‘That might open a can of worms.’
‘You can pretend you found it, just hopping round.’
I look down at Bigwig nestling on my lap and think no, if I hadn’t rescued him from that car, then he would have been dead meat, and besides, I have a feeling he’s also going to be useful in ways I can’t yet comprehend. My phone pings – it’s a text from Maz that says Booked The Brycgstow, 7pm. It looks like a typo so I google it to see what she really means and it turns out it isn’t a mistake but the name of a new restaurant in Clifton, near the river. Scanning the menu, I see they serve shepherd’s pie and conclude that my sister has done me proud. We may have to endure our mother’s jeremiad, but at least while my ears are sad, my mouth will be happy. I wonder what they do for pudding? But while I’m scrolling to see, my phone rings again, an unknown number, and I accidentally hit the answer button trying to browse the restaurant’s dessert offerings.
‘Hello? Hello?’
Hearing the voice echoing out of my phone, I suppose I’d better answer it. At least it isn’t Vince.
‘Hi there, Clover Hendry speaking.’
‘Good afternoon, Ms Hendry. This is Gardenia Cusack, from the Sion Triangle.’
‘The what?’
‘Sion Triangle? The art gallery? I believe you visited our exhibition earlier today? Ms Hendry?’
I don’t say anything because I have an inkling she’s not calling to conduct a phone survey on customer satisfaction.
Taking my silence for assent, she continues. ‘I’m calling because there was an . . . incident involving a child, and we have reason to believe you were involved.’
‘What reason?’ I’m willing to bet no one noticed me hoik little Lucifer into the mesh pit.
‘CCTV footage,’ she replies crisply. Busted.
‘How did you get my details?’ I know exactly how, but am playing for time.
She clicks her tongue. ‘You provided them when you booked the ticket.’
‘Well, what’s the problem? The kid was wandering around on his own, I was worried about him. I take it he wasn’t harmed in that . . . that playpen thing?’
‘No, he wasn’t harmed, but, Ms Hendry, it was an artwork. A highly expensive piece.’
‘Get stuck in, did he? Well, that’s not my fault. He’s not my child. Have you spoken to his father?’
‘Yes. Yes, we have. And his father is extremely upset.’
‘He should have looked after his son then, instead of lying on the floor leaving everyone else to do it. What was he thinking?’
‘I might ask you the same question. Why did you put his son in Kinder Kraal?’
‘Kinder Kraal?’
‘That is the name of the artwork.’
‘Oh. I thought it seemed . . . an appropriate enclosure. I just wanted to help. You know, with childcare.’
‘Lucas caused a great deal of damage during the ten minutes he was in there. And I’m afraid Mr Andra is holding you personally responsible.’
‘Mr Andra?’
‘Art Andra, the artist.’
‘Why isn’t he holding Lucas’s father responsible too?’
‘Mr Andra IS Lucas’s father.’
Shades of Star Wars. So the man on the floor was Art Andra. ‘Well, he’s a better artist than he is a parent. Just about.’
‘I must tell you, Ms Hendry, that Mr Andra is considering prosecution for criminal damage.’
‘Seems a bit harsh to consider prosecuting your son.’
The tongue-click again. ‘Prosecuting you, not Lucas. I feel like you are not taking this seriously, Ms Hendry. For offences of criminal damage where the damage caused is over five thousand pounds, the maximum sentence is ten years’ imprisonment.’
‘Kinder Kraal is worth over five thousand pounds?!’ I wouldn’t have paid a fiver.
‘Indeed. Considerably more.’
I suppose this could be termed a pickle. But in the general scheme of things, I’m heading towards a whole wall of chutney, so figure I should spear this one and move on to more important matters. My firefighting TV producer’s brain is buzzing, crafting and rejecting potential scenarios until I reach one that will do the job and also be enjoyable. I check the time – nearly 4.15 p.m. – and quickly assemble a mental production schedule.
‘Would you tell Mr Andra that I am deeply, deeply sorry for the damage done to his miraculous artwork, and that I would very much like to apologize in person?’
‘I’m not sure he would be willing to see you.’
‘Then give me his contact details and let me appeal to him myself. Please let me rectify this terrible error of judgement.’
‘I’ll ask him to call you, but I can’t promise anything.’
‘Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Tell him to call me straight away – I can’t rest until this is put right.’
Hanging up, I immediately call Susie. ‘Where are you right now?’
There’s the sound of traffic. ‘I just left the house on Cheltenham Avenue that I told you about.’
‘The collector? What’s it like?’
‘Incredible.’
‘Has he got paintings and stuff?’
‘Everywhere. It’s practically the Louvre.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘Dubai, I think. Why?’
‘Because I need his house.’
