Summer in Mayfair

by Susannah Constantine

  Esme joined a small group of visitors clustered around The Rainbow Landscape, a Rubens she’d seen so many times in her textbooks. In the flesh it had a depth and subtlety of colour that transfixed her. A guide was pinpointing details with the precision of a surgeon. It was extraordinary that none of the paintings were covered by glass to protect them from people who stood too close – to Esme the best way of viewing a great landscape such as this was to stand back and take in the image as a whole. And they’d never get around the collection in one day if each work was going to be scrutinized in such detail.

  Entering the Oval Drawing Room, it was clear to see where her father got his inspiration from. Stuffed to the gills with bronzes, wall sconces, gilt, gold and intricately carved wood it was extravagant, designed with tasteful greed. Pale-blue damask lined the walls and swagged either side of the windows in garlands. Pelham Place had emulated this style in miniature. Decorating had begun on a budget, but as Munroe Fine Art Removals grew, so did the house’s contents – and insurance policy. But the house had never seemed jumbled. Everything was placed in perfect symmetry having its own spot that her father had spent hours if not days analysing and measuring. If something wasn’t quite right then he would buy a replacement that cost more money and usually involved a trip to France.

  Looking around her now, it was a wonder the Hertford and Wallace families had left anything behind in France for future collectors. The majority of the art here had been plundered after the fall of the French aristocracy – from people who had either been slaughtered or needed quick cash in order to flee the country. Beautiful they might have been, but they were ill-gotten gains that took advantage of dire circumstance. She was surrounded by unapologetic beauty that had endured unspeakable bloodshed and violence. She thought of her own family: her father’s relentless buying sprees with a Coutts’ chequebook that belied the size of their overdraft; her mother’s designer clothes that shrouded her inner turmoil. There were two sides to every story including her own and she was yet to discover which was closest to the truth.

  Esme came now to The Swing, Fragonard’s iconic painting. She sat down opposite in and studied its energy and frivolity. A carefree young woman was tantalizingly positioned mid-air on a swing between two men. It occurred to Esme, one was the husband and the other her lover, the latter being in the privileged position to see right up her skirt. She was conflicted by what it stood for. The rich pink silk of the woman’s dress and her carefree demeanour seemed like enough to drive any disaffected pauper towards revolution. Had she been alive in the eighteenth century, would she have joined them or run for the hills along with her family and friends?

  A couple of grey-haired ladies entered the room clutching guidebooks and reading glasses. In their loose-fitting clothes and comfortable shoes, they looked the type to object to talking in a library, and indeed they spoke in reverent whispers, pointing at things then referring back to their books. Esme felt their disapproval and realized they were tutting at her sitting in a roped-off chair. She hopped back over and gave the old dears an apologetic smile, feeling embarrassed. At Culcairn, she was allowed behind the velvet ropes. Here she was the same as every other visitor.

  Still hot with shame, she sidled away to take a closer look at the frame of one of the Watteaus hung nearby. Max had told her that a mediocre painting could be greatly enhanced in value with a decent frame. Genuine gold leaf never lost its shimmer, he had said, whereas imitation gold always darkened in time.

  In the opulent Great Gallery she felt like its magnificence knocked her sideways. Nothing had prepared her for the stupendous scale, its size and grandeur. It was hard to believe she was only a matter of metres from the grubby neon reality of Oxford Street. Even compared with the previous rooms she felt like she had moved from a very grand house and into a palace. She thought of the shops nearby, their gaudy clothing in artificial colours replaced by Titian’s burnished red-pinks and the blue robes of the Madonna sang softly against the damask walls. The vast canvases complemented one another, swathes of nude flesh flashing from silk and satin and blue sky. She felt she was seeing paintings she had known all her life for the very first time. Her eyes flew from one picture to another making her feel dizzy. It was breathtaking.

  One thing was certain: she had saved the best for last. A group of school children sat beneath The Laughing Cavalier. The small troupe of boys – dressed in uniform burgundy and mustard – looked bored, finding their friends more interesting than the iconic painting their teacher was describing in dull tones. She wanted to take her place and tell the kids instead to move around the gallery to test the theory that the eyes follow you and to focus on the rich gold-and-black pattern on his sleeve. Esme thought she could see a face in there; a lion; a monster. She wanted the boys to feel the same fun and intrigue she did when she looked into the eyes of the mysterious cavalier. She was enthralled to see up close the spun threads of spittle-like white paint and broad smears of silky black that made the painting such a tour de force. Who was this man, she wondered, and what would he make of having gone down in history for his portrait? It was 350 years old yet this portrait made her believe, against all reason, that a conscious mind was looking back at her from the picture. Then she smiled. There was something about him that reminded her of Dan; a slight smugness in the smile that hinted at a Machiavellian soul.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A full day in the Wallace Collection had cleared her mind but she was exhausted, completely and utterly drained when she got back to the flat. Her lower back ached, her sockless feet were sweaty and raw and she had a thumping headache. What was it about museums that made one so tired? The last thing she wanted to do now was go out but she didn’t want to let Max down. Max hadn’t come to the exhibition but had called to decline and invite her to his own party and she didn’t want to quash their new friendship. A party with all his neighbours wasn’t what she was in the mood for – it took energy for her to play the extrovert. What she really wanted was a relaxing bath with a glass of chilled wine and an early night. But kick-off was at 7.00 so at least she had time to take it easy before heading back out. She stopped off at Europa and bought a bottle of cheap plonk and a bag of ice, a tube of Primula cheese and some TUC biscuits. Enough to keep her going until dinner and the alcohol would medicate her weariness with a much-needed shot of energy.

  As the bath filled, she ran downstairs to get a bottle opener and glass. The caterers had left the kitchen clean and in order, with everything replaced as it had been found. She had forgotten to take the last bag of rubbish out and the place smelt of the night before; a whiff of stale canapés, champagne-soaked cigarette butts and the sweet-scented flowers. A pool of the nicotine-infused booze had leaked from a binbag onto the floor making it sticky underfoot. The smell brought on a wave of guilt and a vision of poor Cece, stumbling home. Esme hoped she hadn’t felt too rough this morning. Not wanting to make a big deal of it, she hadn’t called her but now she felt awkward. Hopefully, like her, Cece just wanted to forget it. There was no point in phoning her now. She’d probably be getting ready for her shift at the club. Instead Esme vowed she’d call Cece tomorrow. Her bath was beckoning.

  Dumping her clothes on the floor she sank into the bathtub, her glass of wine propped against the empty soap dish. The blonde hairs on her arms swayed like grass in a summer breeze. Slowly she gave in to the cooling water, fully submerging herself from the mouth down. She lay quietly waiting for the water to still until it was only her breathing that rippled the surface. Gradually she felt the wine begin to take effect and her muscles relax. She lay in there, along with the sliver of Imperial Leather she had no energy to fish out. Bliss.

  By the time Esme got to the party she was an hour late. Conditioned by her father never to be ‘tardy’ but persuaded by her mother, on good days, that ‘It’s always best to be fashionably late’, she was comfortable with neither one. She had panic-dressed but at least she was clean, and a cat’s whisker away from being fuelled by Dutch cou
rage. Max seemed pretty relaxed about most things so she assumed timekeeping wasn’t high on his list of priorities but knowing no one, she would be at a disadvantage arriving too late.

  It turned out Max lived close to his studio in a converted distillery. Expecting a front door with a number, it took her a moment to realize the entrance was a wooden door cut into a wall. The sound of laughter and music gave it away. There was no bell to ring, so she knocked knowing the sound would get lost in the revelry beyond, then pushed the door open, tripping over the frame into a courtyard. A small gathering sat and mingled under fairy lights and hanging lanterns. But as she saw the other guests, she already felt like an idiot in her nightclubbing garb. Compared to the assorted flowing fabrics and rainbow colours preferred by this gathering of artists and freethinkers, her outfit was too tight, too black and too short. All the French windows on the ground floor were open where residents had dragged out sofas and armchairs. Flagstones had been covered with rugs, carpets and bean bags. An upright piano topped with candles sat up against a wall of honeysuckle and clematis. Outside had been converted into a room of its own under the twilit sky.

  ‘Esme!’ shouted Max, peeling himself from an attractive brunette with huge unrestrained boobs barely covered in a vintage slip.

  ‘Come. Come. Let’s get you a drink. Red or white? I’m so pleased you came.’

  Max had transformed. No longer the dusty picture restorer, he wore an open floral shirt, an arrow of chest hair pointing towards his belt buckle, no shoes and flared jeans. His hair was wet and he smelt of soap and rosemary.

  ‘This looks amazing,’ said Esme.

  ‘Just another night at Burlington Lodge. We do this once a month in the summer. Everyone pitches in. The joy of nice neighbours.’

  ‘How many people live here?’

  ‘There are six apartments. We don’t call them flats because the rooms are too big. More like lofts, I suppose.’

  Max filled an extremely beautiful glass with white wine.

  ‘Here you go. Italian, of course.’

  Esme held the glass up to the fading sky and turned it around. The crystal threw fragments of brilliant light across Max’s face.

  ‘I found six of those at Bermondsey Market. In perfect condition and worth a small fortune.’ He laughed as if their value was a happy accident. Esme was sure he didn’t buy them by mistake.

  ‘So pretty.’

  ‘Yes, they are,’ he said, looping his arm through hers. ‘Come and meet everyone.’

  The names of twenty or so people went in one ear and out the other. Everyone was much older than her but Esme felt comfortable in their company. She found that people made an effort with the baby of the crowd, interested in what she did and it provided them with an excuse to talk about their own children. They all seemed happy to include her in their conversation as an equal.

  ‘Leo, this is Esme. The girl with the painting,’ said Max, introducing her to a giant character with tiny pig eyes above a gnarled snout. His voice was very grand but he had an air of destitution about him.

  ‘Ah,’ Leo said, ‘the owner of the Romney. Max is frightfully excited by it. I understand it was left to you by the Earl of Culcairn. He must have been very fond of you, my dear.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that but, yes it was extremely kind of him,’ she said, embarrassed that Max had defined her as ‘the girl with the painting’. The bloody thing was an unavoidable sign of her privilege and meant people would judge her instantly. She knew that her past – and her privilege – would always be a part of what had shaped her, but that didn’t stop her from wishing she had the choice of when and how much of her story to share with strangers. It was as if the Romney’s frame had replaced Emma for Esme, trapping her inside its gilded boundary.

  ‘Are you in the art world?’ she asked.

  He laughed, projecting his voice into the night, ‘Christ, no. I’m an actor and I also write books. It helps to keep my cellar full.’

  Too much Shakespeare and bit-parts playing the local laird, she thought. Esme didn’t recognize him.

  ‘I can see you are thinking who the hell is this ugly, old wanker, and quite rightly so. I do theatre mainly, and there’s fuck all money or fame in that,’ he said.

  Despite his height, he held his head high and looked down at her over his fleshy cheeks. He was a mountain of a man, built like a cement mixer churning his way through life.

  She knew nothing about the theatre and couldn’t think of a thing to say. Her silence spread like a stain and she felt as awkward as he looked.

  ‘How do you know Max?’

  ‘I’m one of the neighbours. Lived here with my cats for aeons,’ he said.

  ‘It’s lovely.’

  ‘Isn’t it just? We all rent, which is marvellous as we aren’t imprisoned by owning a property. Nothing more suffocating.’

  Esme wondered what it was like living on top of your neighbours, surely that was claustrophobic. She couldn’t imagine being sandwiched in with people above and below. But then she thought of Cece and Mabel, and all the other countless flats she’d passed. Collective living was necessary in the cemented confines of a city. It was she who was the odd one out, used to whole houses or even the expanses of the Highlands.

  ‘Well, I might get something to eat. Smells delicious. Nice to meet you,’ she said.

  Small talk wasn’t her thing. She’d rather keep quiet than talk nonsense for the sake of it.

  ‘You too, ducky.’ Leo gave a watery smile, trying not to look relieved to be released. Not such a great actor, after all, thought Esme.

  As darkness fell, the candles and Christmas lights came into their own, casting elongated shadows, leaving corners veiled in secrecy. Not knowing where Max was she went through the nearest open door and straight into a huge open-plan kitchen. At its centre was a large kitchen table where Max was beating the crap out of something in a pestle and mortar. Wine bottles, spices, herbs and a huge pepper grinder crowded around him. The aroma of nuts toasting came from an ancient-looking oven and a pan of boiling water spat and hissed on the hob. Whatever he was preparing and however typically unhygienic his work surface was, it smelt utter heaven. Basil, garlic, strong cheese. Next to his utensils were two enormous bowls, one fired and glazed in blue-and-green flecks and the other wood. A mound of grated parmesan rose and tumbled directly on the table surface like a pile of gravel in waiting to be laid. His slapdash cooking was a far cry from the precision of restoration.

  ‘Oti, can you put the linguini on?’ said Max, not looking up from whatever it was he was persecuting.

  A tall, languid woman uncurled herself from the nearby sofa, leaving Flea to stretch out in what was clearly his spot, judging by a still-bloodied marrow bone tucked down the side of a cushion.

  ‘It’s OK, Fleabag, Oti will be back soon.’

  Oti was one of those women that you couldn’t help but admire. No wonder Flea was besotted. Esme wondered if Max was too. She was tall with an athletic grace that demanded attention, though she sought none. Charisma, thought Esme. Powerful femininity that was impossible to manufacture or emulate; something you were born with.

  ‘Isn’t she gorgeous?’ said Max, catching Esme’s gaze.

  Esme nodded.

  ‘Oti!’ he shouted. ‘Leave the pasta and come and meet Esme.’

  Oti turned and grinned. ‘Hi, Esme. Give me a second,’ she said, wiping her hands on a beach towel. Her rich voice was full of music.

  ‘Oti is from Somalia. She was discovered by Peter Beard. The artist.’

  Oti gave Esme a light hug and two air kisses.

  ‘Max is so old-fashioned – he talks about me like I was found in the jungle but I met Peter in Nairobi where I went to university.’

  Esme knew his work and reputation, a photographer famed for his pictures of African elephants and his journals that he integrated into his work. She also knew Peter Beard happened to look a lot like Max.

  ‘How did you end up in London?’ asked Esme,
assuming Beard had scouted her to model for him.

  ‘It’s a long story. I’m a psychiatric doctor based at the Maudsley.’

  ‘When Max said he had met you I asked if your mother was Diana. He didn’t know. Is she?’

  This was too much. How did this woman know her mother? Everywhere she went, Diana reared her damaged head.

  ‘Yes, she is, in a manner of speaking.’

  ‘She either is or she isn’t, Esme. You can’t have a “sort of” mother,’ said Max.

  If only she did have a simple relationship with her mother, she wished. She felt like she had already half mourned her, since she would never get back the maternal figure she once had. But even so, the ghost of her mother seemed to constantly appear in the least expected places.

  ‘Max, you are an emotional philistine. I know exactly what you mean, Esme. My father suffered in the same way, which is why I became a doctor.’

  Anxiety ransacked Esme’s tipsy haze like a ferret in a haynet. How much did Oti know about her mother? Had she been a patient of hers? She wanted to ask but not at the expense of the chance of being anonymous tonight. In amongst a crowd of people who knew nothing about her, she could be accepted on her own merit, rather than defined by her mother and her illness.

  ‘I haven’t seen my mother for some time and I was sent away to boarding school, so we never had a close relationship. I’m more of a daddy’s girl,’ she said with an awkward laugh.