube to Kensington High Street. It was close to ten o’clock when she finally walked into fresh air, air that was as cold and damp as in Skagen or Tjorn. Curacao seemed a long way away. She was happy she had worn one of her Johanna av Steinum sweaters, sweaters that she liked so much she had bought one each for Mimi and Maria at the Vagar shop before leaving.
From the station she had a short walk, past a Marks amp; Spencer and a Whole Foods, along the High Street to the hotel.
Ava was relieved to check in and get to her room. It was a spectacular modern blend of black, red, and white — sparse, functional, yet still somehow luxurious. A bottle of chilled mineral water and a bowl of fresh fruit were on the coffee table, accompanied by a welcoming note from the hotel administration.
She was hungry, and called the front desk. The concierge informed her that the main restaurant was still open. She quickly unpacked and then got two laundry bags from the closet. She put the black Brooks Brothers shirt and cotton slacks in the first bag, and in the other the laundry bag from Aalborg with her running gear. She carried the bags downstairs and deposited them at the front desk. “Is there any way I could get these back early tomorrow?” she asked.
“Is nine a.m. soon enough?” the desk clerk said.
“Yes, thank you,” Ava said, pleased with the five-star service.
She walked into the Fletcher’s dining room and was immediately led to a seat. She ordered sauteed langoustines with crab tortellini in a shellfish bisque as a starter, and pan-fried black bream with truffle mashed potatoes as her main. Everything came in rapid succession; she barely had time to drink half her bottle of white burgundy. She took the balance back to her room in an ice bucket.
She turned on her laptop; there were more than twenty new emails in her inbox. She quickly deleted the spam, skipped reading any she didn’t think were urgent, and then opened the three she had received from Mimi, her father, and Maria.
Mimi’s was, as usual, filled with the trivia of her life, but when Ava neared the end, her interest spiked. Derek and I have decided that both our condos must go. He wanted to keep his because his father bought it for him as an investment, but I don’t want him to have a place to bolt to if things don’t work out. He’s agreed. Happy me! So we start out on a level footing. I have two real estate agents scouring the midtown area for a house. I really like the area between Bayview Avenue and Mount Pleasant Road, south of Eglinton. Lots of young professionals with kids and dogs and nannies.
Ava couldn’t imagine either Mimi or Derek in that environment. But then, she hadn’t ever contemplated that they could be a couple. Ava also noted that Mimi wasn’t asking for her opinion.
In the last paragraph of the email, Mimi mentioned Maria. Ava paled as she read, Maria and I had lunch yesterday. She told me that her mother is flying in from Bogota for a Toronto holiday. She says she wants to introduce you to her mother but she’s not really sure how you would react to that idea. She also said she wasn’t sure how her mother would react, but that it was time to find out.
Introduce me as what? Ava thought. The last thing she wanted was to get caught between Maria and her mother. Ava had never discussed her own sexuality with Jennie Lee, and she kept her personal life and her friends private. Jennie knew, of course, about Ava’s sexual orientation and from time to time made vague references, but it was a subject they’d never directly broached and never would, just as Ava never pried into Jennie’s relationship with Marcus. Neither woman needed explanations, and the respect and love they had for each other were absolute.
I don’t think meeting her mother is a great idea, Ava wrote to Mimi. Then she turned to Maria’s email. It mentioned the lunch and the possibility of Derek and Mimi selling their condos, and then simply said, And by the way, my mother is thinking about coming to Toronto for a short holiday. Ava didn’t know how to reply, and decided not to for the time being.