Pandora (88 page)

‘You’re supposed to look arty,’ said Patience reassuringly.

Then Emerald realized why they were all so smart, as David clanked in in his High Sheriff’s dark-blue velvet and frills.

‘He’s only supposed to wear that fancy dress on ceremonial occasions,’ fumed Lily.

‘Good luck, Emerald,’ called out Mr and Mrs Robens and Knightie, who were sitting in an excited row with the landlord of the Goat in Boots, and who all agreed the poor lamb was looking dreadfully peaky.

‘We’re rooting for a Belvedon victory,’ boomed General Anaesthetic. Green Jean perched at the end of the row, waiting to disapprove.

Biting her lip to hide her disappointment that Jonathan hadn’t shown up, Emerald looked so small and vulnerable as she took her seat between huge leering Casey and massive Joan Bideford, who both knew they’d won. Beyond Casey, the fourth finalist, a sleek Indian called Ranjit Chitajan, sat with his eyes closed, praying that he might.

Casey, who’d dyed his beard a startling orange, promptly suggested that Emerald and he had lunch afterwards.

‘I wouldn’t,’ hissed Joan Bideford from her other side, ‘he’ll make you pay for the honour. Come and have a bottle of fizz and a sarnie under the haycock with me.’

On a table on the stage, the four entries of the finalists had been covered in green plastic, which two minions had been practising whipping off all morning. Geraldine had organized a big screen and monitors all round the hall, so everyone could see what was going on.

Rather muted clapping greeted her and David’s appearance on the platform. David was not quite so popular in the county as he imagined. Smiles weren’t even suppressed when he nearly tripped over his sword. Suavely he introduced Geraldine, with much play on how privileged Larkshire was to be graced by her presence.

Geraldine, the sort of woman who made even linen too frightened to crease, was immaculate in a pale grey trouser suit. She told the audience how happy she and the High Sheriff were to bring glory to Larkshire by commemorating their greatest painter, Galena Borochova, thanks to the co-operation of Lady Belvedon – Geraldine smiled coolly in Anthea’s direction – who had urged them to go ahead.

‘We had four outstanding entries,’ she went on. ‘Galena was a powerful but very subtle artist, and we wanted something subtle to illustrate her special qualities. The first is a marvellous contribution from arguably our greatest painter and sculptor, Colin Casey Andrews.’

Casey Andrews leapt to his feet, raising clasped hands in the air. But the storm of clapping died almost instantly as a ghastly upended palette with huge breasts and pubic hair round the thumb hole was unveiled and appeared on the big screen.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ shouted the landlord of the Goat in Boots.

‘You’re not supposed to ask,’ hissed Green Jean.

‘Great art of course defies explanation,’ said David smoothly, ‘but in principle, Mr Casey Andrews’s palette symbolizes Galena the artist, the breasts Galena the woman, and the thumbhole the fecundity of her womb producing so many talented children.’ He nodded sourly at the Belvedons.

‘Load of crap,’ shouted Robens.

‘Be kwy-et,’ said David furiously.

Little Viridian started to cry. Sophy and Sienna got the giggles.

‘A work of towering genius. Imagine the impact when it is enlarged to eight or nine feet high,’ exhorted Geraldine.

‘Jonathan can train Diggory to jump through the hole,’ whispered Hanna.

‘It will fit very comfortably into the space,’ said David.

Remembering how David had tried to fit his rainbow-condomed cock into her space, Emerald jumped out of her skin as she felt Casey Andrews’s nicotined fingers stroking her left breast. He didn’t even remove his hand to clap when his wife’s entry was unveiled. A large nude, with no head, feet or hands and riding a bicycle, it was greeted with even more boos and yells of derision.

‘On yer bike,’ yelled Robens.

‘How does she change gear?’ shouted Knightie.

Joan Bideford turned purpler than Emerald’s T-shirt.

‘Philistines,’ she thundered.

Little Viridian bawled even louder.

‘He’s a discerning critic already,’ said Jupiter proudly.

Sienna nudged Emerald from behind.

‘You’ll walk it,’ she hissed.

‘Anything’s better than biking it.’ Sophy wiped her eyes.

Ranjit’s entry, a monkey who was simultaneously eating a banana and defecating, evidently to symbolize the artistic process, got given even shorter and noisier shrift.

Here we go, thought Emerald, dear God make the Belvedons like it.

Back slid the green plastic, catching in Galena’s paintbrush, making the maquette sway alarmingly for a second, before a minion leapt forward and steadied it. There was a long pause, as Galena was shown from all angles on the big screen, then an explosion of cheering.

‘That’s the one,’ yelled the audience.

‘We don’t want any junk in Limesbridge,’ piped up Knightie.

‘And Emerald’s a Belvedon,’ shouted Sienna.

‘Other lot are a waste of taxpayers’ money,’ roared the General and was shushed again.

Geraldine was unable to make herself heard, so David took over.

‘Emerald Belvedon’s entry is quite excellent, particularly for a young woman of only twenty-six,’ he said coolly when the din had died down. ‘All the judges feel she has a promising future.’

Emerald put her burning face in her hands.

‘A-a-a-ah,’ cooed the audience, as the camera panned in on a sleeping Shrimpy. Little Viridian was gurgling with joy.

‘Brilliant,’ hissed Jupiter, ‘it’s exactly like Mum.’

Alizarin, who’d taken off his dark glasses, stretched a long arm down the row and patted Emerald on the back.

‘It’s extraordinarily beautiful and incredibly like her,’ he whispered, which pleased Emerald most of all.

‘Please let us have silence.’ David glared at the Belvedons. ‘This is excellent work, but the judges felt it was too representational, too predictable, utterly charming admittedly, but lacking the imagination and vision of the other three entries.’

‘Bollocks,’ thundered General Anaesthetic to the horror of Green Jean and his wife.

‘I worked for Mrs Belvedon,’ shouted Mrs Robens, going very red, ‘it’s the spitting image of her.’

‘Anyway, the judges’ decision is final,’ cried Geraldine, feeling her input had so far been insufficient to make the headlines. ‘The winner of the Galena Borochova Memorial Prize is Colin Casey Andrews and here to present him with a commission to complete the work, and a cheque for twenty thousand pounds, is your High Sheriff, David Pulborough.’

‘Bloody rigged,’ roared Alizarin.

The press were going berserk as Casey Andrews stalked up to collect his cheque to a chorus of boos and slow hand claps. Not for nothing had Searston WI been in the forefront of the Women’s Institute’s roasting of Tony Blair. Emerald, meanwhile, had bolted out of a side door. Racing after her, Sienna found her sobbing piteously inside the green curtains of a weeping ash.

‘I’m so sorry, I’m not being a lousy loser, I don’t mind about not winning. It’s coming here again, and you all being so lovely, which I don’t deserve, and not seeing Jonathan. Everything reminds me of him and I love him so much.’

Emerald accepted Sienna’s proffered piece of loo paper to blow her nose, then confessed: ‘I loved Zac more than anything else in the world this time last year; I now realize what a bastard he is.’

‘He is,’ agreed Sienna, thinking darkly of the Raphael on sale in New Bond Street that very evening. ‘What we need is a large drink.’

A terrific din was still coming from the town hall as Sienna frogmarched Emerald out of the municipal gardens down the sunlit High Street into the gloom of the Bear and Honeypot. Slumped on a bar stool, Emerald gazed up at a row of teddy bears and tried not to start crying again.

My life is over, she thought helplessly, I’ll never get over Jonathan.

‘Thanks,’ she muttered as Sienna gave her a large glass of champagne. ‘What the hell’s this?’ she demanded ungraciously as the landlord handed her an appallingly wrapped parcel. ‘It’s not my birthday till tomorrow.’

There was so much sellotape cocooning the red tissue paper that it took her ages to unwrap. Inside was an exquisite silver loving cup with handles in the shape of lions’ heads. Inside that was a tiny envelope addressed to Emerald. As she recognized Jonathan’s black script, she started to tremble. Her eyes were so awash with tears, it took some time to decipher the note inside.

‘Darling Emerald, you wanted to get married before your twenty-seventh birthday. If this is still true, get yourself over to St James’, Limesbridge, by two o’clock, your utterly adoring, no longer brother, Jonathan.’

‘I don’t understand,’ whispered Emerald, swaying and clutching the bar.

Sienna put out a hand to steady her.

‘Dad wasn’t Jonathan’s father.’

‘Oh my God, how did he find out?’

‘He got the DNA results on Monday.’

‘Poor Jonathan,’ whispered an appalled Emerald, ‘he loved Raymond so much.’

‘Doesn’t matter, he always had Dad as a father, knew he was more bats about him than anyone else.’

‘Who is his father then?’

‘Almost certainly David Pulborough.’

‘Oh yuck, that disgusting lech!’

‘Jonathan wanted it to be Rupert Campbell-Black, but anything rather than Casey Andrews – or Joan Bideford for that matter.’

Emerald gave a shaky laugh.

‘Is he gutted?’

‘No, ecstatic, it means he can marry you,
that’s
the only thing he cares about.’

Emerald gazed at Sienna, tears spilling down her face.

‘But this must hurt you so much,’ she stammered, ‘I know you love him too.’

‘Not that way any more, and I know how happy you’ll make him.’ Then, when Emerald couldn’t speak: ‘Don’t you want to marry him?’

‘Oh, more than anything else in the world.’

‘Well then?’

‘Poor Sienna, you’ll have to put up with me as a sister-in-law.’

‘I’ve been such a bitch,’ they cried simultaneously, collapsing laughing helplessly into each other’s arms.

Then over Sienna’s shoulders Emerald saw the pub clock, which said five past one, and gave a wail.

‘I can’t get married in jeans.’

‘Of course not.’ Grabbing her hand, Sienna led her past a large stuffed bear and several grinning utterly riveted punters upstairs to a bedroom with a long mirror, a basin, and an open window looking out over the High Street.

On the bed – so like doll’s clothes that Emerald half expected them to have cardboard tags attached – lay pale stockings, the palest pink bra and knickers, little pink shoes and the prettiest dress in palest pink silk dupion. Just above knee length, it was edged at the hem and neckline with slightly darker pink feathers. In a little hat box were matching feathers attached to a comb for her hair. In the basin, keeping cool, was a bunch of pink freesias. On the dressing table, a big bottle of Violetta.

‘Jonathan did this?’ gasped Emerald.

‘With a little help over sizes from Anthea and Patience. He really loves you, no, don’t cry any more, and the mums have really like bonded in an unimaginable way putting this together. And Rosemary P. and Lily were roped in to do the flowers in church, which are stupendous. Jonathan chose pink because he thought you might be too pale for white, although’ – Sienna opened her make-up case – ‘I’ve bought buckets of blusher.’

‘Thank God I washed my hair this morning,’ gabbled Emerald. ‘I nearly had an extra hour’s lie-in instead. Oh darling, darling, Jonathan, I do not believe this.’

‘Have another drink then.’ Sienna filled up her glass.

‘I must have a shower.’

‘How’s David taking it?’ yelled Emerald over the sound of running water.

‘Doesn’t know yet. Rosemary does. She’s getting out her rolling pin.’

Emerald’s hands were shaking so much, Sienna had to paint out her dark circles and put on her eye-liner. The pink dress hung so beautifully, no-one would notice it was now much too big.