The Artist's Secret Read online

  DEDICATION

  To Thomasina

  EPIGRAPH

  I have an idea that some are born out of their due place.

  Accident has cast them amid certain surroundings, but they

  have always a nostalgia for a home they know not.

  W. Somerset Maugham

  Art is the highest form of hope.

  Gerhard Richter

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part One: Sfumato

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Part Two: Chiaroscuro

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Part Three: Pentimento

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Alexandra Joel

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  New York, November 1988

  Wren Summers breathed in deeply, savouring the atmosphere of the grand room from her place on the podium. Below her, the glamorous crowd buzzed with that particular brand of febrile excitement triggered only when a truly remarkable work was about to go on sale.

  She told herself it wasn’t important that her stomach fluttered – fear was inseparable from risk. All that mattered was whether she had the ability to make this room hers. Tonight she had to dominate her audience with the stealth of an eagle, feinting and gliding with such hypnotic grace that when finally she swooped, her prey would surrender not just willingly, but with delight.

  Among those straining forward on their plush seats were some of the world’s richest and most powerful individuals. She could feel the intensity of their gaze, sense them willing her to speak the familiar words that would signal the start of the drama.

  Wren smoothed the jacket of her black satin Jean Paul Gaultier suit, confident that it provided a striking contrast to her pale skin and enhanced her cloud of dark hair. Just like her Charles Jourdan stilettos and luscious red Chanel lipstick, it had been chosen with one aim – to mesmerise.

  Yet she hadn’t reckoned on the power of the painting. A momentary glance at the masterpiece the porters had placed on a spot-lit easel was all it took to trigger her well of pain. Wren swept her eyes across the crowd, but to her horror saw only a featureless blur. Panic made her throat tighten. How was she to perform beyond all expectations if she could barely speak, let alone make out a single upturned face?

  Blinking, she willed her unruly emotions away. Now was not the time to permit such distractions. She’d fought too hard for her chance to shine.

  The room came back into focus. Wren held her head high. In a commanding voice subtly brushed by seduction, she began. ‘Ladies and gentlemen . . .’

  PART ONE

  Sfumato

  A painting technique that gradually blends tones and colours. From the Italian sfumare, meaning ‘to vanish’.

  CHAPTER ONE

  University of California, Berkeley, May 1965

  The fair-haired girl with the face of an angel flinched as she struck the match. Although its tiny rasp sounded no different from the thousand other times she had scraped one red-tipped sliver of wood along the roughened side of a little box, nothing else was the same. This time hot bile rose in her throat as she tried to fathom a future without the boy by her side.

  She was only nineteen, the blue-eyed boy twenty-three. He was holding the piece of thick paper he’d brought with him, the one bearing the words ‘Registration Certificate’ above the official crest of the United States of America. It looked such a dull, mundane document. How easy it would be to mistake it for an inoffensive government notice.

  She leant so close to the boy she could smell the sweet scent of his skin. Then she put the match to the white rectangle, watching intently as the tiny lick of light crawled down one edge. Frowning, she wondered if the modest flame might expire, for the warm breeze coming in from the south on that hot spring night was making it flutter and wane. Instead, the yellow dart grew stronger, until it became a dancing orange flame.

  The boy gave her a quick grin, then thrust the fiery draft card high. Within seconds his action was duplicated by the thirty-nine other young men ranged in front of the soaring white pillars of Berkeley’s Sproul Hall. Each bore the same expression: intent, jubilant, united by a desire to resist. They would not enlist in the US army. They would not fight in a foreign land called Vietnam.

  Entranced, the girl stood quite still, her hair streaming behind her in pale ribbons as the breeze intensified. The dramatic scene looked like an ancient rite, a trial by fire perhaps, or an unholy baptism.

  The moment passed quickly. When flames threatened to scorch the young men’s tender fingers, the burning draft cards fluttered to the ground. Her ears rang with their whooping and hollering as they stamped on the charred paper, their treasonous act now turned into ash.

  She couldn’t help sharing the euphoria; it throbbed in her chest like a chord wrenched from an electric guitar. Then came the fear, vanquishing her high spirits with a stab so sharp that she winced. A line had been crossed; a price was certain to be exacted.

  Tensing, she turned her head in the direction of a high-pitched squeal – sirens. Any minute now, California’s state troopers would swoop down upon the demonstrators.

  Despite the balmy night, a shiver ran through her. The last thing she wanted was for her lover, with his quick mind and gentle hands, to be forced into military service, but surely an even worse outcome now awaited him.

  Bile burned her throat once more as a parade of frightening images flashed into her mind. The boy she adored dragged away by a vicious officer. Standing handcuffed in court before a black-robed judge. Sentenced to be locked in a jail cell for who knew how many years of awful confinement. Unless he took off like some of the other draft dodgers they knew and hitchhiked across the border to Mexico – but surely he would ne
ver abandon her?

  She swallowed hard, choking back the acid taste in her mouth. It must have been a couple of months now, but the sickness was yet to subside. With her hands cradling the newly rounded contours of her belly, she tried to imagine how the flame she had lit might change this new life.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sydney, December 1987

  Wren skipped up the sandstone steps of the Sydney Art Museum, trying not to grin like an idiot. ‘Assistant Curator of Prints and Drawings,’ she murmured to herself, enjoying the dignified sound of the title. She’d longed for a job like this for years and, finally, here she was, on the brink of seeing her dream realised.

  Instinctively, she touched the gold locket she wore under her shirt. Her mother had given it to her when she’d still been a child, claiming it would bring Wren luck, though if that were the case it might have been better if Lily had kept it for herself. She made fewer and fewer paintings these days, although Wren still considered her a great artist. It pained her to know that she had never received the recognition she deserved.

  Wren’s smile melted away. It was on occasions like this, when she had her all-important interview with the museum’s director, that she became aware of the aching void within her. If only she had some other special person besides her maddening mother in her life.

  The last thing she needed was The Look. She was crossing the museum’s vestibule when she noticed it: a guard swept his gaze over her, not bothering to hide his leering appreciation. Wren groaned inwardly but didn’t break her stride. She had always considered herself riddled with defects – she was too tall, her chocolate-brown eyes were too wide, her lips too full, and that was without counting her hair’s dark, unruly waves – which was just fine, because if there was one lesson Lily had taught her, it was the untrustworthy nature of men.

  With that knowledge firmly in mind, Wren had left her all-girl boarding school and started university, determined to avoid even the slimmest chance of attracting what her more feminist-leaning lecturers termed ‘the male gaze’. She’d tamed her hair by dragging it back into a ponytail, used no make-up and disguised her figure by wearing baggy men’s clothes she found in op shops. It was, therefore, almost as shocking as it was alarming to discover the effect she still had upon the opposite sex. Fellow students, tutors and even the odd ageing professor gave her The Look, sometimes a sidelong glance, often an open stare.

  Now it seemed that even here, in an art museum of all places, she still failed to fly under the radar. Well, she wasn’t about to let that bother her, particularly as this just might be the day when her life would change forever. Walking purposefully into the ladies’ room, she made her way to a wall-length mirror. First, she straightened her double-breasted suit. A recent charity store find, its soft grey fabric was of such superior quality she was sure the former owner must have been an overpaid city banker. Next, she took some hairspray from her shoulder bag and went to work taming a stray curl.

  With just ten minutes left before her meeting, Wren squared her shoulders and strode out of the ladies’ room. She had already submitted her résumé and survived an initial interview with two officials. Now she would face her final hurdle.

  Alastair Stephenson was reputed to hail from Edinburgh, although his clipped British accent gave no hint of any Scottish origins. The slim, sandy-haired man wore a tweed suit and tortoiseshell glasses, through which he was now peering.

  ‘Ah, Miss Summers,’ he said, waving her towards a chair. ‘May I call you Wren?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Don’t blow this, she told herself as she sat down. Stay focused.

  ‘And this is our Head of Collections, John Tremaine.’ Stephenson gestured to the man sitting beside him. ‘Though, of course, you have met already.’

  ‘Indeed, we have,’ Tremaine said loudly. He was on the heavy side and had entered early middle age, though looked to still fancy himself as a younger man, for he wore jeans with his slightly too tight striped shirt and navy blue sports jacket. Unlike the director, whose diffident manner endowed him with an old-fashioned charm, he seemed very sure of himself. It was Tremaine who’d conducted her previous interview, together with a stern-looking woman from the Public Service’s personnel department.

  ‘The formalities have already been well covered,’ Stephenson said. ‘I see your thesis on the Impressionists’ brushwork was awarded first-class honours. Not only that, but you have already had a paper published in the International Journal of Art Practice on the same subject.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘That is impressive – it seems you are something of a prodigy. And I believe you had another article appear’ – he glanced down – ‘on the subject of Renaissance figure drawing.’

  Stephenson looked at her quizzically. ‘Naturally, that research would be very useful for this position, though I can’t quite grasp the connection to your thesis topic. Can you explain?’

  Wren smiled; the subject was dear to her heart. ‘It’s because drawings provide such an intimate understanding of the artist’s process – they’re so much more immediate than a considered painting.’ Her eyes sparkled as she spoke.

  ‘That same immediacy is what attracted me to the Impressionists,’ she added. ‘Nothing about their work is laboured or overthought. Of course, this technique can lead to flaws, but sometimes a so-called flaw is the element that illuminates the entire work.’

  Stephenson nodded. ‘Nicely put. Now, what else? Yes, you studied Italian – that’s useful – and the State Library has provided an outstanding reference.’ He tapped a piece of paper. ‘I put great store by Eva Reiter’s opinion.’

  Dear Miss Reiter, Wren thought. She’d worked part-time throughout university and full-time during vacations assisting the elderly Viennese woman who oversaw the State Library’s collection of prints and drawings. Despite the paltry wages, she would always be grateful that Miss Reiter had taken so much care training her how to catalogue and care for the works.

  Stephenson adjusted a cufflink. ‘You might as well know,’ he said, ‘we’re down to just two candidates, so this little chat is more to assess whether you would be a good fit for our team than anything else.’

  Wren nodded calmly. Seeing as she’d already faked her way through the exclusive Daneford school and then university, pretending to these men to be someone she wasn’t was unlikely to present a problem. Just act the part, she told herself. You’ve done it for long enough, and, thanks to Daneford’s enforced elocution lessons, you have even picked up the right accent. The urbane director and his offsider would never guess where she came from.

  ‘Right, then,’ Tremaine said, taking charge. ‘Let’s see how good you really are.’ He gave her a look laden with condescension. ‘Name ten paintings by Pablo Picasso – dates too if you don’t mind.’

  Wren struggled to conceal her irritation. Why would he ask her something that had absolutely no relevance to the job for which she was applying? Anyway, it was a ridiculous question to pose to someone with her academic credentials – she hadn’t encountered such an elementary memory test since her first semester at university.

  ‘La Vie and The Old Guitarist, both 1903,’ she began.

  ‘Are you quite sure about that?’ Tremaine probed.

  ‘Quite sure.’ The annoying man was trying to put her off. ‘Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, 1907,’ she continued, ‘Girl Before a Mirror, 1932—’

  ‘That’s quite enough,’ Stephenson broke in. ‘Frankly, I’m not terribly interested in a recitation of names and dates. I’m far more concerned with meaning.’

  That was a relief. Expounding her views on the latest colour theory or the philosophical underpinnings of nineteenth-century art would at least give her a chance to display her grasp of artistic theory.

  The director leant forward. ‘For instance,’ he said, ‘tell me the painting you like best among all those this museum has in its collection.’

  Wren swallowed. Here was another question she hadn’t expected. For a split second, she wond
ered which work would be the safest choice. Perhaps an iconic Australian picture such as Frederick McCubbin’s On the Wallaby Track – everyone liked that. Or would something European and dramatic have more appeal? Three Bathers by the German Expressionist Ernst Ludwig Kirchner had to be a possibility.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to nominate either of these works. There was something about the director’s authentic curiosity that sparked an unusual recklessness in her. ‘I’ve always loved The Camp, Sirius Cove,’ she confessed.

  ‘What, that tiny little Tom Roberts?’ Tremaine blustered.

  ‘An interesting choice,’ Stephenson remarked. ‘Could you tell me why?’

  ‘Because it fills my soul with joy,’ Wren said simply. ‘I agree, the work is modest in size, but it captures the essence of Sydney Harbour. I think it’s because of the way Roberts has filled his canvas with light, and his handling of the horizontal bands of colour. They’re precise, yet completely alive.’

  Stephenson coughed. ‘Would you mind waiting outside?’

  Well, she’d done it now, Wren thought as she sat up stiffly in an uncomfortable, modern chair, one of a neat row of three standing in the corridor outside. A single moment’s loss of self-control and she’d ruined her best chance of breaking into the world of art museums. Permanent entry-level jobs such as assistant curator were rare in Australia and hardly ever became available.

  Five minutes later she was called back into the director’s office. Tremaine’s expression was sullen, while Stephenson was preoccupied with flipping through the pages of his desk calendar. He looked up with a start when she came in, as if he’d forgotten he had asked her to return.

  ‘The Head of Collections and I,’ he said, composing himself, ‘have decided that all things considered, you are the best qualified candidate for the position.’

  Wren gripped her hands together, though she would have preferred to leap into the air with joy.

  ‘If you are agreeable, please present yourself to our Curator of Prints and Drawings, Dr Robert Hawkins, on Monday morning.’ Stephenson paused. ‘Best make it ten-thirty.’