Oti gave her a look filled with compassion and stroked her arm as if to say, ‘Your secret is safe with me.’
‘Enough talk about the past,’ said Max, ‘let’s eat, drink and focus on the future.’ He raised a small glass filled with something stickier than wine. ‘To new friendships and a night we won’t remember tomorrow. Saluti!’
Flinging his head back, he tipped the contents down his throat in one and smacked his lips. ‘Christ, that’s good. Try some of this, Esme. Grappa from my friend’s vineyard outside Florence. It’s made from pressed fermented skins left over from winemaking and its absolutely lethal.’
The fumes alone made her eyes water. She took a cautious sip of the fiery liquid that scorched then numbed her lips.
‘Wow, that’s strong,’ she laughed, following suit with a clean slug.
‘Another!’ Max refilled her glass to the brim and beyond, slopping it over the table and wiping it with his shirttail.
‘Max, go easy,’ said Oti. ‘Remember you tried to hump Coralie the last time you drank that stuff,’ she laughed.
‘I have absolutely no recollection at all, thank God.’ He went on to inform Esme that Coralie lived next door and was what he termed ‘a raging, man-hating feminist’. Before Esme could butt in to defend feminism (or at least channel what she thought Cece would say), he continued unabashed. ‘She thought I was going to have my evil way with her. She would be so lucky. I’d rather fuck a holly bush.’
‘Did I hear you a-calling, my love?’
A round woman with wild grey hair and mad eyes put her arms around Max and squeezed him from behind.
‘I know you want me, Maximillian, even if my cunt is haunted cos I’m so old.’
Max spun around and embraced her. ‘Talk dirty to me, baby,’ he said, laughing. The woman’s body wobbled with mirth under her striped man’s shirt.
‘Where’s that grappa?’ the woman asked and then added, ‘Oh hello and who are you, Cinder-fucking-rella?’
Esme introduced herself.
‘Max, she’s far too young for you. I’m Coralie Laing, by the way.’
Esme laughed but didn’t quite know what to do or say next. She wasn’t used to this kind of chat coming from the mouths of respectable adults but as she was learning fast, this lot had no filter when it came to friends.
Not wanting to appear prudish, Esme chucked her grappa down then slapped the glass on the table as an invitation for a refill.
‘One more, please,’ she said, grinning broadly at Coralie.
Without taking her eyes off Esme, Coralie held her own glass out to be filled.
‘Oh, I like you, Esme. A girl with balls. Cheers!’
‘I think it’s time we put the pasta out,’ Oti said quickly. ‘The pesto is our contribution to soak up that poison,’ she said, pointing to the moonshine.
The four of them each collected something from the table. Coralie swept the cheese onto a plate and took some serving spoons from a drawer in the table. Max got more bottles and some napkins and Oti and Esme carried the two oversized bowls of pasta.
‘Watch out for Flea,’ shouted Coralie over her shoulder, but it was too late.
The bowl flew out of Esme’s hands and landed with an almighty crash on the floor and rolled towards a bean bag. Bred to race, Flea was on and into the pasta in a flash.
‘Get off, you pig,’ said Max, kicking Flea away.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ said Esme, mortified to have made such a spectacle of herself.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll scoop it back into the salad bowl. Bit of dirt won’t hurt anyone,’ said Coralie.
Max fetched the bowl and shovelled the pasta back into it, licking his fingers.
‘God, I’m a good cook,’ he said, then he shouted, ‘Grub’s up. Let’s eat!’
No drama about the dropped food, then. No frosty stares or catty remarks. Just a few jokes and a round of applause. Esme could get used to this live-and-let-live atmosphere. Although she didn’t know if she could bring herself to eat the pasta she’d dropped. She decided to stick to the other offerings.
The Burlington Lodge community and assorted friends gravitated to a long table weighed down by food. Grapes, cheese, ciabatta, radicchio, olives, oil and balsamic vinegar; a quintessential Italian spread down to stemless wineglasses and an absence of butter. A mismatched assortment of kitchen chairs circled the table but there weren’t enough for everyone. It was a case of first come first served, but no one was in a rush to sit down apart from Coralie and a bearded fellow smoking a roll-up.
‘Esme, come sit next to me,’ said Coralie.
This public approval from the woman who was clearly the queen bee of the group drew a line under Esme’s mishap. She gratefully took a position at the head of the table, a place normally reserved for the host but there was no hierarchy here. This was no place for airs or social protocol. In fact, Esme would go so far as to say the rejection of bourgeois values was a badge of honour here. There was clearly no cloying unspoken etiquette, no judging people by their name or old school tie, no flashing of money. If tonight was anything to go by, they were a passionate bunch living a carefree lifestyle, not just accepting but celebrating their marginality. She would love to see them parade their bohemian ways under the Contessa’s nose. The woman wouldn’t be able to cope because none of this lot would give a shit about her and her snobbish rules.
Coralie piled her plate with linguini, picking out a couple of stones collected on its fall from grace and dropping them back on the ground.
‘So, sweet Esme, which star have you fallen from?’ she asked, holding a cigarillo in one hand and a fork in the other. Her teeth were stained with nicotine and her skin rough and lined but she had the most startlingly blue eyes that bore into Esme’s with an intensity that made her feel naked.
Esme poured wine into her tumbler and drank deeply.
‘Oh, you know, that distant planet called Scotland.’
‘So you must be the daughter of clan chief or laird presiding over his grouse moor?’
Esme laughed. She felt welcomed enough by this diverse crowd. ‘I might have been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but it turned out pretty tarnished so now I’m trying to find my own way.’
‘And how do you plan on doing that?’
‘To be honest, I have no idea. I love art although I don’t really paint myself. I’m more interested in other people’s work, especially Old Masters. It’s how I met Max. Introduced with a painting as my calling card. A friend of my parents left it to me in his will, but it’s damaged so I fear it’s not worth a bean.’
‘Well, it must be if Max has found the time of day to look at it. That man comes across as fey and whimsical but he has a nose for a good painting and he’s never wrong. I assume you took it to him for restoration?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he has agreed to do the job?’
Esme nodded.
‘Then he must have an inkling it’s worth more than you think. He gets terribly bored restoring the same old shit museums send him and rarely takes private clients now. Don’t get me wrong, he loves what he does, but he has two very greedy ex-wives and needs the money for God knows how many illegitimate children he has running around. Can’t keep it in his trousers.’
Esme wondered for a moment why he hadn’t made a pass at her but looking at Oti, his standards were high and women seemed to materialize around him like mushrooms after rain. He had the pick of the bunch, she bet.
‘Oh no, Max and Oti aren’t an item,’ Coralie said, following her gaze. ‘He’s shagged her, sure, but she’s too immersed in her work for anything long-term. Shame, really because they are perfect together and Max is desperate to settle down again. He was broken after his last divorce and, like all men, once they’ve been married they can’t survive alone.’
‘How long ago did he get divorced?’ asked Esme.
‘Only recently, but things started going wrong from the start and then the bitch ran off with his best fri
end. Good riddance to them both, but it crushed Max. He’s been consoling himself with work, booze and women ever since but I think he’s coming out the other side now.’
‘Poor Max.’
‘Don’t feel too sorry for him. He’s his own worst enemy. If I was straight I wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole. And nor should you. Too capricious, but that’s his beauty and his downfall. Women want to rescue or tame him.’
‘Oh no, I…’
‘Don’t worry, you are too young for him. If he was interested he would have slept with you by now. Completely irresistible once he’s set his sights on someone.’
She really liked Max but genuinely hadn’t considered sleeping with him. It dawned on her that she saw him as a friend and nothing more. A genuine friend, who she was learning to trust. How refreshing to have a relationship with a straight member of the opposite sex without sexual tension or regarding him as a candidate for possible marriage.
‘What do you do, Coralie?’
‘I’m an artist. Ceramics and sculpture. And I teach at Camberwell. Made my name with a series I did of life-size female torsos, naked, of course,’ she laughed. ‘You can imagine the enjoyment derived from smearing tits with plaster.’
‘I bet the women loved it too,’ said Esme.
‘Some, but most did it for their husbands and withstood the process as if they were Joan of Arc; martyrs to their marriages,’ she said with a wry smile.
‘Do you know where there’s a loo I can use?’
‘Use mine. But bring back a couple of bottles of wine. There are loads in the bath.’
When Esme returned, everyone had gathered around the piano where someone was playing the theme tune from The Sting. Pushing her way in, she saw Max performing with the energy of Jerry Lee Lewis. On cue, he seamlessly banged out ‘Great Balls of Fire’ and people started to dance. Esme felt a hand grasp hers.
‘Come on, Esme,’ said Coralie with an immense grin.
She pulled her away from the small audience and began to swivel her hips and spin Esme around, their bodies bumping and twisting to Max’s frenetic playing. Others joined them, holding hands in a big circle and jumping up and down like five-year-olds. She could hear Max singing and whooping, stamping his feet on the pedals, pushing his friends into a fever of joy and laughter. Surrounded by his companions, he radiated vitality and heat, sweat pouring down his face; his cheeks aflame with the force of his playing. His vigour was catching as it released itself into the hearts of this ragtag gaggle. The ambience was euphoric and Esme felt uninhibited and absolutely at home here. She could have been dancing with a man, woman or milkmaid for all she cared.
‘Come on, Esme, do the flick,’ said Coralie, flinging her scarecrow hair back and forth.
‘Oh Coralie, you are wonderful,’ she said, laughing and giving the woman a massive hug. ‘Thank you. I feel like I could dance all night.’
Chapter Seventeen
‘Christ, you look rough, Esme. Did you get mugged over the weekend?’ said Bill on Monday morning.
‘You’re a fine one to talk. Have you been training at Stamford Bridge?’
Bill was not his usual impeccable self. He was dressed in a tracksuit although he’d never willingly exercised a day in his life. The jogging trousers sagged at his bum and he wore a Chelsea football strip underneath.
He roared with laughter.
‘No, I had a “naughty” last night. In a rather lovely hotel, actually. One of the gentlemen in question swapped his clothes for mine. My house keys were in the pocket and Javier is out so I’ve come to get my spare pair.’
Esme’s eye’s shot open.
‘I only watched, blossom.’
‘But, Javier? Won’t he be furious?’ she asked, thinking back to his reaction to Oliver.
Bill laughed again, ‘Just as long as I stay in the viewing gallery and I don’t mix pleasure with business, we’re fine and dandy. Anyway, he was with me until things got, shall we say, frisky.’
Esme relaxed. She had grown very fond of this couple and hated the idea of either of them being deceitful.
‘The party went well, don’t you think?’ he asked.
They hadn’t had a chance to catch up since the night of the private view. By the time she had got back after looking for Cece, Bill had gone, which was just as well as she had been in such a foul mood. She still felt bad that she hadn’t contacted Cece since then, she’d been too tired to do anything much but sleep since Max’s party.
‘Yes, I do. You are amazing, Bill, and everyone loves you. The night was a triumph and there are red stickers on every painting.’ She hadn’t noticed until she came down this morning and felt guilty for not checking before.
‘I know. I am adored and my reign of Jermyn Street is secure once more. And you, my sweet, sold the first. Always encourages others to see a painting has been pre-sold. They get scared they might miss out,’ he said. ‘So, what did you get up to at the weekend to be rewarded by an attack of the uglies?’
Esme laughed because Bill was right. The volume of grappa consumed had left her face puffed-up and blotchy. The blotchy she had hidden behind a layer of concealer but there was nothing she could do to about her swollen eyes.
‘Max had a party.’
‘No wonder! All those sex-crazed Bolsheviks. Bet you had fun, though. If nothing else, they throw a fabulous party. I went once and vowed never to go again. Did you meet Coralie Laing?’
‘Yes. I love her. She was so sweet to me.’
‘A fine artist too. You know her work is at MoMA?’
‘Wow. She didn’t give that away.’
‘It’s why I don’t work with living artists. They are so insecure about their work.’
‘Shit!’ She remembered Oliver’s portfolio. Had Javier showed it to him?
‘What?’
‘A photographer came in the same day as Elton John. Oliver Maxey. He left his portfolio for you to look at.’
‘Who?’
‘Oliver Maxey. He said you had contacted his agent?’
‘Must be getting old. I don’t remember any Oliver whats-his-name. No, wait a minute – Javier said you had a crush on some hot young photographer and you’d brought me his book to look through. I’d clean forgotten.’
But a wave of panic hit Esme. She had no idea where she’d put the envelope with his number on. Hopefully the caterers or Suki must have put it aside for safekeeping. She’d ask her when she got in.
‘You’ll want to meet him because his photographs are extraordinary. Truly.’
‘Barely a week in my company and you’re now an expert, hmm?’ said Bill.
‘I didn’t say that…’ Esme began, embarrassed by her enthusiasm.
‘I was joking, darling. You know I respect the Munroe eye. I’m sure they are wonderful and I’ll take a look when I go home for a shower. I feel like I’ve spent a week down a mineshaft,’ he said.
She was on the telephone, trying to reach Cece to see how she was, when she heard Suki arrive. Oliver’s number was still nowhere to be found and she prayed it hadn’t been stolen or thrown out, as it could easily have been mistaken as rubbish.
‘Esme?’
‘I’m here. Have you seen an old envelope with a phone number on it?’
Suki appeared in the doorway with a jubilant look on her face. She was waving her hand around.
‘Guess what?’ she trilled.
‘I really need to find this thing, Suki. Bill will need it and I can’t remember where the fuck I left it.’
Suki’s smile turned to a pout.
‘What?’ said Esme, irritated that she wasn’t helping.
Suki continued flapping her hand like a demented puppet.
‘I can see you,’ said Esme.
‘Do you see anything different about me?’ Suki persisted.
Not in the slightest. She still looked the archetypal Sloane Ranger; prim, proper and oh-so-respectable.
‘My ring. I’m engaged!’
‘What?’
Remorse filled Esme. She felt a bitch for being so wrapped up in herself and jumped up to hug her friend.
‘Oh, Suki, what fantastic news! When? How? You have to tell me everything.’
Johnny had apparently proposed after the exhibition.
‘I knew something was up when we arrived at Harry’s Bar. He’s not a member but his father is and… oh, it is so romantic, I can hardly tell you.’ Tears dripped into her beaming smile.
Suki told her how she had ordered her usual G&T and after she had finished it, Johnny had refused to let the waiter take away the empty glass.
‘He got quite cross and I told him to stop behaving like an arrogant twat.’
It wasn’t until the ice had melted that she had seen the ring that was now on her finger. A huge sapphire flanked by two diamonds.
‘He had got the head barman to freeze it in an ice cube the day before and voila! I’m going to become Mrs Downes. Not the Marchioness I once hoped for but at least his family have more money than God.’
High five to Johnny, thought Esme. The boy had more oomph to him than she’d thought and she was genuinely happy for her friend.
‘This is cause for celebration. Does Bill know? There’s some champagne left over in the fridge. I think we need to open it,’ said Esme.
‘Let’s wait for Bill,’ said Suki.
The two girls talked through wedding dates and plans, the kind of dress she wanted, who would do her hair. How many bridesmaids, a dance, dinner, or both. What about an engagement party? Suki said that Johnny’s parents were going to pay for the wedding because ‘they know I come from a poor, deprived background. Isn’t that the sweetest thing ever? No expense spared,’ she said. ‘It’s going to be the wedding of the year.’
Esme had no doubt that she would make sure the ceremony was in every society column and the main event in Tatler magazine.
‘You ought to get this photographer I met to take your portrait,’ Esme suggested. ‘He’ll make you even more beautiful than you already are. He’s left his portfolio with Bill but I can’t find his phone number to get back in touch.’
‘Oh, that thing. I wasn’t sure if it was important or not, so I put it in the desk drawer just in case.’
Summer in Mayfair Page 19
