Pandora (94 page)

Too tired and happy to go to sleep, Zac and Sienna found another bottle and, welcoming a delighted Grenville onto the bed, watched the sky slowly lighten, as they waited for the sun to rise on the Raphael.

‘I’ve suddenly realized,’ murmured Zac, running a finger along her high cheekbones and long heavy eyelids, ‘why I fell in love so instantly with Alizarin’s Balkan paintings – because they were filled with people who looked just like you.’

‘And I’ve got to kiss you again,’ sighed Sienna happily, ‘because you are so beautiful and because that was the most brilliant fabulous sex I’ve ever had.’

‘Better than last time,’ murmured Zac when they finally paused for breath.

‘I thought you were Jonathan,’ cried Sienna in sudden outrage, ‘I’d just stolen the Raphael. I was pissed. I was so off the wall, I’d have let Somerford shag me.’ She pummelled his chest furiously. ‘That was such a shit’s trick.’

‘I know. It was diabolical.’

The tiger eyes, still a little bloodshot, were full of laughter. She was so unused to Zac being happy.

‘God I enjoyed it.’ Zac ran a hand over her hipbone, dipping down into her waist. ‘You have such a great body, and it locks into mine so perfectly. What did you do with the Raphael that night?’

‘Shoved it under the floorboards where I used to hide booze and dope from Anthea. Where were you going when you bumped into me anyway?’

‘On my way to nick the Raphael. Weird if we’d met up in the Blue Tower. I’d arranged for Anthea to leave everything, including herself’ – Zac grinned ruefully, his fingers playing idle tunes on Sienna’s ribs – ‘open for me. Then I met you, and here is an indication’ – he buried his lips in her shoulder – ‘of how passionately, even then, I wanted you, that I could forget the Raphael – and you know how passionately I wanted that – for a few minutes.’

Twisting her head to kiss his hard cheekbone, feeling the soft flutter of his lashes, Sienna asked, ‘What did you do after you left me?’

‘Found the Raphael gone – and went apeshit. Si nearly buried me for screwing up.’

Sienna was still puzzled.

‘I don’t understand why Si’s involved.’

‘He was bankrolling me.’

‘Whatever for? Is he your boss?’

‘No,’ said Zac, sending ripples of delight through her body as he gently caressed the underside of her breast. ‘You have the cutest boobs.’

‘Don’t change the subject,’ pleaded Sienna. ‘Tell me – how does Si come into it?’

‘He’s my father,’ said Zac simply. Then, at Sienna’s look of incredulity, ‘Well, my stepfather actually. Si really loved Mom, married her four years ago knowing she’d got cancer. He and I fought like pitbulls at first, but whilst she was dying and afterwards, he carried me. I just love the guy. I was so bent out of shape, he suggested as therapy we search for the Raphael.’

As Sienna’s mouth was still so wide open, Zac had to kiss it, then he said, ‘Si didn’t want me to flog the Raphael. He and Rosemary warned me I’d bitterly regret it, that the hurt over Jacob would fade. What they didn’t realize was the only thing I cared about was you. I was convinced I hadn’t a hope in hell. It made me really mean.’ Zac whistled, and shook his head. ‘I’ve got to send Sotheby’s several crates of Krug to apologize.’

‘Not when they’re going to sting you for the buyer’s premium and all those expenses,’ said Sienna in outrage.

‘I don’t give a fuck.’ Zac pulled her on top of him, so she gasped and arched with pleasure. ‘I’ll pay Si back somehow. Anyway, I’m the richest guy on the planet now I’ve got you.’

Unnerved at the prospect of more erotic enterprise, Grenville shot off the bed. For Sienna, things were still going too fast.

‘Am I imagining things or is Rosemary about to become the fourth Mrs Si Greenbridge?’

‘I guess so – but there’s only going to be one Mrs Zachary Ansteig.’ Looking up, Zac took her face between his hands. ‘You are so beautiful.’

‘Except for this zit,’ said Sienna ungraciously, because her mind was suddenly careering off again. Had Zac really said what he’d just said?

‘It’s a cute zit.’ Zac squinted up at it. ‘Makes you more human if you’ve got one imperfection.’

As he kissed her, his tongue roving caressingly around her mouth, she could feel his glorious cock leap upwards. But instead of joyfully impaling herself on it, Sienna had to battle not to burst into tears. Utterly confused she rolled off him. Outwardly unmoved, Zac filled up their glasses and started singing the love duet from
Arabella
.

‘If you were a girl from one of my villages,

you could go to the well behind your father’s house,

and draw a cupful of clear water . . .’

‘I’ve played that song into the ground,’ mumbled Sienna. ‘You have no idea how revoltingly miserable I’ve been, or how hopelessly I’m in love with you.’

‘Only if you prove it by marrying me.’

‘That cow, Naomi, said you’d never marry out.’

‘Ah changed ma mind. I guess I need rescuing just as much as Grenville. Well?’

Sienna turned towards him, her pale face suddenly radiant. Then Zac realized it wasn’t just happiness making her blush. The sun had risen, casting a soft pink glow on her face and on the Raphael.

‘Look, look,’ he said, pointing towards the picture as the characters sprang to life.

But Sienna had sprung to her feet too. Wrapping herself in a big orange towel, chucking the remains of her champagne out of the window, she ran clutching the glass from the room. A minute later Zac heard the front door bang. Suddenly terrified – perhaps he was going to lose her after all – he ran to the north window, and then smiled. For far below, with Grenville frisking round her, was Sienna, parting the ferns and filling up her glass with ice-cold water from the spring. Glancing up, she waved and smiled at him, her orange towel slipping as, very carefully, she carried the glass back into the house.

EPILOGUE

The ancient warder in charge of the Old Masters Gallery at the Abraham Lincoln Museum was taking the weight off his legs during a hot crowded Sunday afternoon. As the sun poured in through the half-open window, a young girl student joined him on the bench and introduced herself.

‘My name’s Zelda. You are just so lucky to work here and see these pictures every day.’

The ancient warder agreed that he never got tired of them, adding that the gallery had never been so busy before the Raphael
Pandora
arrived.

‘It’s that little picture over there, Zelda, glows like a jewel even on the darkest day, always got folk round it. There was a big court case over it years ago.’

‘Isn’t that portrait next to it by Raphael too?’ asked Zelda.

‘Sure is. That’s
Pandora
’s companion picture,’ explained the old man enthusiastically. ‘Sitter was a feisty young beauty called Caterina, who evidently gave Raphael the run-around. He nicknamed her “The Proud One”, but at the big ceremony here when the two pictures were reunited after more than three hundred years, folk swear there were tears in The Proud One’s eyes. Probably just a trick of the light.’

‘That’s really cool,’ sighed Zelda.

As she climbed onto the bench to have a better look, a family walked in through a side door and the room fell silent. From the back, the tall guy, who had thick grey hair, looked oldish. He must have brought along his daughter, Zelda decided, and her two teenage kids, a boy and a girl.

But as he glanced round, waving and smiling at the warder, Zelda said ‘Wow!’ because he had such an extraordinarily alive, young face and was probably only in his late forties. The family all looked so excited and because of their beauty – like visiting angels – the crowd round the Raphael dispersed to let them through. The grey-haired guy had his arm round the woman as they both pointed out aspects of the picture to the kids.

‘They come here two or three times a year,’ said the old warder, offering Zelda a toffee. ‘Seem such a happy family, and they’re always so pleased to see the picture.’

‘She looks kinda familiar,’ said Zelda.

‘Sure – she’s Sienna Belvedon.’

‘Oh wow! Isn’t she British? I’ve heard of her.’

‘Should have done,’ reproved the old warder. ‘Stirred up enough controversy around the Millennium. Churchmen and public figures in an uproar over some picture she painted, all threatening to withdraw public money in the UK.’

‘I’ve heard of that picture.’ Zelda wrinkled her freckled forehead. ‘Wasn’t it called
Visitor’s List
?’

‘That’s the one. Made a helluva difference,’ conceded the old warder. ‘Drew attention to terrible things we once did to animals. What upset folk most was to have all the poor critters arriving in heaven and being welcomed by God portrayed as a big yellow dog. But the fuss died down. Now it’s regarded as one of the finest pictures of the twenty-first century. Always thought Visitor was a funny name for a dog.’

A furry tail ending.

THE END

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Life may be brief, but art, and consequently
Pandora
, my novel about the art world, is long. Which means a huge number of people to thank.

Nobody, for a start, could have been more helpful than Sotheby’s and I’m particularly grateful to Diana Keith-Neal, a senior director, for introducing me not only to the Chairman, Henry Wyndham, but also to Richard Charlton-Jones, Lucian Simmons, Natacha Chiaramonte, Patti Wong, Chris Proudlove and Tatiana von Waldersee. All experts in their fields, they were unstinting with both their time and their advice.

I had fantastic help from many art dealers, who allowed me to infiltrate their private views, took me to auctions, showed me marvellous pictures and beguiled me with outrageous anecdotes. They include Johnny and Sarah Van Haeften and their assistant Camilla Clayton, Tim Bathurst, Christopher Burness, Francis Kyle, Jay Jopling, William Darby, Peyton Skipwith, Edward Horswell, James Colman and Maurice Howard.

Excellent technical advice or more outrageous tales were supplied by ace picture framer Mark Wallington; by Rungwe Kingdon and Claude Koenig, whose Pangolin Gallery and Foundry is one of the splendours of Gloucestershire; and on the insurance front by Aaron Shapiro, Michael St Aubyn, William Marler and Andrew Colvin.

There are many sculptors and painters in
Pandora
, so I am deeply indebted to my dear neighbour Anthony Abrahams, and other fine artists including David Backhouse, Daniel Chadwick, Paul Day, Paul Grellier, Christopher Dean, Hamish Mackay, Caroline Wallace, Tory Lawrence, Charlotte Bathurst, Anna Gibbs-Kennet, Michael and Sybil Edwards and the mighty Maggie Hambling for either allowing me to invade their studios or sharing their secrets with me.

During my research, my portrait was painted for Yorkshire Television by Alan Hydes and my head sculpted by Frances Segelman. Both artists gave me invaluable insight into the creative process as well as an end product of great beauty.

In earlier books I have been accused of making my young heroines too attractive, but anyone meeting Emma Sergeant, Tanya Brett or Georgie Taylor, all three of whom helped me hugely, will vouch that where the art world is concerned I have not exaggerated.

Most of all I must thank artist extraordinaire, Sargi Mann, who heroically continues to paint despite failing sight. His extraordinarily beautiful oil of a pale blue canal idling through golden autumn fields, which hangs in our bedroom, constantly revealing fresh enchantments when viewed from different angles and at different times of the day, was the initial inspiration for
Pandora
.

I never fail to be touched and astonished by the magnanimity of intellectuals prepared to enter into the fun and adventure of producing popular fiction. The Pandora of the title is an invented picture by Raphael of the opening of Pandora’s Box. In her creation and historical background I was enormously privileged to be given advice by Dr Nicholas Penny, Keeper of the National Gallery and one of the greatest experts on Raphael in the world. David Jenkins, a brilliant classics master at Monmouth, threw light on the myths of Pandora and the Seven Deadly Sins. Peter Clarkson, Associate Lecturer in Art History at the Open University, specializing in the Renaissance, lent me endless arcane art books and allowed me to pester him with questions. Denis Napier corrected my Latin. Caterina Krucker, Lecturer in Modern Languages, brushed up my French and Italian.

On the art establishment side, I am grateful to Robert and Kate Gavron, John Cooper, ex-Head of Education at the National Portrait Gallery, Maggie Guillebaud, formerly of the Arts Council, Christopher and Angela Dowling of the Imperial War Museum, and Francis Corner of Cheltenham and Gloucester College of Higher Education.

As
Pandora
is also a novel about art that belonged to the Jews being looted by the Nazis, I was unbelievably lucky just before I started writing to lunch with the mercurial, perennially innovative Tom Rosenthal, who was not only illuminating on the contemporary art scene but also dreamed up the way in which my picture could be looted. For further illumination I must thank Karen Pollock and Rosie Barton of the Holocaust Trust; Constance Lowenthal, Commission for Art Recovery, New York, and Eva Kurz, a solicitor specializing in looted art.