OFFLINE — an extract

September

Tying a noose becomes easier with practice. Muscle memory helps, and the copious viewings of YouTube show you the mistakes to avoid. Her fingers glide over the smooth plastic coating of the rope. As her hands begin to shake the rope falls, and with a clunk it hits the metal floor. The sound startles her back into action.

Recovering the rope, she composes herself. Slow breath in, long breath out. Her hands are steady now as she shapes a looping letter N. Pinched together in the centre; two holes are created. One becomes the noose, the other, let’s call that the hold. Once she’s coiled the rope tightly around the loops, the end slips through the hold to secure the knot. The noose is formed.

This had to be the place. In the house, there’s nowhere to tie a rope to. Nothing is strong enough to take her weight, only here, in the studio will do. The next part is less rehearsed. No opportunity to sneak in and test out the logistics and secure the noose to the metal balustrade which prevents you from falling from the mezzanine floor. She’ll require a knot that will grip and not move. Rope in hand. What next? Is that a flicker of memory? Is it one I planted in the plethora of messages we exchanged? Perhaps.

She leans back to test the knot and it looks as though she’s about to take part in a tug of war. Which is an appropriate way of looking at her situation. To stay and suffer the pain and constant grief; or go and plunge those who love her into despair. She’s chosen to end her own pain. Complete the pact.

The rope is secured. She glances at the paintings which line the studio wall, all in varying stages of completion. There’s one she stares at; water with something indiscernible swimming or drowning in the centre. Trance like she places the noose over her head and closes her eyes.

One Month Earlier

Addie

A day-time launch is always my preference. When sunlight floods the curved atrium of the Tate Gallery in St Ives, it breathes life into my paintings and statues. There’s even a hint of the sea infusing the stark white walls with its fluctuating shades of blue. But at night, under the flicker of artificial illumination, my work holds its breath. 

The Tate’s official photographer emerges from the crowd and I arrange myself beside my sculpture of St Ia. The delicate porcelain figure stands naked in the centre of her leaf. She’s surveying the bay and contemplating how this new land will receive her. The edges of her boat leaf have become wave-like, at one with the water. I smile, and hope the photographer zooms in on my work and not me.

The new curator – Safina Ali – catches my attention with a stiff wave. She has a nervous glint in her eye. Her pristine midnight blue suit exudes confidence despite the wearer not believing the signals her outfit is emitting. She’s doing brilliantly, but her self-esteem hasn’t yet caught up with her accomplishments.

I weave through the attendees towards her. The local MP steps into my path and firmly grasps my hand and congratulates me. His white hair judders with his stiff handshake.

‘Splendid collection Mrs Durand. I particularly like the painting of The Chapel of St Nicolas.’

He must have mistaken an abstraction to be the chapel as I haven’t painted the famous St Ives landmark in years. I follow his gaze and turn around to view a painting that is not mine. 

It looks like it could belong to the collection, the artist has copied my style in a flattering sort of way, but it is a poor imitation. The brush strokes are too heavy. The light and shadow in the water do not make sense to my eye, and the Chapel itself should be smaller. We are looking at it from distance, the perspective is off.

Safina strides towards me. My throat constricts and the hairs on the back of my neck bristle.

‘Adrianne, are you ready to speak?’

I lean in towards her. I recognise the smell of her perfume, Angel, it is overpowering and my stomach lurches. 

‘I am ready, but what the hell is that?’ I whisper. 

We turn to face the rogue painting.

‘I . . . I don’t know . . . I’ll call security.’

I take hold of her wrist as she turns to scan the room for a guard. She looks at my hand and I release her. There’s an imprint of my fingers on her delicate skin, but it instantly fades. We turn to face the picture. 

‘Safina, I cannot let this piece upstage me and become the news story.’ I continue to keep my voice low.

‘But we have to do something. I don’t understand how one of the paintings could have been switched and, where . . .’ Her voice catches in her throat, and she covers her mouth as she takes in each painting in the atrium. 

We do have to alert the staff, but I don’t want my opening night to become a story about a missing painting. It has to be about my art. 

‘What should have been here?’

‘Sunburnt.’ She sighs and there are tears brimming which she precisely wipes away taking care not to smudge her eye make-up.

‘Not one of the key pieces then, be bloody awful if it was Godrevy.’ I place my hand on her arm, gently this time. ‘We need to protect our reputation – the Gallery will be under intense scrutiny once this gets out, but tonight, for you and I, let’s make the night a success and be solely about the art. If anyone asks about the painting, I’ll cover it up somehow, but once we are done, we’ll deal with it.’ Her eyes are wide and she’s shaking a little. ‘And grab yourself a drink to calm your nerves. Come on, it’s not your fault.’ Tears now dribble down her cheeks, but she nods and scurries away towards a waiter.

Godrevy had been used on all the promotional advertising and thankfully the lighthouse is where it should be. What will I say if asked about the piece? I glance at the painting; there’s something familiar about it but I can’t put my finger on it, or think about anything other than where is Sunburnt? 

A young girl appears in front of me, she looks about the same age as my daughter and is grinning nervously. She stares at me; her mouth moves but no words escape.

‘Are you an aspiring artist?’ I ask, they always are. 

‘Yes, gosh, how did you know?’ 

‘Lucky guess. Are you studying it for A level?’ A waiter walks past with a tray of champagne. I take one as I need something to do with my hands.

‘I did, I’m er, going to Leeds to do Fine Art.’

‘Fabulous. Leeds is truly excellent.’ I turn away to survey the ever-growing crowd and hope to catch a glimpse of my husband. I need him to calm my nerves.

‘I love your work. I love how you paint and sculpt. You’re such an inspiration to me, and to all of us at school. I was looking at the Sea and Sky trio of images and how you’ve captured the light in the water is amazing.’

I nod and smile at her and press my card into her hand and tell her to contact me whenever. She stands still, frozen in time as she stares at the card, as though it is proof that the moment exists.

Safina appears at her side; she looks a little more composed. 

‘Are you ready?’ 

I nod. ‘Lovely to meet you,’ I smile at the girl who clutches my card and she beams back. We walk away from her and the intruding painting.

‘I’ll make my speech in front of Godrevy and once that’s over with you can update everyone and set the wheels in motion to find the painting.’ 

Safina nods and as we walk towards the painting of Godrevy lighthouse my footsteps feel unsafe. One of my paintings is missing. Switched for another. A shiver canters down my spine.

 The lighthouse looms over us, a watchful eye warning us of the storm to come. The crowd is sea-like as the waves of faces turn in a ripple effect. I see a group of students I worked with last year on a project for the Tate. They smile encouragingly as my eyes continue to scan the crowd. The once ebony curls of a critic I’ve known since the beginning of my career grab my attention. Graham smiles as he pauses his conversation with a woman who I recognise as a local painter; he raises his champagne flute.

I still cannot see my husband. He knows how much I hate public speaking, and is always visible standing in the front row, but tonight he is not there.

‘Safina, I can’t see Daniel out there, he never misses my speech.’

‘Sorry, what with the painting and everything I forgot to mention that he had to go, your daughter needed him.’ 

My natural reaction is to sigh and show my irritation at Daniel constantly running to attend to every minor crisis in our kids’ lives, but I hold in my sigh and raise my eyes to the ceiling. When I need my husband, really need him, he manages to always be elsewhere.

I glance over at the painting of St Nicholas’ Chapel, the painting that is not mine. From here it looks worse, the chapel seems to swell and overcome the landscape. I sway a little as a surge of anxiety grabs me. 

‘Safina, are we right to proceed?’ 

Her eyes betray her concern. She pulls her lips together as though she is about to make a kissing sound. It’s her thinking face. I’ve watched her pull it when she stands back and considers the positions of each painting. She swaps my glass of untouched Champagne for water, knowing that public speaking still unnerves me even after all these years in the limelight.

‘Yes. You’re right. We can’t let on that a switch has occurred. It will ruin the opening night and never mind what the press will say once they find out the painting is missing.’

I ignore the twinkle in her eye when she mentions the press. We both know what this sort of publicity will do for the collection and that’s what scares me. Scrutiny. I don’t want the intrusion. Stolen. Safina hasn’t said that word yet, but it’s on the tip of her tongue.

‘Go ahead,’ my voice is steady despite the growing dread that attempts to strangle my vocal cords.

‘Good evening and welcome.’ 

Safina pauses, her hands shake as she squeezes the microphone. It is a big night for her too. Her first exhibit here at the Tate and probably the first time a painting has been removed from her carefully curated collection. Not careful enough. How could she not have noticed? But I cannot carry on that thought. Conversation lulls and all eyes focus on Safina.

‘It’s fabulous to see so many new and familiar faces here tonight to open this new collection from one of our greatest contemporary British artists, Adrianne Durand. Her latest collection explores women’s relationship with the natural environment. But I’m sure you’d rather hear her talk about the collection in her own words. Let me hand you over to Adrianne.’ 

Peels of applause echo around the gallery. I hate this part of the evening and I long to see a genuine friendly face. In the centre of the crowd the bright blue eyes of my closest friend Margot meet mine. She is alone. I wonder why the new man in her life isn’t by her side. She was keen for us to meet and he’d agreed to be her plus one. She raises her glass of champagne and smiles broadly, tucking a lock of greying-blonde hair behind her left ear. I smile back. It helps to calm my nerves.

‘Thank you, Safina. Can you all give her a round of applause too as she has created a stunning exhibition. I’m sure you’ll agree that it looks like she’s been curating here for years, but this is her first major exhibit at the Tate.’

Again the clapping commences. It gives me a moment to take a sip of water in an attempt to settle my nerves. I’d prefer my art to do the talking, but I recognise that this is a necessity. As I open my mouth to speak the whirr of helicopter blades silences my first word.

It is on top of us. The audience is distracted. They turn to look out into the darkness of the bay. A stillness descends and it feels like we hold our breath together. The thundering sound doesn’t diminish. It stops moving away from us as though the helicopter is now hovering above the beach just outside of the gallery. For a moment the noise is so intense that I can almost feel the air from the blades lash my face. 

The sound gradually sweeps away from the beach and out to sea and the cliffs. The crowd turns back to face me. I see unease seep across the visages of those who are locals. Those who know that the sound of the coastguard helicopter at night often signals loss.

‘As you know by now, I am a woman of few words, and I cannot compete with the roar of the helicopter, nor do I want to.’ 

I take a moment. The helicopter circles the bay more widely now. And then it comes. The noise, the wind, the darkness. The cold. Lights. Voices speaking words I don’t understand. Closing my eyes and inhaling deeply, I attempt to push away the memory of the search and rescue helicopter scouring the blackness of Lake Garda. I have not replayed that particular slice of my past for a long time. I squeeze the microphone.

‘This collection, like Safina says, explores women’s relationship with nature. I began with the sculpture of St Ia and how nature brought her to our shores. Here, nature is a romantic benevolent supernatural force. A mythical version of nature.’

The distant sound of the helicopter ripples around the cliffs. I anchor myself by looking into Margot’s face. Her mouth fixed in an encouraging smile. The whirring of the blades seems to get louder in my head. I take another sip of water and I know the sound is gradually diminishing despite the thrumming in my ears.

‘The trio of images to the right of me show the sea and sky pre, during and post storm. They are to be viewed in conjunction with the sculptures of herring and pilchard baskets. Sometimes the sea brings us gifts.’

My words pause abruptly, assuming my audience will go and read the cards and discover the past relationship between the fisherman’s wives and the ocean. I want to take back the words about the sea bringing us gifts. I had to stop, and not mention the paintings of shipwrecks. The whirring of the helicopter blades echoes into the distance, but the noise remains in my ears pushing out my thoughts. 

‘I hope my works speaks to you and you enjoy the exhibit. I look forward to chatting to all of you about your response to the collection. As always, please do come and talk to me.’ I look at Safina and manage a weak smile. She leads the applause. My words came out too quickly, I can’t gather my thoughts and my feet feel the urge to run. Anxiety always does this, but tonight it’s spliced with fear. My painting. Who stole it?

In the audience I glimpse Margot and catch her eye. For a moment, I see a hint of concern, but she blinks it away. She shakes her empty champagne flute and disappears. I’ll find her later.

As I move aside the audience once again turn their attention to my art and each other, and a couple of journalists home in on me. Waiting patiently behind them is Graham with his grey curls and reassuring smile.

 I explain some of the pieces in detail, talk generally about the themes I explore and hope I’m not repeating myself. I can’t bear to be dull. My sense is that in general the collection is well received.

Graham chats earnestly and in depth about a number of pieces. I’m relaxed in his company and I’m beginning to enjoy our discussion. His eye is drawn to the intruding picture. I knew he’d be the one to mention it, he knows my work and has followed my career avidly since my first exhibition in 1992. 

‘Adrianne, that painting, it looks a little out of place in the collection.’

I don’t want to draw attention to it. I have to own the image. It has to be part of the exhibition. I appraise it again and am struck by a familiarity, an echo of my own work when I first started painting landscapes. Possibly. It will have to be that. 

‘Graham, you’ve a good eye. You are right it looks like it doesn’t belong, but it does. I have always loved my home and here I wanted to capture it on a dull day. I know I haven’t got the light or perspective right. I painted this scene over and over again, but this one is the first full landscape I ever painted when I was fourteen. Just fourteen. It’s when my obsession with my home began.’ The smile I fix on my face is one I used to wear when attempting to placate my children. 

  ‘Hmm, I like how you can pinpoint your obsession, but a bit risky to include it, and the card seems to be missing to explain it.’

‘I should hire you for your attention to detail.’ 

He smirks and pushes his glasses back up his nose. ‘Also, I was expecting to see - ’ he pauses and flicks through the promotional literature. ‘Oh yes, Sunburnt.’

‘Ah, now that is a little delicate.’ I lean in a little towards Graham, there’s only one story that will fit for him, it has never happened to me before, but from time to time accidents do happen.  ‘The frame was damaged in transit, but we weren’t aware of this until it had been hung on the wall for a while and unfortunately it gave way earlier today.’ My voice is a low whisper and Graham leans in, so closely now that I can smell a musky dampness and notice more vividly the lines around his eyes. ‘Thankfully not too much damage was done and hopefully it will be displayed soon. Safina wanted to display something else, but I thought perhaps it was time to show St Nicholas again. It’s an age since I painted the Chapel, and you know me, now and again I think it’s time to take a risk.’

Graham grins now and slips a wayward curl back behind his ear. ‘Is that why the card is missing?’

I mirror his smirk. ‘Only you would figure it out. We can’t have a gaping space on the wall can we?’

‘No. Although I do recall one of your less than successful contemporaries putting on an exhibition called the White Album. White walls a plenty there.’ 

We both laugh, but the tension in my jaw stops me. The missing painting has unnerved me and given me a set of questions that I need answers to. And now I have lied to protect my reputation, but once the story gets out what does my lie say about me?

‘So, when are you next in London?’ He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. I notice that his laces have come undone on his left brogue.

‘Me personally? Or the exhibition?’

‘Both,’ Graham smiles, ‘it’s been a long time since we had lunch.’ His hand brushes mine and it makes me flinch, but I try to make sure my face doesn’t look surprised.

I nod. ‘Yes, it has. Not sure. Probably next year?’

‘Pity it’s not sooner. Call me if you change your mind and head my way.’ He takes a step away. ‘Thanks for the interview. I’ll see you around, soon . . .’ 

I smile ruefully as he slips back into the crowd. He reminds me of my early career in London. I still miss the camaraderie of my fellow artists, but I don’t miss the oppressive atmosphere of the city. 

Scrunching my toes in my heels to push the circulation around my feet, I seek out Margot. She is easy to spot as there are only a few attendees left now. 

 ‘Finally,’ she kisses me on each cheek. ‘Here’s some champagne for the woman of the moment. You were fabulous as always and never mind the artwork; you look stunning. I wish some designer would give me a dress. The emerald green brings out your eyes and that black floral print is gorgeous.’

‘I can ask for you, if you like?’

‘I’ll have to give up the day job and spend hours down the gym to look like anything other than a sack of potatoes all trussed up and stuffed into a dress like that, but you, you always look amazing.’

I shake my head slowly. ‘Honestly, no potatoes in sight.’

‘No? A bag of crisps then. Speaking of food, you look like you need something, you’ve no colour left in your cheeks.’ 

I ignore her observation. ‘Margs, where’s your plus one?’ 

‘Brian was here, got here before I did actually, but had to dash. Some emergency with his mother, which reminds me, here’s me prattling on about dresses and food. Daniel asked me to tell you he was sorry that he had to rush off. He doesn’t want to worry you, but Chloe called, and he could just about make out that there had been an accident involving Liam.’

My fingers react first. They fall open and I drop my empty glass to the floor and find my hands rising towards my mouth. I hear the thunderous noise of the helicopter again in my ears, I can no longer see Margot, just blackness and in an instant, I feel a shiny blanket placed on my shoulders as the bodies are being brought out of the lake. I can still see them even now. 

I’m aware of Margot’s hands holding me, preventing my fall. Tonight, there is no shiny blanket. No Italian police. The body they will retrieve will be my daughter’s best friend and not my parents.