Moroccan Traffic (2 page)

There was no direct mention of the company I was looking for. Our favourite stockbroker had been in and out, and a man from our corporate lawyers; and our biggest institutional shareholders had each been given a slap-up Savoy Grill Room luncheon. A Boardroom lunch had been held, and attended by the new head of our corporate money consultants. In between, the traffic among our own senior staff seemed to have been about normal.

There were quite a lot of social engagements, some with Lady Kingsley but more often without. She was away at the moment and hadn’t gone, then, to last night’s big affair at the Oppenheims’. Sir Robert had. It was down in the diary. Which explained, of course, why the Chairman had slept in the office. He had had a night on the town without Charity.

The diary, of course, said nothing of that. It produced, for today, a single early date to receive a J. Johnson, and then nothing till lunch with a banker. So why Val’s smirk, and fresher and prettier? Then I got it. I remembered who Johnson was.

As I’ve said, the Board had decided to honour its Chair with a portrait. Sir Robert, who always liked quality, had chosen the artist at the top of all the lists discreetly provided. He didn’t know he was going to regret it. Johnson Johnson sent to say he couldn’t accept Sir Robert at all for six months. Courted, he conceded that he could make a start sooner, but not away from his studio. Shamefully seduced, he finally named a day upon which he could begin work on the portrait on Sir Robert’s own premises, subject to interruption without previous notice; early resumption not guaranteed.

Chairmen are a separate breed. I would have sent him a three-line dismissal, but Sir Robert told me he would ring Mr. Johnson himself. And he must have used all his charm, for work had begun, Val Dresden informed me, and Sir Robert was thrilled with the likeness, and could be heard to kiss it in greeting each morning.

‘What’s it like?’ I asked, shutting the diary.

‘Nobody knows,’ Val Dresden said. ‘The Boardroom’s locked, as I’m sure you found out, and I’m told the priceless canvas is shrouded. Dear old things; Trish claims they’re using it to watch video nasties.’

I picked up the mail and got on with my work. I was glad when Reception rang, and I was able to buzz through to Sir Robert, and tell him Mr. Johnson was here.

The Chairman sounded pleased that I was back. ‘Wendy, my dear! How splendid! Did you have a good holiday?’ He has a nice voice. He won all his directorships and an early constituency with the help of that fizzing enthusiasm. That, and his flamboyant size, and his rebellious hair, and his ear for mimicry, and his ability, at the right time, to knock off and have fun with the boys. And the girls.

I said, ‘A very good time, thank you, Sir Robert. If you aren’t quite ready, I could offer Mr. Johnson some tea while he’s waiting.’

‘Do that,’ he said. ‘Then come into the Boardroom. You and I must have a session, if the great man, of course, will allow it. The smell of oil paint doesn’t bother you?’

It didn’t bother me. I lobbed a smile of fake triumph at Val and Trish as I told them. Beneath was a smile of real triumph. I was going to see the Chairman’s oil before they did.

Down in Reception, there was no one but a tweedy man with black hair, a shapeless satchel, and an expensive Burberry heaped up beside him. He was printing doggedly on a doubled-up crossword. When he began to look up, there was nothing to see but two lenses, separated by a nose which had once been reset. Presently his glasses inclined, and he saw me. ‘Mr. Johnson?’ I said.

The great man gazed at me. I realised he was used to Val, or to Trish. I said (Handling Callers with Confidence and Care), ‘I’m Wendy Helmann, Sir Robert’s Executive Secretary. Would you care to come up?’

He rose, bringing coat, bag and newspaper to the door with more agility than I expected. He said, ‘Workout at the Veterans’ Athletic Club. You’ve been on holiday. Nice to be back?’ His accent was the same as Sir Robert’s, but with nothing hearty about it.

If I was surprised, I took care not to show it a second time.
Nice to be back?
Very few people say that, outside situational interviews. ‘The first day?’ I said, smiling. I am not my mother. I knew at once he was Casual Old Money. At the lift, I added, ‘I’ll begin to enjoy it tomorrow.’

‘That’s right,’ he agreed. I heard, but no doubt misinterpreted, a trace of approval. The lift began to ascend. He said, ‘Who was the boudoir-eyed stud I met last time? Valentine somebody?’

I began to realise then that he was enjoying an idle hour drinking blood. I said, ‘I don’t know, Mr. Johnson. Perhaps you met Mr. Dresden, the Chairman’s Assistant. He would paint very well.’

‘He thinks so,’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘And Vampirella?’

The words floated out through the lift doors, which opened to reveal Valentine Dresden, lingering beside Trish’s desk in his voile shirt and a cloud of citrus top-notes and a further new double cloud of resentment. ‘And a very good morning to you both,’ said Mr. Johnson, in exactly the same tone of voice. ‘The Boardroom? Or am I too early?’

He didn’t mean it. He meant he was exactly on time, but the Chairman wasn’t waiting to greet him. I said, ‘Could I offer you a seat for five minutes? Sir Robert had to work late last night, and slept in the office. He asked me to offer you tea.’

‘Too kind, but I never drink before painting,’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘Why don’t I go through to the Boardroom and start?’

‘Don’t you need Sir Robert?’ said Trish. Trish is forward because of her upbringing; a nuisance not worth correcting, since she never stays anywhere long.

He said, ‘Not if Miss Helmann will sit in his jacket.’

He seemed to be serious. Trish said slyly, ‘Wouldn’t Mr. Dresden be better?’ Dresden went sallow. It was interesting. I’d thought they were sleeping together.

Mr. Johnson Johnson inhaled. He said, ‘But is Mr. Dresden’s aura quite right? And really, the young lady’s attributes would be wasted. So what is left but the resourceful Miss Helmann?’

We all got it. Val was scented, Trish was bosomy and I could bring him tea when he wanted it.

My mother has trained me a body language. I received the key to the Boardroom from Dresden, and walked without haste to insert it. I opened the door at the second try. Mr. Johnson didn’t hurry me. He said, ‘Why should I bore you with advice? There’s decaffeinated coffee, or early retirement. You want to see the Chairman’s picture?’

I followed him slowly in. It was there, covered up on an easel. At the other end of the room stood Sir Robert’s chair and his jacket. The door to his bedroom and office was shut. It was time to deal with Mr. Johnson. Comfort, Question and Listen; I knew what to do when insulted. I said, ‘Mr. Johnson, may I ask you a question?’

He thought. He nodded. My mother, baiting me, looked just like that.

I said, ‘Why do you paint, if you don’t like it?’

He thought again. ‘Good question,’ he said. ‘Look, and tell me the answer.’ And he lifted and dropped back the sheet on the portrait.

The Boardroom is proofed against sound. You could hear the low hum of the heating, and the creak of a chair, and the nearly inaudible click of the quartz clock. There was nothing to say. I said, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you,’ said Johnson Johnson. ‘Want to watch? Sit there, and don’t talk.’

‘You don’t need the jacket?’ I said.

‘Not particularly,’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘Quite enjoy someone breathing in the same room. Even fire and brimstone. Now shut up, there’s a splendid young lady.’

Ten minutes later, Sir Robert bounded in. ‘Ah, Johnson, you’re working. Can you forgive me? Wendy dear, can you find us some coffee? What do you think of this, then? After five sittings?’ He wore a fresh shirt and tie and dark trousers. His waist was solid, but there was no flabbiness anywhere. He picked up and slipped on the jacket which I had not been required to wear. I had not been required to do anything but stand and watch paint being slapped round a palette and placed, without pause, on the canvas by someone who was not like my mother at all.

I said, ‘It’s a very good picture.’

‘Good?’ said Sir Robert. ‘My dear girl, that portrait will be on the centre wall of this year’s Academy. You’re a genius, old boy. Charity will say the same when she sees it.’

The genius said, ‘You got back all right then?’

‘Boring party. Yes. Didn’t know you knew that crowd?’ Sir Robert said. ‘Slept here last night, as a matter of fact.’

‘I thought you might,’ said the genius. ‘Who can claim to know a financial consultant except other financial consultants? Fiddler’s bidding, in fact. Muriel phoned me. Her people and mine are old friends. Nice girl, Muriel. Lucky chap, Oppenheim.’

‘You’re absolutely right,’ said Sir Robert.

Working late, I had said. Mr. Johnson didn’t bother to look at me, and I didn’t look at Sir Robert. I got out, fast, for the coffee.

Although I brought him a cup, Mr. Johnson refused again. I thought he wouldn’t care for me to work while he painted, but he simply hooked out a chair by his easel and I sat down with a notebook. The Chairman talked, had a break, and then talked again. Only during the final half-hour did Mr. Johnson make a suggestion. ‘Now I have a touch to do to the mouth. All right, Sir Robert? Miss Helmann?’ And Sir Robert smiled and stopped speaking, while Mr. Johnson took up the running.

Chatting was, I suppose, part of his job, and he knew Sir Robert’s interests by this time. He knew a surprising amount about cricket and racing, and had quite a stock of anecdotes about acquaintances from Sir Robert’s various quangos. He knew about Charity’s passion for paintings and horses. I supposed he knew what to expect if and when he ever met Lady Kingsley.

At the end, he put down his palette, threw his fistful of brushes on the trolley and stepped back, his eyes on the canvas. He said, ‘Well, that’s about it. Two-thirds done: the right stage to leave off, although I must say I’m sorry. It’s really coming along.’ He stood absently folding a rag.

I sat where I was, watching the Chairman’s smile fade. He said, ‘Leave it? Until when?’

The bifocal glasses turned. ‘Where are we? Spring . . . summer. . . Resume in September, perhaps?’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Sir Robert gently. He rose in the controlled way he has, put one hand in his pocket and strolled towards Mr. Johnson. He said, ‘We discussed the possibility of an interruption; I remember that very well. But not, my dear chap, what the shop floor might describe as a walkout. You are proposing a gap of seven months without warning? A little steep, wouldn’t you say?’

Johnson frowned. ‘Disappointing, of course. But there it is.’ He shook his head, tossing tubes into his box. ‘These things happen.’

‘Not in my Boardroom, as a rule,’ Sir Robert said. I had heard him say it before, with the same look on his face, and the same pleasant tone in his voice. He continued, ‘I have a feeling you want to go on with this as much as I do. There’s a way around everything. What can I do to help matters?’

‘Paint six portraits?’ said Johnson, with all the indifferent charm of a Customs officer. He unscrewed a final tin and soaking a cloth, used it to banish the paint from his fingers. Then he looked up, perhaps struck by the silence.

He said, ‘Perhaps you’ve forgotten. This is the risk you accepted. I have a client who reserved the right, long ago, to make his own priority appointment. He rang me last night and made it.’

‘For tomorrow?’ said Sir Robert. He sat down in a chair and leaned back. ‘For every day this week and next? I thought a professional spaced out his sittings.’

‘For March,’ said Johnson. ‘And I have three other commissions to finish beforehand. You, and those who booked later than you will, sadly, have to wait till September. But in time for next year’s Academy, certainly.’

He had laid hands on the easel and was turning it thoughtfully. The blue daylight of London glittered on the wet picture, and Sir Robert’s eyes fastened upon it. He rose without shifting his gaze, and thrust a hand, as before in his pocket. His own face looked back as if from a mirror, full of a vigour so piercing that flesh and blood seemed to spring from the canvas. The fit, heavy body. The amused, clean-shaven face with years of explosive living caught in every line. It was two-thirds done, as Johnson had said. A third was only blocked in.

‘But of course,’ Johnson said, ‘if art and trade can’t agree, don’t let’s quarrel. Take back your fee and I’ll scrap it. You will, after all, have wasted as much time on the thing as I have.’

Sir Robert’s hand hung at his side. I watched its fingers curl and then stretch. He had just realised he was face to face with a monopoly. He had opened his mouth when Val Dresden jerked the door open. Val said, ‘Bomb threat, Sir Robert, I’m sorry. We have to get out of the building.’

He sounded sorry all right. He’d heard the row through the door, and was dying to know who was winning. Sir Robert’s hand subtly relaxed. He said, ‘What a bore. My dear fellow, I have to apologise. Perhaps we can continue when this is all over?’ He made for the door, and we followed. The alarm was warbling by now, and I could hear a confusion of voices and whistles, and footsteps thudding down stairs and through passages. I scooped up my handbag and hurried.

A voice, socioeconomic group A, said, ‘You’re well-drilled, Miss Helmann. Does this happen often?’

Mr. Johnson jogged at my side like a billboard. Between his two outstretched arms he was grasping the cause of the dispute, wet side outermost. I said, ‘This is the first time really since Christmas. We wait at the end of the street unless it’s raining. Twice, Sir Robert sent everyone home.’

‘Nice,’ said Mr. Johnson.

‘Except the personal staff, of course,’ I said. ‘He has the Rolls driven up to the cordon and we stay until the security sweep has been finished.’

We’d got to the foyer when Sir Robert pushed his way back to Johnson’s side and noticed he’d rescued the painting. He said, ‘My God, I’m impressed, but in fact there’s no danger, old boy. Happens regularly. Hang about for a clean bill of health, and then we’ll have that chat over a noggin. Why not wait for me over there? It’s a good hotel. And it’s cold, standing about in the roadway.’