Pandora (30 page)

‘Jupiter’ll loathe me for tricking him,’ she shouted over the Dyson as she yet again cleaned Zac’s flat, ‘and I really like him. Anthea may look like a fairy princess, but underneath she’s probably more like the wicked stepmother in
Snow White
. She’ll reject me even more when she realizes we’ve wormed our way in. I don’t know if I’m Charlene or Emerald, or Belvedon or Cartwright or Rookhope. Will I get swallowed up in a big family who are “careless with other people’s lives”? Will I lose Mum, Dad and Sophy, who’ve been good to me in their bumbling way?’

Zac yawned, turned the page of
The Art Newspaper
and reached for his bourbon and soda.

‘For Christ’s sake, turn that fucking thing off, you’ll wear out the carpet,’ he yelled over the din. ‘You and Anthea are like push you, pull me. The person doing the searching agonizes about rejection, the person sought out feels invaded and unable to control events. Anthea’ll be fine once she sees you.’

‘How d’you know?’ Furiously Emerald banged the hoover against the skirting board. ‘What’s in it for you anyway? You just want to get inside the Belvedon house, to do a number on all those artists and clients.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘There must be some reason you’re forcing me to do this.’

For a second, Zac’s face was as blank as the Rothko on the wall behind him, then he drained his drink and got to his feet.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Out – I’ve had you up to here.’

‘You can’t leave me, I need to work this through, you’re the only person I can talk to. Sophy’s so disapproving. I haven’t dared tell her we’re crashing Anthea’s party. Fucking hoover. Fuse must have blown.’

But Zac had pulled out the plug and walked out of the flat slamming the door.

What was he really up to? wondered Emerald. He’d retreat for hours into his office, endlessly surfing the net, sifting through catalogues and auction lists, gabbling away on the telephone in French, German, Italian and even Russian. He went out a lot; he disappeared to the gym, working out his rage on those huge machines. He wore wonderful designer clothes, but always in blacks, greys or muted umbers as befitting a creature of the night. He devoured German novels and watched cricket on television, but he never seemed to do any writing. The flat was filled with beautiful abstract sculpture and pictures, but it bore no stamp of Zac’s personality – she didn’t even know if he owned it.

When he came back three hours later, Zac caught her going through his briefcase and really yelled at her.

‘Don’t ever do that again.’

‘Who’s that woman?’

‘My mother, for God’s sake.’

‘She’s very beautiful, but at least you were brought up by your own mother. Hearing how lovely Anthea is from Jupiter makes me realize what I’ve missed.’

As she became more uncertain of Zac, the more demands she made on him. She was still fretting two days before the party over what she was going to give Raymond and Anthea as a present.

‘Thirty pieces of silver,’ said Zac.

‘Don’t be stupid and I must have something new to wear. I can’t face Anthea unless I feel really good. That’s the trouble with being tiny, you can’t buy things off the peg, skirts flap on the ground, shirts are like shift dresses. I’ll never find anything to fit unless I go to a top designer.’

As she grabbed Zac’s empty glass, Zac grabbed it back again.

‘I might want another bourbon.’

‘Jupiter’s promised to give me a thousand pounds for that head,’ pleaded Emerald. ‘Will you lend it to me?’

In the end Zac gave her £300 for a present and a dress.

‘It won’t be enough, you come with me and see.’

‘I’m going to Lord’s,’ snapped Zac.

Sulkily Emerald set off, and after wandering up and down Bond Street, she settled for a silver candle-snuffer from Tiffany’s and a beautiful card. Pouring rain, which kinked her hair, made her even more bad tempered. Moving on to Knightsbridge, she found nothing that fitted or suited her at Harvey Nichols or Harrods, so she drifted towards Joseph – and there it was, on the rail, a dress in clinging chiffon, flower-patterned in green, crimson and Venetian red, with a frilly neckline and a knee-length skirt. It looked infinitely more ravishing on, demure yet seductive, and picking up the green of Emerald’s eyes, with the crimsons and reds showing off her white skin. What would Charlene Rookhope have done if she needed a beautiful dress?

Emerald had never shoplifted before, but she was in such a turmoil and perhaps wanted to jolt Zac, who’d become increasingly withdrawn, into a reaction.

Sliding the chiffon dress into the Tiffany bag alongside the silver candle-snuffer, she still had enough cash to buy one of Joseph’s sleeveless orange T-shirts and leave change over. It was so easy. In seconds she was out into the pouring rain and into the womblike safety of a taxi. That was the sort of wild prank Sienna Belvedon would have pulled off, she thought excitedly, as she transferred the chiffon dress to the Joseph bag. Back at the flat, she was unnerved to find cricket rained off, and Zac already home watching a video of one of Raymond’s programmes.

‘How d’you get on?’ he asked, switching down the sound.

‘Really well,’ said Emerald, brandishing the candle-snuffer. ‘Such a romantic idea – dousing the flickering lights before a night of passion. Oh look, there’s my darling stepfather. Do turn it up.’

Raymond, in a pale yellow tie and a miraculously cut pinstripe suit, was drifting round the National Gallery followed by a languid-looking greyhound.

‘Raphael wasn’t just a miraculous artist,’ he was telling the camera confidingly, ‘he also had such a sweet and generous nature that, according to Vasari, the great Renaissance art historian, not only was he honoured by men, but even by the very animals, who would constantly follow his steps and always love him.’ Raymond paused to put a fond hand on the greyhound’s striped head. ‘Now that, in a not particularly animal-loving country, is a huge recommendation.’

‘Raphael would have got on with my mother,’ said Emerald, edging towards the bedroom as the camera panned in on the proud bay horse leading Raphael’s
Procession to Calvary
.

But Zac had caught sight of the Joseph bag.

‘What else did you buy?’

Flustered, Emerald muttered that she’d got a dress and T-shirt cheap in a Joseph sale, and fled next door. Alas, Zac the journalist rang Joseph. Discovering there was no sale on, he stalked into the bedroom and slapped Emerald really hard across the face.

‘Thou shalt not steal, for Chrissake! Don’t ever do that again, you stupid bitch. You could so easily have been caught. What would have happened if you’d been photographed by
Oo-ah!
wearing it at the silver wedding party?’

Grabbing the dress and his wallet, he was off once again, slamming the door behind him. Emerald was still sobbing on the sofa when he returned long after midnight. The rain had turned the grey flecks as black as the rest of his hair; his face was wet and shiny. He chucked a Joseph bag at her. Inside was the dress.

‘How did you fiddle it?’ stammered Emerald.

‘Said you picked it up by mistake,’ said Zac acidly, ‘and eyed up the assistant. She was so touched by my honesty, she let me have it at a discount.’

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’ Emerald hung her head. ‘I’ve never stolen anything before.’

‘Except hearts.’ Zac’s face softened. ‘C’mon, honey, come here.’ Emerald shot across the room into the warmth and security of his arms. This was really the only home she wanted.

‘I’m sorry I hit you,’ muttered Zac. ‘We’re both uptight, but we’re so nearly there. Let’s go to bed.’

Emerald came almost immediately.

‘I love you, Zac,’ she whispered and within seconds was asleep.

Zac wandered into the bathroom, not bothering to switch on the light. The marble basin, magnifying mirror, silver-backed brushes, CK One bottles, all gleamed in the moonlight. Moving towards the window, Zac caught sight of the moon: wistful, huge eyed, desperately not wanting to die. Overwhelmed with sadness, Zac banged his forehead against the window pane.

‘We’re getting there, Mom, I promise.’

Anthea woke early on her silver wedding day, delighted to see blue sky outside, and feel an already warm breeze ruffling her beautiful new white linen curtains, trimmed with crimson glass beads, which made a lovely clatter when drawn. Although she had just had most of the house redecorated, this room was her favourite. The walls had been repapered in crimson toile de Jouy: a glorious extravaganza of fishing Chinamen, pagodas, parrots, monkeys and joyful dolphins designed by Nina Campbell herself.

Nina, who’d become ‘such a friend’, had also suggested blinds of the same crimson pattern behind the white linen curtains, cream Tibetan rugs on the polished floor and, on Anthea’s four-poster, luxurious self-lined cream linen curtains edged with more crimson.

An enchantingly pretty room for an enchantingly pretty lady, thought Anthea smugly. Crimson, of course, had been Galena’s favourite colour, but she’d matched it with such strident royal blues and emerald greens. It required taste – like Nina’s, and of course Anthea’s – to bring out the true potential of the colour with creams and whites.

Anthea sighed. What a tragedy the women this evening wouldn’t be able to admire the new décor when they left their coats on the bed, but there were too many precious things in the house to let guests rove unsupervised.

Anthea had pandered to her husband’s every whim over the last twenty-five years, as she was fond of saying. But last night, to ensure nine hours’ sleep before their special day, she had banished Raymond, who snored, to the dressing room. Raymond had been rather relieved. It had enabled him to read Tennyson into the small hours and have Grenville the greyhound on his bed.

In an hour or so, after she’d done her exercises, Anthea would creep downstairs and load up a tray with presents, a posy of lilies of the valley, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a half-bottle of champagne, and sing ‘Happy Birthday, Sir Raymond’ outside his door.

Anthea stretched. One of Raymond’s sex games, early on in the marriage, had been to take her out of a specially built glass case, and examine and caress her as if she were a Sèvres milkmaid. The case, which stood by the window, was now filled with pieces of Anthea’s favourite porcelain. On the rare times that she and Raymond made love, they would climb the stairs to the Blue Tower, which still seemed to arouse Raymond. As Anthea dutifully slid up and down his cock, she would gaze up at the Raphael and at her nicknamesake emerging from Pandora’s Box.

Anthea gave a shiver as reality reasserted itself. Never more had she needed the help of the Radiant Fairy.

‘Oh please, Hope and God too’ – Anthea fell to her knees – ‘please make Charlene go away.’

As most art galleries are undercapitalized, and Raymond and Anthea were not as flush as they appeared, Anthea had brokered a wizard £100,000 deal – a Silver Wedding in a Silver Valley – with
Oo-ah!
magazine.
Oo-ah!
were not only picking up the bill for her £6,000 wedding suit, £3,000 hat and £10,000 ball dress for the dinner dance afterwards, but also paying for bridesmaid and page clothes in fashionable lilac for Dicky and Dora.

In addition, Anthea had dropped a line to guests saying untruthfully that she and Raymond had been so bombarded with requests as to what they wanted as silver wedding presents that they had arranged a list at Asprey’s. They would particularly like pieces of their beloved ‘Violets’ dinner service, on which Anthea’s favourite flower, the violet, had been hand-painted. Everyone had belted off there and bought ‘Violets’ mugs which at £48 were the cheapest thing on the list.

Anthea had hired a lilac-and-white-striped marquee, with an Old Masters theme inside, which practically covered the big lawn which Robens had spent so many weeks perfecting. Robens was also hopping, as was Raymond, at Anthea’s last-minute decision to disrupt the exquisite pastel harmony of the herbaceous border by planting a bloody great battalion of red geraniums to add a splash of colour.

Anthea had made more enemies by her decision to use the tent again the following day for a drinks party for the village and friends considered too second eleven to be asked to the silver wedding. These included the local doctor, who had not been forgiven for suggesting Anthea’s panic attacks could be the onset of the menopause.