Pandora (22 page)

Her demurely cast-down eyelids with their thick dark brown fringe of lash seemed almost too heavy to lift as she watched him scrawl his name. Then slowly she looked up, her eyes like huge green traffic lights. Go, they seemed to entice him. Go deep into my soul. Go fall in love with me. Raymond was jolted.

‘Dear God, but someone must paint you, my child. Your destiny is to see your face endlessly immortalized in pictures.’

‘On the contrary,’ replied the girl in a surprisingly clipped Sloaney voice. ‘It’s me who wants to immortalize you.’

Her name, she told him, was Emerald Cartwright. She was a sculptor who’d just left Chelsea College of Art and never missed his programmes.

‘I want to do your head, it’s such a noble one. Will you look at my portfolio?’

‘Where’s Rupert, where’s Rupert?’ demanded the crowd behind, which was getting larger and more impatient by the second and which included, as well as gays, Knightsbridge beauties and wrinklies, a tidal wave of schoolgirls on half-term and secretaries on spurious sick leave.

‘Ring the gallery and make an appointment,’ a blushing Raymond shouted over the din as he handed Emerald his card.

‘What’s your next programme about?’ she shouted back.

‘I’m working on a documentary about Raphael.’

Next moment, a tall man in a gorilla mask pushed his way through the screaming masses and disappeared through a door marked ‘Private’. It was Rupert avoiding the crush.

Raymond, who was feeling exhausted, was so grateful he’d been invited to lunch. On his way to Rupert’s private quarters, he laughed to see Somerford Keynes mincing along, almost concave from trying to tuck in his fat bottom and tummy, getting out a huge spy-glass to examine Galena’s drawing of Rupert’s very public hindquarters.

Raymond met Rupert on the way in. Nimrod the lurcher and assorted dogs were noisily and joyfully weaving round their master, who was immediately called away to answer the telephone, which gave Raymond a chance to look round.

The house, surprisingly shabby, was packed with beautiful, chipped and often threadbare pieces, gathered at random over the last 250 years by a family who’d always been more interested in horses, dogs and each other. Anthea’s exquisite needlework would have worked wonders.

Raymond admired a huge oil of a rotund black Labrador, the great-great-grandfather of Alizarin’s yellow Labrador, Visitor. He was also gratified to see charming pastels of Rupert’s children and grandchildren by one of the Belvedon’s most successful gallery artists, Daisy France-Lynch.

Daisy was so pretty, but so had been that ravishing Emerald Cartwright. And now Raymond found himself embraced by another beauty almost as tall as himself . . . for a second he was pressed against the soft breasts, tickled by the cloudy dark hair, bewitched by the silver-grey eyes and sweet anxious smile of Rupert’s wife, Taggie.

‘Oh, how lovely to see you, Raymond, you look frozen, you poor thing, would you like one of Rupert’s jerseys? There’s a nice fire in the drawing room. I’ve got to race, too rude but I promised to take Bianca to
Cats
. I’ve left you a sort of picnic.’ Then, lowering her voice: ‘I’m so pleased you’re here to cheer up Rupert. He’s absolutely fed up with all these people.’

Rupert had gone into the drawing room.

‘There he is,’ mouthed eager voices at the window; a second later it was filled with screaming excited faces.

‘Fuck off,’ snarled Rupert, nearly bringing down the curtains as he dragged them together.

The sight of Rupert’s wife and daughter disappearing in the familiar dark blue helicopter stepped up the fever.

Seated at the kitchen table with his back to the Aga, Raymond felt much more cheerful after a large glass of claret, a bowl of leek soup and home-made brown bread. He had been a friend of Rupert’s profligate father Eddie, often selling pictures for him to pay off various wives and gambling debts. He had also just after the war sold Eddie a Rubens of a nude Diana bathing with her naked nymphs for £5,000. Rupert, who wanted more capital to buy horses, was interested in selling it.

‘Beautiful picture,’ enthused Raymond.

‘My father loved it for obvious reasons, I can’t stand great lardy lesbians. What’s it worth?’

‘Five or six million.’

Rupert whistled.

‘Wouldn’t go through the auction houses. The Louvre, the Met and the National Gallery would certainly be interested. I could have a word.’ Raymond tried to keep the excitement out of his voice.

Rupert picked up this excitement as he placed a Stilton, a glistening apricot flan and a jug of thick cream on the table.

He approved of Raymond’s venal streak. Old Shrimp Villy had also been amazingly forgiving over Galena. Rupert felt he owed him.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘you handle it.’

While they argued idly over commission and what horses Rupert had running at Cheltenham next month, Rupert spooned up apricot flan with great speed. It was so delicious, Raymond took his time.

‘Marvellous cook, your Taggie.’

Rupert, like Raymond, had profited from an extremely happy second marriage. He was still arrogant, short fused, irrational and spoilt, but, tamed by the sweet, gentle Taggie, he was no longer relentlessly promiscuous nor insanely possessive. He was also a wonderful father and a fiercely loyal friend. Age had given character and strength and a few lines to the flawless face, but no extra flesh. In his presence, Raymond could look nowhere else.

‘Did you see that incredibly beautiful dark girl?’ he asked. ‘Thought she might be one of yours.’

‘Christ, I hope not – one can’t be too careful with DNA.’

Briefly they discussed Rupert’s adopted children, who were both black. Xavier, the boy, who was at Bagley Hall with Raymond’s son, Dicky, had gone hunting.

‘He won’t get many more chances,’ grumbled Rupert, ‘with Blair fucking up the country, or “rural areas” as it’s now known. Can you imagine fighting for King and rural area? I wonder how the saboteurs will play it. Xav could sue them for racism if they pull him off his pony. How’s that very stylish child who tipped green paint over Casey Andrews?’

‘Alizarin? Hardly a child. He’s thirty-four and six foot two and insists on haunting war zones portraying human suffering on huge canvasses – probably still trying to blot out the horror of Galena’s death. I really shouldn’t,’ he added, as Rupert filled up his glass.

‘Do you good, you’re not driving,’ said Rupert, who thought Raymond was looking very fragile. ‘Alizarin got over his rheumatoid arthritis then?’

‘Mostly. He gets stiff and he limps in damp weather. But he never complains about it.’ Raymond shook his head sadly. ‘I can’t get close to Alizarin. And he’ll never forgive Jupiter, who always had it in for him, for stealing and marrying the only girl Al ever really loved. Alizarin used to be incredibly close to Jonathan. Now they’re separated by Alizarin’s failure to sell anything and Jonathan’s huge success.

‘Jonathan reminds me of you when you were a boy,’ went on Raymond with a smile, ‘far too successful and good looking for his own good. He just had to bat his long lashes at the masters at school.’

‘Thanks,’ said Rupert acidly. ‘From what I’ve read Jonathan spends his time shagging and punching critics. What about the girl?’

‘Sienna? Most screwed up of the lot,’ said Raymond wearily. ‘Gives poor darling Anthea a frightful time. I had to stop vilifying the Turner Prize when she was shortlisted last year, but it was frightfully embarrassing.’

Sienna’s entry, he explained, following the trend for celebrating bodily fluids, had been called
Tampax Tower
, and was built of used tampons sent her by women of substance. Women beyond menopausal age had been allowed to cheat and dip theirs in red ink.

‘It wasn’t funny,’ protested Raymond as Rupert started to laugh. ‘What boundaries are there left for young artists to push through?’

Sienna had been much photographed riding round Limesbridge on a motorbike in the nude.

‘I know they had a rackety start,’ said Raymond dolefully, ‘but Anthea and I have tried so hard to make up for it.’

It was such a relief to be able to discuss his and Galena’s children. He always found it difficult in front of Anthea.

‘How are your lot?’ he asked. ‘I heard Marcus’s prom. He gets better and better.’

‘Perdita’s playing polo for the American team,’ said Rupert, shoving the Stilton in Raymond’s direction, ‘Tab’s expecting a baby any minute, then she’s going to train for the Sydney Olympics – got a great horse. She and Wolfie (he’s a dream) are in France. He’s producing Tristan de Montigny’s latest film.’

‘They’ve done terribly well,’ said Raymond enviously.

‘They were hellish on the way up,’ conceded Rupert. ‘It’s all due to Taggie, she’s been a wonderfully unwicked stepmother.’

‘Anthea’s been wonderful too,’ said Raymond with slightly less conviction, then his eyes filled with tears. ‘And I can never fail to be amazed that such a lovely young girl, thirty years younger than me, has given me nearly twenty-five years of undivided love.’

Rupert, who passionately regretted a one-minute stand with Anthea in the back of his Rolls on the night of Galena’s last disastrous exhibition, said nothing.

Watching his host ripping off black grapes with still sun-tanned fingers which must have once given Galena such pleasure, Raymond was overwhelmed with a sick craving to bring her back by asking Rupert the extent of their affaire. But Rupert was getting restless, longing to get back to the yard. Jumping up, he peered through the curtains.

‘Oh Christ, here comes Augustus John Thomas.’

Casey Andrews, in a big velour hat and Norfolk jacket, could be seen striding towards the house, bellowing like an MFH on Boxing Day, so the crowd would recognize England’s greatest painter.

‘His prices are bigger than his canvasses,’ said Rupert sourly, ‘and his last exhibition looked as though you’d unleashed an orang-utan with a space gun. The old bugger’s only here to see his picture’s hung where everyone can see it and to try and persuade me to let him paint Taggie. Christ!’

‘Casey’s a trustee of the Tate,’ Raymond shook his head sadly, ‘so one has to be nice to him. Means he can block any artist he chooses from being hung there. Alizarin hasn’t a hope after drenching him with paint.’

As Rupert, back in his gorilla mask, saw Raymond off, they laughed to see David Pulborough scuttling in from the car park, smoothing his thinning tawny hair and adjusting his clothes over a spreading waistline.

‘He’s got so grand now he won’t travel in the same car as his chauffeur,’ observed Rupert, ‘but you should hear him dropping his haitches when he’s called in to tell New Labour what to put on their walls.’

‘He’s covered his drive with gravel that looks like chopped chicken breast,’ said Raymond. ‘Oh God, I mustn’t be bitchy.’

‘Probably late because he’s been screwing some slag,’ pronounced Rupert with all the disapproval of the reformed rake.

‘Expect it’s Geraldine Paxton. Yes, it is,’ said Raymond, as a gaunt beauty, pretending to arrive from another part of the car park, holding up a hand mirror as she frantically applied scarlet lipstick, rushed towards them.

‘Ghastly whore,’ added Raymond with unusual venom. ‘But we have to suck up to her, like Casey, because she’s on the Arts Council and has such a pull with Saatchi and the Tate. Geraldine, my
dear
, how lovely to see you,’ he called out. ‘Rupert’s pictures are to die for. You have a treat in store. Afternoon, David,’ he added acidly. ‘Saw your wife earlier, she sent lots of love.’

Geraldine and David’s mouths became even tighter than Rupert’s security, as Robens, who’d been enjoying the crumpet still queueing up to enter the house, noticed his master and drove up in the Bentley.

‘Hope today hasn’t been too much of a bugger,’ said Rupert, lowering his voice as he opened the door for Raymond, ‘Galena would have loathed growing old. Couldn’t survive without male adulation. Her looks were beginning to go.’

‘So are yours in that ridiculous mask,’ chided Raymond to hide how touched he was by Rupert’s solicitude. Then, unable to resist asking: ‘Do you miss her?’

‘Oh, of course,’ lied Rupert.

‘Thank you,’ mumbled Raymond, then rallying: ‘Lady Belvedon sent her love.’

Meanwhile, over in Larkshire in the village hall, Anthea was addressing a not entirely compliant Limesbridge Improvement Society.