Summer in Mayfair

by Susannah Constantine

  ‘What do you think about women dressing up for an occasion? A ball, let’s say. She can hardly go in her bra and knickers.’ Surely Max couldn’t argue against that.

  ‘Obviously not.’ Max leant back from the painting and turned to Esme. ‘To be honest I hate socializing, for that very reason, unless it’s in my own home. Women in their finery are impossible to read. And the occasion lends itself to superficial behaviour. The men are no better. Everyone is trying to outdo the other.’ He turned back to the canvas.

  Esme considered this. Max wasn’t a chauvinist but he was old school in his views. He spent too much time locked away with two-dimensional women who couldn’t answer back, she guessed. Though she also suspected he was not the faithful kind, spreading love as thinly as his varnish.

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘I was. Twice,’ he said automatically, without taking his brush from the canvas, seemingly bored of being asked and answering this question.

  ‘Children?’

  Silence.

  Apparently, this was not up for discussion and for a man who appeared to be an open book, it led Esme to believe there was more to Max than he was willing to share. He wore his easy-going charm like a mask, too, it would seem. Make-up comes in all guises, thought Esme.

  ‘Are you going to come to Bill’s opening?’

  Her invitation delivery route hadn’t reached the wilds of Fulham but she was sure Bill would have invited him.

  ‘I should. Events like that are rich pickings for folk like me who make beautiful things more beautiful for people who can afford it.’

  An inconclusive answer and knowing his focus was on the Romney, not her conversation, she offered to take Flea for a walk.

  ‘Good idea. Never gets out, poor thing.’

  A recluse, just like his owner, she thought.

  Hearing the word ‘walk’, Flea had risen and had his muzzle pressed up against a mouse-sized hole at the bottom of the door. He sniffed and scratched with his paw. Glad that someone was keen on her company, Esme and Flea set off.

  When they got back to the studio, all the lights were off save the beam of Max’s head torch which was trained on the slash on the bottom of the canvas. He was cleaning it with a soft cloth, like a wound before being stitched up. Esme winced as she approached. She could almost feel the pain.

  ‘Bad, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Bad that it’s been done deliberately but not irreparable. I can patch that up. Paintings get re-lined, often more than once in a lifetime.’

  ‘Why would anyone do that? Bill thought it was a Stanley knife.’

  ‘Could have been, or it could have been done with a cutthroat or razorblade. I thought it might have been done to sabotage the artist’s signature but I’m pretty sure that’s been painted over in the opposite corner.’

  He gently pulled the wound apart and went in deeper with his torch and magnifying glasses.

  ‘It’s very difficult to tell when this was done. But I suspect within the last twenty years or so.’

  Finally dragging his attention from the picture, he looked at her. The sparkle was back in his eyes and a look of determined excitement.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t know anything else about the painting?’ he asked.

  Esme knotted her fingers in her lap. She couldn’t bear to tell Max that it lay at the centre of a web of questions about her family and the Earl.

  ‘Nothing more than what you see’ – she decided that she had to come clean and tell Max that the painting was hers – ‘and the fact that Henry Culcairn left it to me in his will.’

  ‘Hmm. Didn’t think it was the kind of thing Bill usually sends me.’

  Esme had expected more of a reaction, but saw that Max was only thinking of the painting, not her own family tumult. She could see his mind computing information he garnered from the restoration process and what he wanted to find out. A hunter on the trail of its quarry.

  ‘The damage intrigues me more than the picture itself. We know it’s a Romney and we know it’s Nelson’s love. What I want to find out is who and why they wanted to vandalize something so pretty.’

  Esme crossed her arms and held onto her shoulders, hugging a wave of sadness close to her chest. The vandalism was wanton and premeditated, and while she wasn’t quite ready to admit her suspicions about who’d done it, Esme was relieved that the painting wasn’t beyond repair. If only the same could be said for her mother.

  Chapter Twelve

  As was common, Bill was away from the gallery on Monday. He had gone to secure the purchase of ‘an important work’ as the supplier was flying out of London later in the day. He had said it was too good an opportunity to miss and didn’t want his rival getting ‘his grubby little mitts on it’. Fair enough. So, Esme was left to man the gallery until Suki came back from her dentist appointment. With only two days till the opening she thought Bill would have wanted to be all over the preparations. But this was what he did at least four times a year, Suki said, and all the paintings were hung and lit by a specialist who made the canvases come alive. Esme had already learnt there was more to lighting than a bulb suspended above the frame. The gallery lights themselves were already top of the range, but the bulbs had been changed and casings turned to spotlight each work with the precision of a sniper’s rifle.

  Esme had been told to expect a prospective buyer coming in for a preview as he wasn’t able to make the private view. Bill had told her that the man wouldn’t stay long and that she must shut up shop whilst he was there.

  It was unusual for random people to walk in off the street. Most came by prior arrangement and for the most part Bill was there to greet them. With the prices that most of the paintings sold for, he only had to sell one or two every few months to stay afloat. Everything else funded his wardrobe and provided cash to invest in new pieces of art.

  ‘When the client arrives, put a note on the door saying, “Back in an hour.” I like all my best customers to feel they have an exclusive on the gallery,’ Bill had explained.

  He refused to have an OPEN/CLOSED sign hanging on the door. ‘Those are for corner shops, my dear.’ She would write a note prior to the gentleman’s arrival and have it ready to put up, Esme decided.

  ‘What’s the man’s name?’ she had asked.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll recognize him.’

  Intriguing. Excited at the thought of the kind of client for whom money was no object, Esme resolved that she would make damn sure that whoever it was wouldn’t leave the gallery empty-handed. She was desperate to get her first sale in the bag and prove her worth to Bill.

  Esme scanned the gallery to make sure everything was tidy and in order. It was. Immaculate. There was a whiff of Ajax, but at least it was a clean smell. When Peggy, the cleaner, deigned to come in, she did a job worthy of five-star hotel housekeeping. Even the kitchenette was spotless. Filling the kettle and fishing out the teapot and cups from a cupboard marked ‘Visitors Only’ Esme poured milk into the jug. It came out as yoghurt.

  ‘Shit.’

  There had been half a lemon knocking about yesterday, perhaps she could make the tea the French way. But it was neither in the fridge nor in the empty fruit bowl, Peggy must have chucked it out. Snatching keys from her desk, she flew down the street to the corner shop (complete with its sign saying ‘Open’), grabbed a pint and dumped 15p on the counter.

  ‘No Tooty Frooties today, Esme?’ The owner smiled.

  ‘Not today, Mr Leghari. No time. Got a special customer coming any second. Gotta run.’

  ‘Send him my way afterwards!’ Mr Leghari shouted after her.

  As she turned back into Jermyn Street, she saw a Bentley pull up to the kerb and park brazenly on the double-yellow line. The driver, decked in chauffeur’s uniform, got out and opened the passenger door.

  ‘Holy fuck,’ whispered Esme as she saw who stepped out onto the pavement.

  The man, dressed in a flat cap and tweed suit, was the very same figure she had stuck on her
walls at boarding school. The person she worshipped more than anyone, after Robert Redford, had his hands on his hips and was staring through the closed door of the gallery.

  All the other girls at St Mary’s had gushed over David Cassidy or Donny Osmond. But she would fall asleep listening to ‘Skyline Pigeon’ on her Sanyo cassette player. This was the man whose songs had comforted her through homesickness and painted a world beyond the confines of the school gates. His melodies had given her hope. She had fantasized about meeting him in countless scenarios: bumping into him on the street, being pulled onto the stage from the audience, him singing at her death bed, even coming to her rescue at school. In her mind, they had been friends for years. And here he was like he’d just popped by to say hello. As friends do.

  The incredible reality of her dream coming true made her want to flee. What if she made an idiot of herself? What if she was disappointed with the inevitability that he was, well, human? But her brain quickly calculated the regret she’d feel if she ran from this opportunity – and kudos she’d get from retelling the story. She felt herself shaking like a teenager faced with her crush.

  ‘Oh gosh, I’m so sorry. The milk was – your tea—’

  Elton John turned to her. ‘I hate fucking tea. You must be Serena.’ He smiled, showing the gap in his square teeth. How she loved that gap. His snub nose and clever eyes were more than she could cope with. Elton was a god. A musical genius who had come from nowhere and triumphed with raw heaven-sent talent.

  ‘Are you Serena?’

  ‘Yes, No. Sorry. No sorry, I’m Esme. Suki is at the dentist. She’s going to be apoplectic she’s missed you.’

  Elton turned towards the door as if to say, ‘Can we go in?’

  Esme put the key in the lock but it wouldn’t turn. She felt faint with nerves and fast rising humiliation.

  ‘Fucking door. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I think it’s open. You didn’t lock it, naughty girl. I won’t tell Bill.’

  She felt scalding embarrassment rush to her face. Was this really him? Why the fuck hadn’t Bill told her the prospective buyer was Elton bloody John?

  ‘Shit. Sorry.’

  ‘Will you stop saying sorry and get us in?’ he said with a hint of annoyance but continued to smile.

  ‘Sorry. Urgh! Sorry!’

  She laughed. Meeting her idol could not have got off to a shoddier start. She had already made an almighty fool of herself so things couldn’t get worse.

  Feeling she had nothing to lose she said, ‘If Bill had told me it was you coming today, I would have called him a liar. You see, meeting you is a bit like you meeting…?’ Who would an icon have as an idol?

  ‘The Queen Mother?’ Elton suggested. ‘I shat myself when I met her but she was so warm and funny. Well, I’m not very warm but I am funny.’

  ‘You’ve met the Queen Mother?’ Was this a connection Esme could build on? She could tell him she knew Princess Margaret, but she was also aware dropping the Margaret bomb risked sounding like she was namedropping in a desperate bid to impress.

  ‘Only formally. But given half a chance, I would love to get pissed with her. Bet she’s got a filthy sense of humour.’ He spoke with a clipped, clear pronunciation. Quite posh for a Pinner boy, she thought.

  Esme imagined the two them in a grand drawing room at Royal Lodge, he at the piano and Her Majesty swaying with a gin and Dubonnet in hand.

  ‘You see? Now you know how I feel meeting you. It’s the best moment of my life,’ she blundered, then almost to herself, ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Are we going to stand out here for the rest of the day or are you going to invite me in?’

  ‘Sorr— Of course.’

  She allowed the singer to enter first, taking note of his long hair and bushy sideburns. His glasses were round and understated but even off-stage and in civvies he was still indelibly Elton John. More recognizable than the Statue of Liberty and more loved than the tooth fairy and for the next few minutes, all hers.

  ‘You don’t want tea then? There is champagne if you prefer. It’s not cold but I can find some ice.’

  Bill wouldn’t mind her cracking a bottle open for such a visitor, and she could do with a glass to calm her nerves.

  ‘If it’s pink, vintage and Laurent Perrier, I wouldn’t say no.’

  ‘We only have Bollinger, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Poison.’

  What else did she have to offer? Suki had eaten the ginger nuts and the bananas were brown.

  ‘Do you want me to run out and get a coffee? Or Berry Brothers will have the Laurence stuff.’

  But the moment for sharing a drink had passed. Elton was already wandering around the room looking at the displayed pictures. He seemed relaxed and ready now to get down to business. It was strange to see someone so famous this close. She wondered what it what like to be so well-known, so well-connected and to have enough money to indulge a passion for fine art. Never in a million years did she think a pop star – celebrated for his extravagance as a performing artist and transient lifestyle – would be the type of client to appreciate the kind of art Bill sold. Had she given it thought she would have assumed a more obvious admiration for Art Deco and Nouveau or the ubiquitous pop artists like Andy Warhol and Lichtenstein.

  As if reading her mind, he said, ‘I’m not a trophy collector. I’ve had my phases buying kitsch and I’m not known for my restraint, but with the Baroque and Rococo periods it’s not about acquisition, It’s about love.’

  His steps were short and he waddled like a pigeon around the gallery, pausing at one of the landscapes and running a finger along the frame to check for dust.

  ‘Too many fucking trees,’ he said before moving on to the only portrait. ‘Look at this Van Dyck.’

  He surveyed the ugly man in red.

  ‘Forget the face, they were all pigs in those days – but look at the fabric of his jacket. Its luminosity and verve. It’s not cotton, it’s not leather or silk. It’s so clearly taffeta. Brilliant, absolutely fucking astoundingly well painted. And he’s so clearly a poof, which I love!’

  Funny how he had zeroed in on the most valuable picture on display. Of course, there were no prices on show, but she knew everyone invited to the gallery would have had the details of all the paintings.

  ‘I’ll arrange for someone to pick the old bugger up and pay for him after the viewing. Don’t let Bill accept a higher offer.’

  ‘I’ll do my best but you know how much Bill loves the pound,’ she said with a giggle, all restraint suddenly gone now she was giddy with the idea of making her first sale.

  Elton didn’t laugh. He looked at her as if for the first time, like he was surprised she had entered his orbit.

  ‘Tell Bill to call me.’

  And with that he was gone. In and out, just as Bill had said he’d be. Like the effect the cleaning alcohol had on Max’s painting; for a second, bright and real then a figment of the imagination.

  Had Elton been rude or was he just someone whose mind was already on the next task? He had dismissed her and she was furious with herself for not having made a bigger impact on him. She looked at herself in the mirror. No surprise, she thought. But whatever the case, however swift his departure, she had met and conversed with Elton John.

  Esme closed her eyes and did all she could to process a memory to hold on to. It was the details she must remember if anyone was to believe she had actually met him. He wore a fob watch. His shoes were brown and he smelt of a Mediterranean citrus grove. Irrefutable proof would have been an autograph but it would have been crass to have asked for one. She wasn’t a simpering fan, she was meant to be a serious art professional. Anyway, Bill could confirm her story and swat away the doubters. And the first one she’d have to deal with would be Suki.

  The left side of Suki’s face was like a stuffed hamster’s, swollen and already beginning to bruise. Blood had congealed in the corners of her mouth. She looked like a slab of raw meat that had been butterflied on a butche
r’s block.

  ‘Oh my God, Suki. What did they do to you?’ Esme said, trying not to laugh.

  ‘The fucking dentist pulled two wisdom teeth out. I was awake the whole time. I didn’t feel anything but the sound was horrendous. Like an eyeball being pulled from its socket,’ She spoke as if she had a mouthful of pebbles.

  ‘You poor thing. You should have gone home.’

  ‘Nah. Been given fantastic painkillers. I look awful but I feel great! What have I missed?’

  Hoping the pills had anaesthetized more than her tooth, Esme told her about Elton John.

  ‘What? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Elton John? Why was I not told and what the fuck was Bill thinking, leaving you in charge of such an important client? I can’t believe he put you in such an awkward situation. Poor you, Esme.’

  Suki was gilding her jealousy with passive-aggressive concern that didn’t fool Esme. She was just furious that she had missed out on meeting then dining out on the fact she had met Elton John.

  ‘It was too much of Bill to expect you to make a sale,’ Suki was simpering now. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll back you up. It’s his fault not yours.’

  ‘But I did make a sale. He’s bought the Van Dyck.’

  ‘What was he…’ She stopped, her head swivelling from her to the Van Dyck and back to Esme.

  Esme might just have well slapped her. Suki’s face reddened with surprise then rage. Swallowing the words on the tip of her tongue, she took a deep breath.

  ‘Wow,’ Suki managed, deadpan.

  ‘I know. But to be honest, I had nothing to do with it. He just walked up to it and said someone would collect it after the show. We hardly spoke. It was business as usual.’

  Inside Esme was bursting to share how excited she was. Bill’s best painting had been sold and it was all due to her – well, kind of. Stupidly she had nothing to verify the sale, only a superstar’s word and given his wealth and reputation for excess, his word she hoped, was his bond. She wondered now if she should have written up some sort of receipt or bill of sale.