Summer in Mayfair

by Susannah Constantine

  ‘Isn’t he just. He’s not the most handsome but his wallet makes up for it. Got to marry money, Es, and his family is awash with it.’

  Esme laughed. She was relieved to hear Suki’s cynicism. Tough as old wellingtons and not afraid to admit it. It was good to be reminded that whilst Suki came from a privileged background, she could still laugh at herself.

  ‘Hello, girls. How many paintings have you sold so far?’ Bill draped his arms around the two of them, a wide smile on his face. Esme had all but forgotten she was here to help charm clients and help extract hundreds of thousands of pounds out of them.

  ‘We’ve been plying everyone with alcohol to make the pain of parting with their cash easier,’ said Suki. ‘I think I might’ve sold one to Johnny’s parents. He said they’d buy the Carracci.’

  ‘Suki darling, there isn’t a Carracci on show.’

  ‘Well, you know, that one,’ she said pointing to a Fragonard.

  ‘God give me strength,’ said Bill. ‘And I met your friend Dan, Esme. Charming. He wants to write a profile piece on me in his newspaper. And he seems to know a lot about fine art. A lot about my area of expertise.’

  Dan had clearly gained another fan. It didn’t seem likely that an article on Bill in the Camden newspaper would have many readers but who was she to know.

  Esme collected the champagne and squeezed through the throng, careful not to spill her drinks as people blocked her path, loath to break their conversational flow. She felt the heat of their bodies packed together like steaming lobsters. The air was cloying and damp, making it hard to breathe.

  When she got to Cece, the girl already had a glass in hand from somewhere and was leaning against the wall surveying the scene. Esme wished that she had dressed up a bit. This wasn’t a postgraduate show at St Martin’s. One of the many things she liked about Cece was her defiant independence but given she had so many clothes, she could have worn something more appropriate. Then she mentally told herself off for sounding like Suki. She admitted Cece certainly stood out, with her bright pink top and silver mini that showed a bruise on her thigh.

  ‘These people are like dinosaurs. I can’t understand a word they say and they act as if I’m from another planet. One woman asked where the lavatory was. I mean who the fuck says that anymore? I said I didn’t know and she told me to “buck up”, if I wanted Mr Cartwright to hire me again. She then turned to her fat friend and said, “Only people like Bill would sanction the staff dressing like that.” She thought I was the waitress. Must be in my DNA.’

  ‘They’re just ignorant, Cece. Here. I’ve got you another glass of champagne.’

  ‘Thanks, honey. Their kind of talk doesn’t bother me. Takes all sorts to make the world go around.’

  She downed the remains of the first glass and put it on the windowsill and took a cigarette from her bag, a sort of kilim-type over-the-shoulder thing.

  ‘Want one?’

  ‘I’d better not. But you go ahead.’

  Cece looked at her with raised eyebrows.

  ‘Don’t tell me you care what these people think. “Oh, look at that naughty girl smoking. How shocking.”’ She did a good imitation of a plummy English accent.

  Esme laughed. But it was true. She did care what these people thought and she was furious with herself for it.

  ‘Give me a cigarette,’ she said, revelling in the tiny rebellion.

  Cece pulled it from the packet and Esme lit it with one of the tea lights, there for effect rather than illumination as it was still light outside. She blew the smoke up towards the ceiling.

  ‘Ah, that’s good. You know I never smoked much before I came to London but in this atmosphere you’re inhaling everyone else’s anyway. My room is going to stink of it though. I hate that. And waking up with my hair smelling like an ashtray.’

  ‘I forgot you lived here as well. Nice part of town but it must be dead at night,’ said Cece. ‘I’m going to get more champagne. Want a top-up?’

  ‘I’d love one. Rescue me if I get dragged off by one of these wankers.’

  Esme’s feet were hurting and she sat down. The evening seemed to be going well. Four paintings had red dots next to them, quite a coup considering each one was the price of a flat in Chelsea. Certainly, she hadn’t brought anything more to the table since the Elton sale, making the fact that Bill had taken her on as a favour feel even more apparent. But Suki was in the same predicament and Bill was a one-man band at heart. More of a one-man orchestra, she thought as she watched him buzz around the room, flattering and fawning over potential buyers. They loved his flamboyance and paid to step into his exotic world, even if she knew some of them still viewed homosexuality as a disease. But what they didn’t realize was that he saw through their bullshit and used it to his advantage. He was sharper than any of them.

  Esme looked at her watch: 7.45. She hoped there would be no late-comers as the gallery was bursting at the seams. Despite the sweltering heat, no one went outside. All the men – apart from Javier – were buttoned-up in suit and tie, and the women wore flesh-coloured tights, sweating like pigs in a sandwich bag. God forbid they let respectability slip even in this temperature. The acidity of champagne mingled with smoke, cologne and syrupy perfume. It was the smell of money and it stuck at the back of her throat.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts.’

  Dan sat down next to her. She automatically clocked Cece’s whereabouts and saw she was chatting to Javier.

  ‘I was just thinking how these people see Bill as some kind of novelty, some kind of entertainment.’

  ‘Dog eats dog. Bill seems the kind of man to use this to his advantage. No flies on him.’

  ‘He’s one of my father’s best friends.’

  ‘Is that how you are working here? I had you down as more of a fashion magazine girl. Organizing photo shoots and running around town with rails of the latest collections. Vogue or Harper’s.’

  Esme laughed, ‘I don’t think so. Growing up I was more likely to be seen pushing sheep into their pen than dreaming of styling a fashion shoot. I’d be hopeless. Paintings are the only thing I’ve ever really understood. I love art.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. I bet you are knowledgeable, too. Bill mentioned you grew up in one of the great houses of Scotland, surrounded by Old Masters. He said you have an instinct.’

  ‘You asked about me?’

  ‘Of course I did. You are the most interesting person here.’

  Esme took a gulp of her drink, embarrassed and ill-equipped to deal with this kind of flattery.

  ‘There you are, Esme.’

  Bill was clearly pissed. His face glistened like a doused newborn, his hair sticking to his scalp. Sweat had soaked into his shirt collar turning it a shade or three darker than the rest.

  ‘I know, I know, I’m tipsy but I need to be to be pissed to spend time with these fools. I was rather hoping you’d invited your friend Princess Margaret. At least she’s intelligent.’

  Dan’s eyes darted between her and Bill. It annoyed her that everyone got so wound up by the royal family. They were just people born into extraordinary circumstances. She was embarrassed that Bill had mentioned the Princess and Dan would get the wrong idea about her; think of her as one of the entitled ‘fools’ Bill had to put up with or worse, that she was only worth befriending because of her contacts.

  ‘I only know her through my parents, Bill. It’s not like I hang out with her. And anyway, I haven’t seen her for years. She doesn’t even know I’m in London.’

  ‘I was joking, blossom. We don’t want young Dan here thinking you’re an airhead heiress, do we?’ He winked at her. ‘You are now an independent young woman who likes to frequent the seedier side of London. Camden, wasn’t it?’

  How the hell did he know? But she was grateful that he’d given her a get-out-of-jail-free card after his indiscretion. She could try to show Dan she had at least some street-smarts.

  ‘It’s great up there. You can find some cool stuff in the market, but
you have to haggle. And they can spot money a mile off. They’d see you coming, Bill,’ she said.

  ‘I, my dear, wouldn’t go there if my life depended on it. All that dirt.’ He shuddered. ‘It’s a third-world country outside of SW1 as far as I’m concerned. Horrendous!’ And then to Suki who had teetered over to join the party, ‘What do you think of Camden, Suki Su?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘My point exactly,’ said Bill.

  It occurred to Esme that Dan was keeping very quiet on the subject. She’d expect him to stick up for the place, given it was where he worked.

  ‘We haven’t met,’ said Dan standing up to shake Suki’s hand.

  ‘No. I’m Suki.’

  ‘I gather. Nice to meet you,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m Dan.’

  ‘So, you’re a journalist, are you?’ said Suki. ‘Who do you write for, Apollo or Burlington?’

  ‘There are other periodicals beyond art magazines, Suki,’ said Bill. ‘I’m sorry, Dan, the girl has been brought up in a padded cell.’

  Dan came to her defence. ‘Not at all. You put two and two together and assumed that as a writer I would be doing a piece on this exhibition.’

  ‘Well, sort of,’ she giggled, then swayed. Dan caught her elbow.

  ‘Oops, I’m a bit squiffy,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Let’s get you something to eat, honey,’ said Dan.

  Honey? Since when did Suki become a honey? He’d only just met the girl and was coming over all charm and concern.

  ‘I’ll get your boyfriend,’ said Esme. ‘I can see him over there.’

  She shouted Johnny’s name and for a beat the room went quiet – all the better to hear the sound of breaking glass. Cece – alone and holding onto the frame of one of the paintings – had dropped her glass splattering champagne everywhere. With exaggerated shock and disgust the people close to her backed away as if the tide was coming in. The whole room turned to look, the spotlight of their gaze highlighting her difference. Against the sea of matching navy and regulation chiffon, her cheap clothes and bottle-dyed hair stood out. All strength and defiance left her eyes as she raised her hands in surrender, mouthing ‘Sorry’ and staggered towards the door.

  How could Cece of all people have got so plastered? Esme wondered. She thought she could take her drink better than most.

  Alarmed, Bill rushed over to the painting with the speed of a cow elephant protecting her young.

  ‘Jesus-fucking-Christ-be-CAREFUL!’ he shrieked and then turned to Esme and hissed, ‘Get this girl out of here. Now.’

  But Esme looked to the door and Cece was already gone. She followed her out found her throwing up in the gutter.

  ‘Hell, Cece. What got into you? How could you have got so bloody drunk? Especially tonight.’

  ‘A case of that grog, I think,’ she groaned and threw up again, making Esme jump back.

  ‘I’m going to get you into a cab. Stay here while I grab some money from petty cash. Shall I tell Dan?’

  ‘Fuck no. I’m so embarrassed. He’ll never want to see me again.’

  She was crying now. Drunken tears and self-pity washed away her last vestiges of dignity. She leant against the lamppost, head back taking in gulps of air.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m sorry, Esme.’

  Esme suddenly saw Cece as she really was. This girl was not just her guardian angel, invincible and full of courage. She was as fallible and vulnerable as anyone. She’d been so focused on feeling out of place in Cece’s cool Camden world of nightlife and alternative fashion, that Esme had never stopped to think that Cece might get the same anxiety when dropped into the middle of her world of free champagne and paintings worth more than Cece would earn in a lifetime of waitressing. Was a friendship possible if they felt so alien in each other’s respective habitats? Or would they always feel like tourists, doomed to be stuck in the worlds they came from?

  ‘Stay here. I’ll be back in two minutes.’

  Inside the gallery, Bill was clearing up the glass with a dustpan and brush. Suki had Dan trapped in a corner and was screaming with over-enthusiastic laughter at something he was saying. He looked smug and relaxed as he surreptitiously tried to take her hand. Esme took a tenner from the red box. The gallery felt like a greenhouse and she was suffocating with an overbearing sense of anticlimax. The evening was meant to be her arrival on the arts scene, she’d wanted to talk to prospective buyers, show Bill that she was indispensable. But instead she hadn’t even been able to clean up properly. Bill wouldn’t be happy at having to wield the dustpan himself. She began to ask herself why the hell she was still there. But escape wasn’t easy when she lived above the gallery. She wished she knew more people here. If Max had come she could have used his straight-talking right now, or if Oliver had been present her defeat might have given her the confidence of having nothing left to lose and she could have summoned the nerve to ask him out for drinks and dragged him off into the night.

  At least if she gave Cece the money for a cab and saw her set off home safely it would give her a chance to cool down before returning to tidy up. But outside, Cece was nowhere to be seen. Esme supposed she must have found her own taxi or decided to walk the alcohol off. She hoped she was OK – though she would surely have a sore head in the morning. Thank God it was the weekend and the gallery was shut tomorrow, Esme thought. But she’d have to get out – she needed a change from Jermyn Street. She remembered the poster for the Wallace Collection. The prospect of seeking solace and anonymity in a museum felt good. At least it would take her mind off the calamity this night had turned into.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was a relief to leave the heaving swell of Oxford Street the next morning, with its Saturday shoppers and stationary buses. Esme turned the corner into a small, quiet, leafy square. Silent calm, yards away from the crowds. There was both beauty and excitement in London, she knew that now, but so often the best bits lay hidden. She considered the actual land lying concealed but not entirely changed or destroyed, beneath the surface of concrete. London was simply disguised countryside, after all. The street she walked down veered off at an angle, perhaps to avoid where the wall of a manor house once stood or even a stream once ran. She thought of paintings she studied, created when London was still a succession of villages. Street patterns had been determined by the holdings of individual farmers and landlords, parcels of land that could be traced back centuries. Only now they’d joined up and merged in towers of brick and glass, you had to look a little closer to feel that living history.

  Tourists flocked to the city like a theme park, a Disneyworld of cobbled streets and grand architecture with its kings and queens in lieu of Mickey Mouse and Goofy. So often they came not to see what London was, or even what it had been, but to confirm a kind of picture-postcard view, all red telephone and letter boxes and The Beatles. She supposed she’d done the same – except she hadn’t come looking for palaces and parliament, but clubs and counterculture.

  Lost in thought, she became aware that she had missed the Duke Street turning. She pulled out her A-Z and ran a finger over the page seeing that she could get off the human highway at Regent Street and double back through Cavendish Square. There would be no window-shopping that route but at least she’d be able to move without being battered by the crowds. Feeling like she’d been squeezed free from a tube of toothpaste, the air was less choked once she’d turned off and looking up she could see the sky through the latticed branches of plane trees with their balls of clustered seeds. Funny how no birds seemed to like these trees, yet pigeons patrolled the ground. She took off her cardigan, tied it around her waist and headed uninterrupted towards Manchester Square.

  Before setting off that morning she’d skimmed through one of Bill’s many books on London’s museums and collections, but she was still amazed when she arrived at the Wallace Collection and looked at the grand building. It was hard to believe that Hertford House had once been a private residence and that one family could have made th
eir home in such a vast and opulent space in the centre of London. She remembered Max telling her the contents were predominantly made up of an extraordinary array of eighteenth-century French art, bought at knock-down prices post-revolution and some fine works by Dutch masters. ‘Elegant and sensuous’ was how Max described them. She wondered how many of them had passed through his studio for restoration.

  Upon entering the museum, she felt a calm fall over her. Despite its size and the grandeur, it was an ornate but unintimidating entrance. The stillness made her step back into a leisured, more graceful age when time moved at a gentler pace and there was no shame in privilege. The sense of power and quality bathed her soul, wrapping her in a protective shield. She could just take in the peace of a bygone era for a few hours. Esme let out a sigh and felt her body relax. This was an environment that was more familiar to her than the hectic London streets. There was no pressure to pretend to be worldly and sophisticated, no need to have something new or clever to say about the paintings, she could just appreciate the beauty that surrounded her. She felt she knew at once why this was her father’s favourite gallery. Apart from Frans Hals’s Laughing Cavalier, there were no ‘superstar’ paintings to entice the hordes, instead the gallery attracted either those with a pure love of art or else lost souls looking simply for a some quiet and contemplation.

  Every single piece was flawless. By contrast, the few visitors looked incongruous and out of place in their modern dress and casual clothing; paupers allowed to enter for the briefest of visits. Esme was almost ashamed she hadn’t dressed in accordance with her surroundings. It felt rude to be in cotton and not silk and lace.

  She climbed the stairs, imagining what it must have been like when it was a home. Whilst Culcairn was several times the size and valuable masterpieces were scattered in state rooms like cushions, there was nowhere near the concentration of affluence. Had it not been so thoughtfully laid out, Herftord House might have appeared cluttered and individual pieces would have got lost, but each item had the space to shine even though its neighbours were of the same quality or superior. Alongside the paintings, exquisite furniture, porcelain figures and assorted snuff boxes of gold and precious stones sparkled. Chandeliers of all kinds and hanging lights in the shape of jelly moulds threw a subtle glow that exaggerated the romantic atmosphere. Each room boasted a fireplace of such magnificence they felt like exhibits in their own right. Every one was decked with clocks adorned with flying putti, candelabra and delicate sculptures. The depth and breadth of the collection was extraordinary; a treasure trove beyond anyone’s imagining.