Jan had pulled a glossy card booklet out of the file. ‘Here’s the catalogue.’ She handed it to Charlie. In the photograph, the stairs painting was labelled ‘12’. Number 12 in the catalogue was called Supply and Demand. Charlie was none the wiser. The picture had been reproduced in the catalogue, along with one other, of a fat man in a bath, his torso like a mountain.

‘His titles are all . . .’ The rest of the sentence withered and died in Charlie’s mouth as she stared at the catalogue. Her hands shook. She’d been about to say that all Aidan’s titles were evasive. They said nothing about what was happening in the picture.

Apart from one.

Painting number 18 was called The Murder of Mary Trelease .

17 - Wednesday 5 March 2008

17

Wednesday 5 March 2008

‘Did you fall in love with Aidan the instant you saw him?’ Mary asks abruptly.

‘Yes.’

‘So did Martha. Funny how that’s used as a gauge of love’s worth, isn’t it? The more groundless it is, the more based on nothing, the more impressive it sounds. “I fell in love at first sight.” We all want to say that—prove how passionate we are. And Martha was the worst kind of fool—a clever one. She was good with words and ideas, could make them serve her purpose, whatever it was. Within seconds she’d spun her reaction to Aidan, which was probably nothing more than sexual, into an irresistible narrative of love and enforced separation: the formalities of the occasion dictated that she had to walk into the interview room and he had to walk out of it while the chair of the appointment committee held the door open. Time for their eyes to meet, but nothing more. And their souls, according to Martha. She was an idiot,’ Mary adds vehemently, as if afraid I might miss the point of the story.

She talks like no one I’ve ever known. I want to ask again about the eighteen empty frames, but she’s already ignored the question three times. I know she’ll continue to ignore it until she’s ready, so I let her talk.