‘Well, aren’t you a clever girl?’
Esme heard the sarcasm in her voice but continued to ignore it. Suki was only one of two friends she had made and given her short time at the gallery, she was bound to be pissed off. Time for damage control to make her feel she was still top bitch of the small working group.
‘If you want, we can tell Bill that you arrived back in time to make the deal.’
‘Don’t be so patronizing. I have sold hundreds of paintings and anyway Bill told me Elton John is known to buy in bulk. Like the whole show, often.’
Esme’s pride evaporated. She knew she shouldn’t be so easily affected by other people’s opinions but in this case, she hadn’t even managed to give the star a cup of tea. She felt the sting of this deliberate, emotional sabotage and she was allowing her delight to be stifled by it. Piqued by Suki’s childish conduct, she took hold of the building umbrage and used it to defend her success.
‘Isn’t it cheating if one person buys the whole exhibition? All our work gone to waste? Bill could have just sent the paintings to Elton John and given him an invoice if he was going to buy them all. But he’d be missing out on the publicity and the showcase for his area of expertise.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Esme. The paintings stay here until the exhibition is over, whoever buys them, and anyway Bill has enough paintings to put on ten exhibitions.’
It was like buying the dress off the mannequin in a shop window, thought Esme. She would never remain naked for long.
‘Since it’s clear you can manage better without me, I’m going to meet a friend.’ Suki turned on her heel and left.
‘Fine.’
Esme was relieved when she was alone again. She hated her new friend’s mean-spiritedness even if she could understand why she was put out. But this was Bill’s victory more than anyone’s. He had found the Van Dyck and curated the exhibition. Suki could strop but Bill would be elated – and he was the only person who mattered.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Esme felt deflated and wished her boss would come back. The afternoon dragged. As irritating as Suki could be, she found that after a while she missed her company. For all petty jealousies, she was great fun and Esme admired how she never took things personally, especially when she was the target of Bill’s baiting. She could be generous, and had been with Esme, so she hoped they would get over this spat. She couldn’t afford both to lose a friend and make an enemy of her colleague.
She stared out of the window. The street was dead. Sometimes it felt like St James’s was for dinosaurs, old people who had enough money to buy things they didn’t need. A lone woman with too much make-up and an up-do pulled a fat Labrador behind her. The poor thing was panting with his tail at half-mast. He looked embarrassed and out of place. People shouldn’t have big dogs in the city, Esme thought. It was cruel. They never got enough exercise and clearly this poor fella was mortified being walked by his owner’s secretary. He cocked his leg on the wheel of a car. Old and unsteady, he was unable to hold his leg up long enough so he squatted like a bitch. The woman tugged at the lead but the dog wouldn’t budge until he was done. Her own dog, beloved Digger, had been like that towards the end. Lost his dignity but Esme had done everything she could to keep him comfortable – she couldn’t bear the thought of being without him. In the end, he had died whilst she was at boarding school, and her mother in full-swing mania, sent his body to her in a crate. It was both her best and worst moment at St Mary’s. All parcels had to be opened and checked for contraband, like jail, and the nun who opened Digger was joyfully the vile Sister Ann. Word had it that she had screamed and cursed like a sailor. Good old Digger, looking out for her even as a cadaver.
There was nothing to do now except sit at her desk and answer calls. The only problem was that there were none. No customers to take her mind off things. She wondered what her sister Sophia was doing? It would be breakfast time in New York and she would be heading to the deli to collect a bagel. If she rang now she might just catch her.
Esme picked up the telephone. She considered reversing the charges but couldn’t guarantee that Sophia would accept them. The call would be less expensive in the afternoon and she was sure Bill wouldn’t mind if she was quick.
‘Sophs?’ she said when the familiar voice answered.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s me. Esme.’
‘Es! How are you? You just caught me.’
Esme could hear the jangle of keys and loose coins against something china.
‘You’ll never guess who just left the gallery.’
When she said Elton’s name, Esme heard the china whatever it was crash to the floor and then a shriek from her sister.
‘You actually met him? Christ, that’s more exciting than Eric Clapton.’
Sophia had been introduced to him at a restaurant once. She had been thoroughly underwhelmed. But still liked to tell the story.
‘What was he like?’
‘Very rude in a funny way. I’m still in shock.’
Esme went on to tell her a blow-by-blow account of the meeting, with Sophia signing off with a demand that they become best friends.
‘I’ll probably never see him again,’ Esme said wistfully, but secretly already hoping Bill’s next exhibition would have more treasures to tempt the star with.
The sisters sent each other love and promised to speak in the next few days. As she put the phone down, Esme felt lifted. It had taken years for her and her sister to get to this kind of friendship – one where they were genuinely rooting for each other, not competing, comparing or begrudging. They might have both fled The Lodge but something clicked into place for Esme: being home wasn’t always about who you shared your four walls with, but about who you shared your laughter with, your worries, your quiet moments. And she was lucky enough to have those people to call on. She made a mental note to call Mrs Bee tomorrow. It was amazing how a five-minute conversation could transform your mood.
She was just about to go to the loo when an exceptionally good-looking young man with an enormous portfolio came through the door. He was tall and slender with a whipcord leanness that dispelled any suggestion of weakness. Dressed head to toe in black leather, his black hair and pale skin would have made him look close to death were it not for his blue eyes. Irish, perhaps?
‘Hi, I’ve come to see Bill Cartwright.’ So, not Irish. American. ‘I’ve got an appointment with him.’
Esme smoothed her hair and skirt self-consciously as she rose.
‘I’m sorry, he’s not here. Can I help?’
This was the second time today Bill’s absence had left her to deal with the unexpected. So gorgeous was this man that she couldn’t imagine any reason important enough for Bill not to be here if he’d known. Always one to fear the worst, a flash of concern crossed Esme’s mind. Why was Bill missing the kind of appointments that he usually lived for? She worried that perhaps he was seeing a specialist for a dicky heart or something and had used the excuse of ‘outside business’ to cover up. Either that or he’d got arrested for something. She was being ridiculous, she told herself. Maybe he was actually just learning to trust her to do some deals and man the fort.
But this man was certainly no dealer, unless it was drugs he was selling.
‘Yeah, well, maybe you could help.’ He didn’t look convinced.
‘Are you here for a preview?’ Esme ventured. He clearly wasn’t.
He looked puzzled then smiled when he understood what she meant.
‘Jesus, no. I can’t afford to look at these paintings let alone buy one. Don’t get me wrong, they are beautiful. But no. Painting isn’t my thing. I’m a photographer.’
This made sense but Esme didn’t recollect Bill wanting to have his portrait shot. Maybe it was for Javier? But most probably it was the man and not the photographs he was interested in. When it came to photography, she knew Bill only collected retrospectively.
‘My agent said he wanted to see my work. I know he’s an ent
husiastic collector so I was like, wow, the great Bill Cartwright is interested in my photographs. He’s a busy man, I’m sure, so I expect he’s forgotten. That or maybe my agent was lying and this was all a ruse to get me through the door.’
‘I’m sure Bill hasn’t forgotten,’ said Esme, but as it was blatantly obvious the ‘great BC’ was nowhere to be seen, she added hurriedly, ‘But he was called out on urgent business.’ And then, ‘Hi. I’m Esme.’
She put out her hand which he took. His hand was rough, muscular and solid, like unpolished stone and the antithesis of his feminine beauty. Everything about his appearance was a contradiction. Effeminate but masculine. Hard yet open and warm. Battered old leather against scrubbed skin and casually gelled hair fashioned into a soft Elvis quiff. Esme considered Oliver’s age. Early thirties? It was hard to tell.
‘Oliver Maxey. Good to meet you, Esme. Are your parents Salinger fans?’
She didn’t know what he was talking about and her ignorance must have shown in her face.
‘“For Esme – With Love and Squalor”. It’s the story of a beautiful young British girl who captures the imagination of a US soldier during the Second World War. You should read it.’
Her father only read John le Carré and she’d never see her mother pick up a book. She, however, had always been a voracious reader, using fiction to escape. Stories of orphans with a happy ending and anything to do with running away were particular favourites. While Sophia lapped up the romance of Danielle Steel, she flew on the wings of courageous young girls who prevailed against all odds. Sounded like Salinger’s Esme might have been one of those girls.
‘No, I haven’t read it.’ The phone rang, saving her from her embarrassment.
‘I’d better get this. Might be Bill.’
‘Hello?’ She smiled at Oliver, mouthing, ‘Sorry.’
It was Suki, calling to apologize. She said she was sorry she had been a bitch and blamed her temper on the dentist.
Esme smiled down the phone, a rush of forgiveness and relief making her sigh. She instantly felt renewed affection for Suki. True friends could screw up and then say sorry. True friends accepted apologies and moved on. When her parents had rowed neither ever apologized. Her mother retreated into another world and her father would extricate himself until the dust settled. Her childhood friend Lexi would go silent for days but Esme had always been quick to apologize whether she knew what she’d done or not. She could tell Suki’s apology was sincere.
‘Someone’s come into the gallery. I’d better go. Hope you feel better soon.’
She put the receiver down before Suki had time to ask who. She had learnt a valuable lesson and this time Esme kept her mouth shut.
‘Sorry about that, Oliver. Where were we?’
He shook his head and leant his portfolio against the desk.
‘Hey, I don’t want to take up any more of your time, so do you mind if I just leave my book here? Then Bill can look at it at his leisure. I can come collect it when he’s done.’
‘Or I could bring it back to you? It’s no problem. We’re used to handling fine art so I’ll take good care of your portfolio.’
She liked Mr Maxey and she knew immediately she wanted to see him again. He probably thought she was just a bored society girl playing at working in the gallery, but if she could wangle another meeting, perhaps she’d convince him otherwise, maybe even add him to her admittedly rather small social arsenal. He was just the kind of individual who by association would make her more interesting. And she couldn’t deny he was cute.
‘That’s super kind. Here. I’ll write my address.’
He took an empty envelope from the wastepaper basket and scribbled his contact details. His writing was lyrical in its twist and flow.
‘I’m afraid I don’t have a personal phone so just drop it whenever. There is always someone hanging around. The studio I work in is a kind of co-operative for artists.’
This would not do. This would not do at all. She didn’t want to run the risk of turning up at his studio to return his book when he wasn’t there. She looked at the address. Lewisham High Street. She didn’t know where it was and was damned if she was going to schlepp all the way over to an empty artist’s collective.
‘The thing is – what do we do if Bill wants to buy something? How will I reach you?’ The ‘we’ sounded good, like they were already friends.
‘I have this number, so I’ll call you or Bill in a couple of days. He knows my show is next week, the gallery invited him. You should come too.’
‘I’d love to,’ she said without hesitation. She would definitely be there and perhaps she could take Cece with her.
‘Can I bring a friend?’
‘Sure. The more the merrier.’ He shrugged and said, ‘I’ll see you around.’
As he turned, Esme caught sight of his profile. It reminded her of someone but she couldn’t place the sharp, refined features. But as she waved him off she realized that it was Elizabeth Taylor he reminded her of. Something feline and mysterious.
Taking Oliver’s portfolio, she laid it on the carpet and unzipped it. Carefully she pulled the top print out. It was black-and-white and printed with a clarity she had never seen before. She was visually assaulted by a full-frontal portrait of a woman. There was perfect symmetry to the face, architectural in its positioning and composition. Every hair, eyelash and both eyebrows were perfectly matched. There seemed to be a preoccupation with tonal variation which made it rich and physical. Yet despite immortalizing the subject in a photograph, the vulnerability in her eyes heightened her mortality. It was an incredibly powerful image.
Next – and again black-and-white – was a landscape. In the foreground, a branch jutted like a scar across a vista of undulating dunes. Esme couldn’t place the topography. It wasn’t quite a desert – clumps of vegetation clung together as if to try to survive the heat. The dunes rose and fell in natural ripples. It was still and peaceful apart from a small fish that disturbed the sand with its foraging. A fish? This wasn’t land, Oliver had taken this photograph under the surface of the ocean and through the abstract composition, had deliberately confused the audience.
Until she’d seen that orchid picture in Bill’s collection, Esme had never considered photography to be anything but capturing friends and family, fashion or product. Before her was an image that bridged the gap between photography and painting. It was a revelation and she knew she would be doing Bill a favour if she took Oliver’s work straight round to his house at the end of the day. She fizzed with excitement – starting to understand how Bill or Max must feel when they stumbled across a hidden gem.
Chapter Thirteen
The hours dragged to closing time and in her impatience to see Bill, Esme shut the shop fifteen minutes early. She didn’t have enough money for a taxi and, given she would be carrying Oliver’s portfolio, it was too far to walk. Although it was rush hour, she’d take the bus which was only a couple of stops.
Office workers thronged the pavements outside pubs, still in their suits and court shoes. Esme wondered where all these people lived, how far they had to commute or whether they still lived with their parents close by. The mass of people in the city still felt strange to her – every nook and cranny of London filled with hidden lives. Passing a pub, drinkers spilt onto the road unwilling to spread themselves out along the pavement. Even en masse, there was a clear division of tribes. The bankers, the PAs, the proprietors and their workers huddled in groups pushed up against each other yet reluctant to mix. Esme fought her way through the hordes, head down and determined not to make eye contact with strangers. Someone tutted and shoved her out of the way. A man, half-cut and arrogant. She glared and he nodded at his friend and laughed.
‘Asshole,’ she muttered.
The bus was filled with what seemed to be the whole of the West End. She had had to wait for nearly half an hour before she was able to squeeze herself onto one. The only advantage of being one in hundreds was that she was wedged
in and didn’t topple when the bus braked. The man standing behind her rubbed against her back. She wasn’t sure if he was getting off on it or an accidental pervert put into an awkward position by someone else ramming into him. She had to get off at the first stop to allow others to disembark but held on to the pole to secure her place. Everyone pushed and shoved with no regard for others. She’d learnt that in the world of rush-hour public transport, only the ill-mannered survived. If you were disabled, wrangling a pushchair or old, you didn’t stand a chance, though. Esme saw an elderly woman who cried out when an elbow knocked her glasses off.
Quick to the rescue, Esme barged past the owner of the offending elbow, and grabbed the glasses before they were crushed underfoot.
‘There you go.’ She handed them back to their owner. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Thank you, dear, I’m fine now. I really can’t see without my spectacles. I’m too old for this kind of thing – I hate getting in the way of the crowds. All you young busy people.’
Esme wanted to hug her but instead did her best with the help of the portfolio to protect the woman from the crush. It was upsetting that this woman was resigned to being ignored and invisible. People have no respect, she thought. God, she sounded like her father but she was grateful that he and, and to a certain extent, her mother, had drummed into her the value of a decent moral compass. Mrs Bee had always made sure she was aware of those worse off than her but Esme had never really seen how big that gulf could be until now. She was appalled by how desensitized some Londoners appeared to another person’s vulnerability.
After what seemed like a lifetime, Esme prised herself off the bus and took a deep breath. Even the polluted air felt fresh after the fug of sweaty bodies. There was a faint breeze that dried her damp cotton top which clung to her back and the evening sun brought a golden glow to the streets as she set off for Bill’s.
‘Urgh… That feels so much better. I tell you, I’m never taking public transport in the rush hour ever again. I’d rather walk,’ she shouted to Javier, who was, as night follows day, mixing something strong and delicious in the drawing room. He’d offered her a shower when she’d told him of her sauna-like bus trip.
Summer in Mayfair Page 15
