Pandora (65 page)

Raymond had also been preoccupied with a programme on Botticelli, Jupiter distracted by Hanna leaving him. Neither man’s eye had been on the ball. They must keep their nerve, Jupiter told his father, and concentrate on Casey’s exhibition in February which would bring in a lot of revenue.

At the end of October, however, Casey rocked the art world by announcing he was leaving the Belvedon after nearly fifty years and taking his entire exhibition, lock stock and double barrel, across the road. Summoning a press conference, he praised the marketing skills of the Pulborough. David P. already had a long waiting list for his pictures. The Belvedon had lost its grip and as an act of solidarity to his Jewish friends, he didn’t like working with galleries who dealt in looted art.

The catalogue for Casey’s show at the Belvedon had already been printed, invitations to the private view were in proof.

‘We’ve got to sue,’ fumed Jupiter.

He broke the news of Casey’s defection to his father as he was walking Grenville in Kensington Gardens. A distraught Raymond had immediately rung Casey and been subjected to such a long aggressive monologue that a bored Grenville had escaped into the bushes after a rabbit. Poor Raymond had ended up deaf in one ear, and wound up in Grenville’s long fishing-rod lead like a maypole.

Dropping in at the Belvedon on the off chance the DNA results might have come through, Jonathan was horrified how much his father had aged and lost weight. The veins stood out on the back of Raymond’s beautiful hands as he laboriously tried to answer the fan mail and begging letters which always poured in after a programme.

Dear Ray, [read Jonathan over his father’s hunched shoulders]

Can we have a signed drawing for our auction? To be honest I have never watched your programme.
Match of the Day
is more my bag. Can I be a tad cheeky and also ask you to ask other famous friends to donate a signed item, and if you or they would be free to mastermind the auction?

Raymond sighed, and put the letter to one side.

‘Dear Sir Raymond, My parents have gone bankrupt and can no longer pay my fees at art school.’

‘Dear Sir Raymond, Tick the appropriate box: I would be happy to donate £1,000, £5,000, £20,000.’

The figures swam before Raymond’s eyes.

‘Dear Sir Raymond, On behalf of Greyhound Rescue . . .’

Raymond got out his cheque book. As an economy, Jupiter had turned down the central heating. The only way to keep warm was to write cheques.

‘Those letters are carnivorous,’ said Jonathan dis approvingly. ‘Why have you both got such long faces?’

‘Casey’s left us,’ moaned Raymond.

‘Well, good riddance.’

Jonathan looked so carefree and handsome in his Antwerp-blue shirt, Jupiter lost his temper.

‘It’s all your bloody fault. Casey was pissed off you told him to fuck off the day of Emerald’s party. He was livid we put Joan Bideford on the front of next year’s calendar.’

‘There was room for her on next year’s calendar,’ said Jonathan in amazement.

‘Don’t be fatuous! And as for
Millennium Buggers
—’

‘You and Somerford were in that too. I thought Casey would regard it as rather an elitist bunch.’

‘Shut up,’ roared Jupiter.

‘We didn’t cherish him enough.’ Raymond shook his head. ‘That’s the second major artist we’ve lost this year, who was the other one?’

‘Jonathan,’ said Jupiter bleakly.

‘Emerald’s been blitzing my studio,’ said Jonathan hastily, ‘I thought you’d like this.’ He handed Raymond an exquisite watercolour of Grenville stretched out on the study sofa.

‘My dear boy!’ Raymond took it to the light. ‘Worthy of Cecil Aldin, Degas or even Stubbs. I saw a photograph of
Expectant Madonna
, frightfully funny, but I wish you’d do more of this stuff.’

As Jupiter stormed furiously off into the back room, pointedly slamming the door, Raymond added, ‘So lovely to have you back,’ then, lowering his voice: ‘Should have the results of my test any day now. Tell Emerald I’ll still adore her, whatever the outcome. Why don’t you both come and dine at the flat tomorrow night? Anthea’ll be in London, we’ll get something nice in from Fortnum’s.’

A warm west wind was blowing up from Limesbridge to wish them luck. Leaves were falling seriously now, huge pale gold cornflakes, blanketing parks and pavements, as though the trees were determined to strip off before November. It had been raining and their trunks glistened in the street light. People turned to stare as Jonathan and Emerald crossed St James’s Square, hand in hand, eyes only for each other. Every so often, Emerald pulled off strands of jade-green feather boa which clung to her scarlet mouth.

Jonathan was so certain of the outcome that in his pocket was a black leather box containing an exquisite ring, four emeralds in the shape of a four leaf clover. He’d checked with Dr Bredin. The results had gone first-class post to Raymond yesterday. Emerald was the one panicking. If Raymond were her father, she’d lose Jonathan for ever.

As they went up in the lift, Jonathan took her tiny cold face in his hands.

‘It’s been worth every moment of the waiting,’ he said softly. ‘Tonight I will make love to you until the dawn rises. The stars won’t dare to set in case they miss something and the sun will hang back knowing he’s been knocked off the number one spot for ever. I love you.’ He dropped a kiss on her trembling mouth as the lift doors opened into Raymond’s flat.

Normally when she entered a new place, Emerald’s first move was to look at the pictures. But having quickly kissed Raymond and Anthea, she ran to the sitting-room window gabbling, to disguise her nerves, about the wonderful view of the Houses of Parliament and the tawny towering trees of St James’s Park. Then she swung round, wide-eyed, flushed and about to be all mine, thought Jonathan in ecstasy.

As memorial services were an increasing chore of the much younger wife, Anthea had felt justified in spending a bomb at David Shilling on a ravishing midnight-blue feather hat for such occasions, which she had left on the hall table. Jonathan couldn’t resist putting it on and wrapping Emerald’s feather boa round his neck to make her laugh. Then he noticed Anthea looking extremely smug, and felt an icy hand clutching his heart.

‘Glad you’ve both had a nice long holiday in Vienna,’ she said. ‘Lucky for some.’

‘And there is some good news in the world,’ said Raymond. ‘I think we can manage this between us, don’t you?’ Then, as the cork burst out of a magnum: ‘Let Raphaels and Casey Andrewses fall about our ears.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Jonathan numbly.

‘I’ve just got the results of my DNA test’ – Raymond brandished a chart of waving black lines which could have been painted by Moholy-Nagy – ‘and Emerald is definitely my daughter. So there are no more doubts,’ he went on happily as he filled up four glasses.

‘I feel a little hurt you doubted my word, Emerald and Jonathan’ – Anthea smiled at them graciously – ‘but I do understand you wanting to be a thousand per cent sure.’

‘This is definitely one to file under “Oh Fuck”,’ said Jonathan slowly.

There was a thud as Emerald fainted, sending a vase of scarlet and purple anemones flying.

‘Overwhelmed by relief and happiness,’ said Anthea complacently.

Still wearing Anthea’s frivolous feather hat like Picasso’s weeping woman, Jonathan gathered up his sister, carried her next door and laid her on the bed. For a second he gazed down at her, running his hand slowly over her death-mask face to memorize it for ever. Then he kissed her briefly on the lips, returned to the drawing room and went berserk.

‘All your Seventies crap about love and peace!’ he yelled. ‘All your bloody permissive society!’ Then, turning on Anthea. ‘If you hadn’t shagged my father when he was married to Mum, none of this would have happened. By your bloody adultery, you’ve totally destroyed my and Emerald’s lives.’

‘Get out,’ yelled back Raymond, ‘don’t you
dare
to talk to Anthea like that, you spoiled brat.’

‘It was you two who spoiled life for us.’

‘Bring back my hat,’ screeched Anthea as he stumbled into the lift, groping for the ground-floor button and the descent into hell.

Tears pouring down his face, walking distractedly into the Piccadilly traffic, he lost Anthea’s hat and watched it disappearing under the wheels of a 22 bus. With the satisfaction of the serpent after a good afternoon’s mischief, Emerald’s green boa slithered off into the gutter.

Tempted to give up his life in Savile Row police station, two leaves for happy days nestling in his curls, Jonathan ended up at the Pulborough.

‘Vine leaves in his hair,’ murmured David, who was reading
Private Eye
’s account of Casey’s defection: ‘King Rat leaves sinking ship’, and waiting for a call from New York before going out to dinner.

Jonathan was so unhinged by unhappiness, he told David everything.

‘I love Emerald, and she’s my sister.’

David, who hadn’t yet heard from Anthea, felt like Christian at the wicket gate.

‘Never deterred you in the past,’ he said bitchily.

‘Bloody does now. Sienna and I were just a wind-up, I never believed in a million years Emerald was Dad’s daughter.’

Nor had David. Raymond had clearly done a good deal more than fiddle with Anthea. Since Emerald had rolled up in May, David had been in a continual panic he’d be outed as her father. The last three days since his meeting with Anthea had been a nightmare, in which he had bidden farewell to Rosemary’s millions and the post of High Sheriff.

Being stingy, he was also incensed at having had to fork out unfairly, twenty-six years ago, for all those hotel bills in Yorkshire, train fares, gynaecologists, supporting Anthea after the birth, giving her a holiday in Spain, not to mention all the people he’d had to buy to keep quiet so Rosemary didn’t twig, particularly when he’d been using her money. There had been no need for it; he had been fleeced and conned. Thank God he had always refused to sign the birth certificate. Just wait till he saw Anthea.

Irrationally, a tiny part of him had wanted to be Emerald’s father, and now ‘Shrimp Villy’ would be strutting round like an old buck. And so David vented his rage on Jonathan.

‘I can’t think why you’re making such a fuss,’ he said nastily. ‘As your well-read father is always quoting: “Never morning wore to evening, but some heart did break.” It just hasn’t happened to you before. Should give your work more depth. Anyway, you’d be useless for Emerald.’ David put Casey’s cuttings back in a blue cellophane folder. ‘You’re too libertine, too lightweight. Emerald needs someone stable, responsible, possibly much older.’ David licked his smirking lips.

‘Like you,’ whispered Jonathan in horror. ‘Don’t you dare lay a finger on her, you bastard.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said David smoothly, ‘I must call her first thing – although she’ll need a bodyguard – Casey is determined to immortalize her on canvas.’

‘I’ve already done that,’ snarled Jonathan. ‘Tell the fucker to stay away from her.’

‘I doubt if you have “immortalized her”. You’ve blown your career: fooling around, drinking, shagging, hell raising.’ David picked up his purple cummerbund, which he only just managed to tie round his waist. He must take more exercise; he and Emerald could jog in the park to get her in training for running away from Casey.

‘No-one’s asking for your stuff any more,’ he went on, shrugging on his dinner jacket. ‘I’ve had no orders for
Expectant Madonna
, nor
Millennium Buggers
. The world was at your feet, but today’s taste is fickle. Everyone’s clamouring for the latest thing, but it’s not you any more.’

‘Thanks a bunch,’ said Jonathan, who hadn’t registered a word, ‘I’ve just got to leave Emerald alone.’

‘She’s got Anthea and Raymond now,’ said David sourly. Then, seeing Jonathan looked near to death, and not wanting to lose him as an artist, only to shock him into working harder, he added more gently, ‘
Vogue
are planning to make Kate Moss an artist’s muse. The Chapman brothers, Tracey, Gary Hume and Sam Taylor-Wood are all doing her, they want you as well.’