Every mention of Phil’s name went through Natalie like the squeal of a dentist’s drill. She wandered past the pagoda to the far wall, pretending to examine two rectangular plaques fixed to the bricks whilst sending an upbeat reply to Floella’s latest anxious message.
‘Peggy’s ashes are buried here.’ Cate’s voice was soft. Natalie could feel her warm breath on her ear, caught a waft of her floral perfume. ‘And look, on that other plaque, those are the names of all Peggy’s dogs. She had these cute, silky Lhasa apsos she took everywhere with her. White Angel and Madam Butterfly – they’re pretty names! And Foglia, she didn’t live long, poor little thing! How sad. I can’t imagine losing dear Ted.’ Cate sniffed. ‘Sorry, sometimes I can be so sentimental. Phil says?—’
‘Let’s go into the main gallery,’ Natalie said quickly.
‘Of course. I don’t know why I’m babbling on when there’s so much amazing art to look at.’
‘I know you want to see the Kandinsky.’ Natalie followed Cate inside, trying to keep a distance between them. She feigned a particular interest in a mesmerising, black and white mobile flanked by two Picassos until Cate wandered away down one of the corridors. But her wished-for solitude didn’t last long. Cate was soon back, uttering exclamations of delight at every painting and regaling Natalie with snippets she’d apparently gleaned on a history of art course she’d once taken.
‘Look at the Andy Warhol,’ Cate said. ‘Evan – that’s Phil’s best friend – has a marvellous Warhol, one of his screen prints of Marilyn Monroe. His wife Lucy’s father was quite a collector. I always admire it when we go round for supper. Phil says…’
Natalie tried to switch off. Her neck and shoulders felt stiff and heavy. Glancing down, she noticed her fists were clenched. She put her hand to her forehead; it felt all scrunched up like discarded wrapping paper.
‘What’s wrong?’ Cate gently touched her arm.
‘Get off me!’
Cate snatched her hand away as if she’d touched a hot pan. Her eyes clouded with confusion.
‘Sorry, you made me jump.’ Natalie had to act normally. Had to get through the day.
‘Something’s wrong. I know you, Nat. Look, it’s getting busy in here. Let’s go out to the terrace; you probably need some air.’
Natalie let herself be led out to the terrace down the steps past a bronze statue of a naked man astride a horse. A very naked man.
‘L’angelo della città– the Angel of the City. I’d heard this was here, but I didn’t imagine he’d lookquiteso pleased to see us!’ Cate laughed.
They took the last few steps onto the canal front terrace where Peggy Guggenheim had thrown her legendary parties. Turquoise and white poles marked the entrance where the eccentric gallery owner had once moored her private gondola.
‘Peggy knew anyone and everyone in the art world. Imagine the conversations!’ Cate said. ‘And some of her parties were so extravagant, wild and decadent. It’s said that she staged a re-enactment of the sinking of theTitanic, jumping naked into the Grand Canal with a whole orchestra following! Phil and I watched a programme about her once; well, I watched it, I think Phil was playing on his phone.’
Natalie stared down into the canal. She was almost tempted to follow Peggy’s wild stunt – without the nudity – and jump in. If only the water wasn’t so cold and dank. And knowing her luck, she’d be sure to be arrested or knocked unconscious by the ill-placed oar of a passing gondolier.
Cate pulled out her phone. ‘No messages – phew! Even now, I’m half-expecting Phil to be delayed by some last-minute problem but it looks like he’s taken off on time. I can’t believe we’ll soon be together in this amazing place. It’s incredible… unique.’ She waved a hand towards the canal. ‘I’m sure Phil’s going to be over the moon at being back here. That school trip changed his life. He was always interested in art but when Evan took him to see an oar-making workshop, he was so inspired, it made him even more determined to train as a craftsman. And of course, it was Evan’s uncle Seb who first employed him.’
Natalie tried to block out Cate’s voice; she studied the row of carved lions’ heads positioned low on the museum’s façade as though ready to lap the canal’s green waters.
‘Nat, you really don’t look well. Let’s go to the café, sit down, get you a cup of tea.’
‘Okay.’
No pot of tea could solve her problems but she followed Cate back through the museum to the paved area on the other side of the sculpture garden where cheerful yellow and white chairs flanked small tables for two. Natalie ordered tea for them both. Cate leant back in her seat, her expression serene, her limbs as relaxed as a ragdoll’s; it was impossible that she could know her husband’s dirty little secret.
‘There, that’s better. Maybe put some sugar in it.’ Cate pushed a small dish of colourful paper sachets towards her.
‘No, thanks.’ Natalie squished her teabag against the side of the metal pot, trying to coax some flavour into the not quite hot enough water. The throbbing in her head was increasing.
‘I don’t normally take sugar either but sugary tea works wonders when you’re stressed. Phil’s mother always says…’
‘Just stop!’ Natalie hadn’t meant to say the words out loud.
‘Stop what? Please tell me what’s wrong. I want to help, whatever it is.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘You’re grinding your teeth.’
‘Am I?’ She poured out her tea; she couldn’t drink and teeth grind simultaneously. Nor respond to Cate’s insistent questioning.
