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The months before Jarret’s return were endlessly busy for Amy, and the art world was more frenetic than ever. Every gallery was now on the verge of taking new and exciting painters on board, but they were behaving as if they were playing Russian Roulette.

The New York dealers had a tight grip on the world art market, and in particular Modern American art. Millions upon millions of dollars were at stake and they had no intention of losing that or their clients by backing the wrong new – ism in art.

By the time Jarret arrived in New York for his one-man show the art scene was bursting with vitality, anxiety and power plays between dealers, artists, critics and museum curators, while the paying patrons were waiting and watching in the wings, fistfuls of dollars held tight.

But despite the precarious feeling of the time there was also a great deal of fun to be had. One could go to a party or two or three practically every night of the week: a gallery
vernissage
, the private view of an exhibition, to a showing in an artist’s studio since he had no dealer. There was so much new and innovative that there were few dealing or collecting or writing or theorising in the art world who didn’t go to every party they could, look at all that was on offer, for fear of missing out on the newest discovery. This was the beginning of the 1960s, a new decade where everything was in transition and had somewhere to go. It was a thrilling time, like jumping into the deep end, this breaking away from an era that had run its course.

Things were very different when Jarret arrived in New York this time. Amy was under enormous pressure. The backers of her world tour project were sceptical about the timing of the exhibition and were now talking of delaying it for another year, possibly two – an impossible situation for Amy who was walking a financial tight rope. She had budgeted for a two-year project. If they were to delay payments to her she would be in serious trouble, and what was worse so would others who were working on the project with her. She had obligations and Amy took her obligations seriously.

But she wanted nothing to cloud her time with Jarret and instinct told her to keep her problems to herself.

Amy saw the long, sleek, black limousine glide up to the entrance to her building. It was just before noon, the
sun was bright but it was bitterly cold outside. People were rushing up and down the avenue muffled against the cold and the icy winds that blew off the rivers surrounding the island of Manhattan. It was a typical New York City winter scene: white smoke twirling up from every car’s exhaust, steam rising from the mysterious caverns under the manhole covers. There had been a blizzard on New Year’s Eve and snow was still piled high on the islands that ran down the centre of Park Avenue, hiding nearly half of the Christmas trees planted there that were still up and twinkling with coloured lights.

Amy had been looking through the window for the past half hour waiting anxiously for her first sight of Jarret. Not having previously told her exactly when he was arriving, this time he had called from the airport to say he was on his way and had a ride into the city with a friend he had met on the plane.

She sensed the moment the Cadillac pulled up to the kerb that Jarret would step from it. The chauffeur opened the door for him. She saw the same black coat with its velvet collar, the same handsome face, big, broad-shouldered Jarret, wearing no hat, no scarf, no gloves, his longish hair whipped by the wind. The same devastatingly handsome smile. She watched as the chauffeur went to the boot of the car to get his things: the same small battered suitcase and a portfolio, black, worn and tied with string. A sable-clad arm and a black kidskin-gloved hand was held out from the darkness of the limousine. Jarret lowered his head and kissed the
hand. The gentleman painter was back in town. Amy actually laughed aloud. He waited for the car to pull away from the kerb and then looked up at the building. She didn’t know why but she jumped away so he wouldn’t see her. It seemed the right thing to do. Instinctively she felt he would never mention the woman in the sable coat who had given him a ride in from the airport.

There was something easier about this reunion than the last one in New York. She opened the door to the flat and he put down his small case and the portfolio, then picked her up in his arms and carried her into the drawing-room, kicking the door closed behind him.

It was marvellous, his being back in her life again, to have sex with someone she loved, reaching out together, always that little bit further into the erotic world they created for themselves where they could be totally free. With every sexual act Amy knew she was laying down her life for love with this man. She could deny him nothing of herself. The reward she reaped from such total submission was to retain Jarret’s complete and utter passion for her. He thrived on her giving, but for a clever woman she was somehow unaware that although he professed everything he was belonged to her, every painting he painted was for her, the reality was that he gave nothing, shared nothing, voluntarily. Whatever love he did give her, whatever great sex they had together, it was in spite of himself, against his will. Cupid had played a trick on him, and he resented it.

It was after his
vernissage
, which was a great success though the exhibition itself was only moderately well
received by the critics and sales were few, that Amy began to see signs of resentment that he was no longer bothering to keep hidden. They were small things, and at first difficult to understand.

Although he had always behaved impeccably with her, she began to feel that loving her was a strain on him. He was constantly bringing new people into their life to ease the powerful hold their togetherness had over him. She gave small intimate dinner parties with fascinating people from the art world; parties that were interesting and amusing, where great food was served. Jarret would insist on arriving with one of the guests and would leave with another, only to return to her in the early hours of the morning. Yet at other times at these parties, he would flirt outrageously with her and make it clear that they were very much together. He professed himself impressed by her artistic judgement and agreed to introduce her to people who might further her in her career, but did it in such a way as to make her feel he was trying to distance her, be less intimate with her.

There were also people and events in his life in New York that he refused to share with her. The beautiful French art dealer arrived from Paris to do the art scene and Jarret squired her round everywhere. Peggy arrived from Venice in time for his
vernissage
, and though he introduced Amy to her he saw to it that they never met again. When Peggy called the gallery for Jarret, he was found by Walter and would snap to attention. He charmed and danced round the art scene, showing up at every important exhibition with either Peggy or Amy,
and that was indeed a dazzling year to view paintings. Jim Dine, Jasper Johns, Lichtenstein, Lindner, Arman, John Chamberlain and Claes Oldenberg were some of the artists shaking the New York art market by the tail.

The more Jarret became steeped in the New York art scene, the more restless he became, the more selfish and the more greedy. And something else had changed from the first time they had lived together – he was in closer contact with Fee. There were letters and phone calls from him three or four times a week. And the user of the violet-coloured ink? A letter at least twice a week, sent to the gallery but left on the chest of drawers in Amy’s bedroom. None of this was ever discussed with her and Fee’s postcards to her had stopped.

In many ways they were happier together. They laughed a great deal more and Jarret could still dazzle her with his charm. The sex was never better. People were affected by them. There was something outstandingly romantic about their love affair. It was, try as they might, impossible to hide. At this time a small scene took place in their lives that was to shake them both into a realisation of how deep their feelings for each other ran, in spite of the indications that their love was in trouble.

Amy had a friend, Andy Warhol, someone she advised on the purchase of paintings. He was the most singularly unattractive person she had ever met, and made even more so by the cheap, nasty white wigs he wore which always looked as if they needed a wash; a combing appeared to be impossible. He was a very talented artist
who illustrated shoes in watercolour for a department store, and did twee little books for twee little shops like Serendipity where you could buy amusing tat – anything from a hat with an ostrich feather in it to a back scratcher studded with rhinestones – and where you could be served an extravagant ice cream concoction in an oversized champagne glass. He was a commercial artist and collector of art, artefacts and trash. He did so love trash! Andy was obsessed with the idea that if Amy could tell him what to paint, then he could be as famous a painter as any of the artists whose work she was advising him to buy, rather than a public relations pet, hacking out what he did best, decorative illustrations.

Andy was always dazzled by other people’s lives, other people’s romances, and especially their sex lives. He particularly enjoyed hearing about celebrities or beautiful people, men and women alike.

The year before when Jarret had been in New York and he and Amy had been keeping themselves pretty much to themselves in her bedsit, they had one day bumped into Andy at an exhibition at the Betty Parsons Gallery. He was instantly dazzled by Jarret, and cruelly Jarret took advantage of that and turned on the charm. To watch them together was to view beauty seducing the beast. There was something pathetic about the contrast between the two men. Andy became obsessed by Amy and Jarret’s love affair.

After Jarret had left New York, Andy would endlessly talk about her and Jarret and how romantic and beautiful they were together. He would beg to be told
intimate details of their sex life which Amy would decline to discuss. The only thing that would stop him persecuting her was Amy’s promise that on Jarret’s return she would see to it that they met up with Andy for an ice cream at Serendipity. He held her to that promise.

Andy was working on a new book of drawings,
Famous Feet
, and wanted Jarret and Amy as models, assuring them they would be in good company as other famous people had agreed to sit for him. ‘Feet, just feet,’ he assured them. For all his vacuous personality Andy knew how to push. He never gave up. Jarret, much to Amy’s surprise, agreed that they would sit for Andy.

The following Sunday morning he arrived at Amy’s apartment with two friends, Ted and John. They were friends of Amy’s too, and they and Andy often did the galleries with her on a Saturday. John was all apologies about crashing in on them, telling her that Andy was so nervous about being alone with them that he’d insisted that the two men be there. They had little choice in the matter and had thought they would get Andy there and then leave. Amy insisted they stay for the fun.

Coffee was made. They had brought warm fresh croissants. Jarret was amused and charmed by the flattery: the three of them had been to his show. Andy had ten thousand questions that he droned out in that thin voice of his, interrupting the conversation at the oddest moments with his inane queries.

Finally, shoes, socks and stockings dispensed with, Amy and Jarret sat for Andy. His foot, her foot. But
Andy thought that not quite right: it had to be their feet together, her left, his right, entwined. And so Amy sat on Jarret’s lap, their legs entwined, and Andy did his drawing during a quite mad and amusing conversation. Amy thought the whole morning quite bizarre. After they’d left Jarret said, ‘There is something very surreal about that creature. And, you know, he really does believe that you can make him the most famous painter in the world. Will you?’

‘Probably. If he doesn’t stop pestering me,’ she answered.

Chapter 14

That afternoon Jarret was very quiet and pensive. Every so often he would suddenly gaze at Amy and make the odd remark, such as, ‘You are incredibly naive, I never realised that.’

‘Oh, do you really think so?’

‘You’re very American. Basically bourgeois.’

‘I don’t consider myself bourgeois. I don’t think I live a bourgeois life.’

‘Most bourgeois don’t! I think I might just prove you wrong. There’s so much of real life that you’re ignorant of, could never handle. You’ve never lost your innocence. It’s part of your attraction. You should love me less.’

‘Why? So I could give you a reason to abandon me?’

Amy had not the least idea where that came from. She said it instinctively, without thought, and was appalled by the look on his face. She had caught him out. That was exactly what he wished for, to be able to give her up. She felt so ill she had to leave the room. She walked past him and patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’m going to take a nap,’ she told him.

The signs were there; his love for her was on the wane, if not his lust. And without that love, as great as the sex was, their relationship was evolving into something less beautiful, more sad, that Amy tried to ignore. Several
people warned her; friends not even of hers but his to whom she had now become close, a French girl who had confessed during a girls’ lunch that she envied Amy because Jarret loved her, but: ‘He will hurt you, the way he hurts everyone. He’ll take everything from you and leave you empty and alone when he’s had everything he can get out of you, and you won’t even know how he did it. Please don’t think I say this because I’m jealous of you. I am envious but not jealous because I know the pain you’ll feel when your affair is over and would wish that on no one. He ruins women, and for ever. You don’t know him.’

‘I think I do.’

‘So did I. What do you know about him? You can’t begin to fathom the selfishness of Jarret and Fee. The lengths to which they will go to get what they want out of art and life. They are without morals or heart. They do unimaginably evil things.’

‘I can’t believe that. Evil’s a strong word.’

‘Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Evil is exactly the right word. Have you ever asked either of them for anything?’

Amy had to think. Amazingly she had not. She answered, ‘It’s not in my nature to ask for things.’

‘I hope the day never comes when you have to! Those men are not givers, and in love as Jarret may be with you, he will refuse you in the nicest way.’

Amy was angry. This was not a conversation she wished to have, she wanted to cut it short. ‘You’re frightening me by describing a man I don’t know. I know
you mean well but can we change the subject?’

‘All right. But ask him about the Contessa Armida Montevicini, his relationship with her and the
yalis
. I can’t believe you know what Fee and he have done to her. Ask him how he managed to get all of his wife’s fortune, to the extent of leaving her penniless and homeless when her money had bought three residences for them. He then ruined her reputation so as to deprive her of friends too. Ask him about how he used to make love to her mother, and still does. How he took Savannah in marriage but had a settlement and some bizarre agreement from Mama first. And he didn’t do all this alone, Amy. Fee, with his Byzantine mind, masterminds their lifestyle together. Incredibly they get everything they want, leaving a trail of used-up and broken people in their wake. And still they manage to come out the good guys! They get away with their evil doings and are never caught out or taken to task. That should show you how professional at it they are. You were a mistake that never fitted into their scheme of things. They won’t be forgiving about that. I won’t go on. Just promise me you will confront him?’

‘Have you seen this first hand, heard this from these women? Or from Fee or Jarret’s mouth?’

‘No, from reliable rumours that they are not even embarrassed about.’

‘Rumours.’ It was very nearly a shout. ‘Do you actually think I could confront Jarret with a pack of rumours? He has given me no reason to question him about anything. He has always been honest about his feelings
for me, to what extent they do and do not go. I should hope by now we have our love worked out.’

‘Forgive me, Amy, but close your heart and open your eyes.’

When she arrived home she was still disturbed about what the French girl had had to say. She had previously heard mere hints and been given subtle warnings about her love affair with Jarret, mostly from men friends who warned her that on both sides of the Atlantic he had the reputation of being the most clever of gigolos, appearing a most vulnerable and charming man, dedicated to art and all things beautiful. And Fee? Was he brother, lover, mentor? No one really knew. But no one had ever come out calling either of them evil before.

Problems seemed to be piling up one after another for Amy. The date of the world tour of American art had been officially changed. That was a disaster. At five o’clock, after her lunch with Colette, there was a call from her landlord in Rome. The building had been sold and the flat with it.

They were old friends, and after he’d explained the situation at length to Amy she could see that he had little choice but to evict her. It was a dreadful situation for them both. In a matter of hours her world seemed to be collapsing around her.

Jarret came home at about seven o’clock. It didn’t take him long to sense that something was wrong. ‘You look upset.’

‘I am. I’ve had a pig of a day.’

‘What’s happened?’

She tried to play down how disastrous her news was. ‘The dates are changed for the tour and that means the book will be delayed for the same length of time.’

‘Does that pose a real problem for you?’

‘Yes, very real.’

‘Well, you’re a clever girl. You’ll work it out.’

‘Yes, I suppose I will. But almost worse, I’m going to have to move.’

‘You have had a bad day! Let’s light the fire and open a bottle of wine and I’ll cheer you up by telling you about my day. I sold a painting.’

Amy was so glad for Jarret she forgot her own troubles. He took her by the hand and together they sat on the settee in front of the fire. She felt utterly exhausted and collapsed against him. He placed an arm round her and they drank their wine while he told her about the sale and of a new young painter he had met. Jarret was impressed by the young man and his work and asked if he could bring him round to meet Amy. It was all comfortable, cosy chit-chat, Jarret full of enthusiasm.

Only two things marred the evening for her. Just before they went to bed, he asked, ‘Weren’t you having lunch today with Colette?’

Here was her moment to say something about those rumours, to ask the questions that were troubling her. But she couldn’t bear to give up the joy of being in his arms.

She answered, ‘Yes, I wish you had been with us,’ and quickly changed the subject.

The other thing to mar her bliss with Jarret happened in the early hours of the morning after a night sated with sex. In a half sleep he casually announced, ‘I’m going to Palm Beach tomorrow. Four or five days, a week at the most. Ginger Woodruff has invited me, wants to introduce me to a gallery owner down there.’

In the morning she watched him pack his few belongings and worked hard trying to keep the panic out of her eyes and voice. For the first time since she’d known him she wanted to ask Jarret for something. Please give up Palm Beach, stay with me. But Colette’s warning was too fresh in her mind and she could not bear the thought of what might happen when he refused. It would be her moment of truth, the time when she would have to give him up, and she knew that she couldn’t.

Amy rationalised that it was a good thing that Jarret was away and she wasn’t distracted by him. It would give her a chance to concentrate on her problems, make decisions as to how to cut back to the bone. Within days she knew what had to be done. The staff would immediately have to be made redundant. Her contract remained firm, as originally written, except for the change of date which meant she still had a plum of a job but a cash flow problem. The money would not even begin to roll in for at least two years. The advance she had had on it was already used up; further staggered payments which would have kept her going should have come in quarterly, with one due three weeks before. Now she was in debt, and in thirty days would be without a
roof over her head or a current job.

How did all this happen to her? Where could she go? If only she had kept the Easthampton house, she could have worked from there. But Amy didn’t believe in ‘if onlys’. She would have to ask to be taken in for a while by a friend. Unless of course Jarret would ask her to go and live with him. To stay with a lover who had all those rooms in all those houses and a flat in Paris did seem the natural thing to happen. Or there was home to her family. Amy nearly laughed aloud. That was no longer an option.

She had invited her mother and father to the house-warming party she had given a few days after Jarret’s arrival in the city. It had been a wonderful party with everyone having a good time. Everyone except her parents.

Amy could not fault Jarret who had made the most tremendous effort to charm Sylvia and Arthur Ross, both out of their depth at the party. Sylvia found a place for Arthur to sit and he never moved from the wing chair. She brought him wine and food, and when Amy wanted to take him round and introduce him to people, Sylvia would not allow it. She spoke to two or three people and after that stood alone, face dark and brooding. No drink, no food for her. Clearly she was not there for fun.

It was then that Jarret drew Amy away from a group of people she was talking to and told her, ‘I think you have a serious problem about to break – your mother, she hates me! Best you try and smooth things over before she ruins the party with her scowls.’

Amy went to Sylvia immediately. ‘Mother, no wine? Let me get you a glass,’ she said, smiling.

‘I don’t want a drink.’

‘Some food then?’

‘I don’t want any food. Is that man living here with you?’

‘Jarret? He does have a name, Mother.’

‘I don’t like his name and I don’t like him.’

‘Well, that’s too bad, dear, because I do, very much.’

‘And I don’t like this place and I don’t like your hair, you should cut it.’

‘Why are you so angry, Mother? I’m so happy. Can’t you be happy for me?’

‘You should be ashamed of yourself, loving a man like that and acting so proud about it. You look as if you’re wearing your sex life on your sleeve, flaunting it like some badge of honour. The way you look at each other – it’s all too disgusting. When it ends in tears, don’t think you can come running home to me. You live with him, you forfeit your father and me and home. I don’t know you like this! In love, big deal. He’s not what I wanted for you.’

‘He’s my choice, Mother.’

‘Then live with it. We’re leaving.’ And she walked away.

Now Amy had no family, no home to go back to. Jarret would be away five days. Amy worked very hard to get things on the move in such a way that when he returned the upheavals in her life would not be too evident. All she really wanted was for things in the flat to appear
normal for as long as possible so that she and Jarret could keep up life together without disruption until he left for Europe.

The first evening after his return Jarret was especially amorous and lustful. Their erotic night was filled with words of love and praise for what they shared together. It set just the right tone for troubled times ahead for her.

When she was with Jarret she knew she was not alone, she was sharing that most intimate part of herself and all her erotic fantasies with a man who loved and appreciated every nuance of lust he brought out in her. Work and troubles were only a part of her life; she also had love and lust from a man who adored her and whom she adored. There was someone there in her troubled life to fall back on.

Her love fed Jarret and his ego, her lust fired his libido, and he was able to say things to her from the heart, the soul, some inner self that he was helpless to hold back. He both loved and hated her for this because he had declared a long, long time ago that for him that kind of love was forbidden.

In the days that followed his return Jarret seemed unable to get enough of Amy. They were some of the best of the times they had ever had together. During those days and nights they saw a great deal of the young artist Jarret had befriended. It took hardly any time at all to see the young man, Philip, was dazzled by Amy and Jarret as a couple. He was of a younger generation and very outspoken, open as they had never been about all things, including sex. They talked about everything
and how exciting a time it was they were living in, what it was like to be as sexually free as his generation. In the evenings they drank a great deal. Most times Philip was too drunk to leave and so slept over at Amy’s flat.

The first morning he crawled into bed with them Amy was shocked to find another naked rampant man with his arms round her. Nothing happened that was untoward except that he kept telling Amy what a great body she had and that he wanted to make love to her. Another time he was more bold, told them he wanted to watch his two favourite people fucking, coming together. The easiest explanation for their having Philip around them so much of the time was that Jarret and Amy got used to him and nothing he said or wanted surprised them.

One night, weeks after he had become a part of their life, they all drank much too much. They were out of control. The three of them were lying on the floor in front of the fire. Jarret opened Amy’s blouse and caressed her naked breasts, licking them and sucking her nipples. Amy was in an alcoholic stupor. Everything was hazy, as if she were looking through a soft focus lens. It felt wonderful. Jarret looked sublimely happy and was so tender.

Only when she heard Philip’s voice did she realise that he too was holding her in his arms, and he too was caressing her breasts.

‘From the first time I saw you, I thought you were the sexiest woman I’d ever met. I wanted you. All I’ve dreamed about since I met you was fucking you. Oh,
God, I want to be inside you. To feel the power and warmth, the softness of your most intimate self,’ he told her in whispers filled with real passion.