Esme kissed her. ‘You goddess, Mrs Downes-to-be. Bill would kill me if I’d lost it.’
The doorbell tinkled and Bill walked in, back to his impeccable self, complete with kerchief in his suit pocket and an umbrella. Under his arm he carried Oliver’s battered portfolio.
‘Hi, girls. Forecast is rain.’
‘Not in my world. Guess what, Bill? I’m getting married!’ Suki’s voice had gone up at least an octave.
She flung herself at him and he picked her up and did his best to spin her around, her legs beginning to revolve like the spokes of a slow-turning wheel. Esme was impressed as she watched Bill’s face turn scarlet with the strain. Suki was a good couple of inches taller than her boss and it must have taken all his strength. His eyes started to bulge and Suki squealed.
‘Suki Su! How marvellous! And you’ve snagged a rich one too. You clever old thing,’ he said. ‘We must crack open the champers!’
Esme left them to gossip and went to retrieve a bottle and Oliver’s book from where Bill had propped it up in the doorway. She imagined that wedding photos were not part of Oliver Maxey’s remit – unless he needed the money – but it was a good excuse to look through his work again without stealing Suki’s thunder.
Bill was mopping his brow when she returned to the showroom.
‘I’ve sent Suki off to buy every wedding magazine she can find. I said she’s too tasteless to pick a wedding dress. She’ll end up looking like Madame de Pompadour’s pavlova left to her own devices.’
Esme laughed and put Oliver’s portfolio on the desk.
‘So, this is your photographer? I thought I’d bring the book back here so we can look it together since you’re so excited about your new discovery,’ Bill said.
‘He’s not mine, Bill, but I think you’ll be blown away.’
The zip snagged and stuck as she tugged it open. It wasn’t the most salubrious introduction to Oliver’s work, but served to give added surprise when Bill lifted out the first photograph. Like Javier, he said nothing even when Suki came back weighed down by two shopping bags full of glossy monthlies.
‘He’s good, don’t you think?’ she said, hoping to encourage a response.
As if hypnotized, Bill took out another image and after what seemed a lifetime he finally said, ‘Just look at his handling of light. It’s masterful.’ His voice was filled with emotion. ‘The way he has immortalized fleeting images.’
He looked up, his expression serious and bemused, as if he had witnessed a tragedy or a miracle – Esme wasn’t quite sure. Either way, he was moved, almost to tears.
‘You like them?’
‘My God, Esme, I don’t know what to say? I haven’t seen such hauntingly luminous images for a very long time. And certainly not ones taken by a living photographer.’ He breathed, then laughed. ‘I’m having an epiphany.’
‘What’s an epiphany?’ said Suki, lifting her bags like an announcement.
‘A religious moment,’ said Esme. ‘This is the photographer I told you about.’ She picked up the portrait of the woman. ‘This could be you,’ she said to her colleague.
No lightbulb moment registered on Suki’s face. In fact, she looked completely confused and then pissed off. She dropped her magazines on the floor with all the theatrical flourish of a four-year-old.
‘But she’s got no make-up on? And her face is dirty. Imagine how a photo like that would appear in Country Life. I mean, honestly.’
‘Step out of your pigeonhole for one second, Suki,’ said Bill.
‘OK, well maybe not for your engagement, but you could give one to Johnny as a wedding present,’ Esme suggested.
‘You could do a lot worse, Suki Su, than getting this Oliver fellow taking your portrait. Much classier than that poufy-haired Litchfield, who I’m sure will be your first choice. His photographs are already dated,’ said Bill.
‘These portraits are beautiful, Suki. You’ve just got to have the balls to be photographed without make-up. You’ve got the bone structure to carry it off.’ Esme knew Suki would look beautiful if she ever let Oliver turn his lens on her.
Suki ran a finger down her cheek, looking ever so slightly smug with this compliment and happy to have the focus back on her.
‘Maybe,’ she said.
‘Personally, I think his abstracts are more interesting,’ said Bill. ‘Look at the moody atmosphere here.’ He was examining one of the underwater photographs. ‘The daylight through water and the silhouetted coral is so delicate. Like a mere trace rather than a documentation of the real thing.’
He put his glasses on top of his head and rubbed his eyes, replacing them to re-appraise the image.
‘This man is seriously talented,’ he said. ‘You said he is having a show?’
‘I didn’t, but yes he is actually. I don’t know where but it’s on Wednesday. You are invited. He’s given me his studio address and a number.’
‘Well, you’ve picked a winner, Esme. I think you should go and follow this through as he’s your discovery,’ Bill said. ‘And Suki, I will commission him to take your portrait as a wedding present.’
Chapter Eighteen
Bill’s excitement quickly turned to frustration.
‘I can’t call the fucking artist direct,’ he said when Esme gave him the envelope with Oliver’s number on it. ‘It’s totally unprofessional. I need the agent.’
Bill vanished into the back office and emerged a few minutes later, smiling. Bill knew everyone and it had only taken a couple of calls to find Oliver’s agent. It turned out that there was a private view tomorrow night before the public opening on Wednesday. He’d arranged for Esme to go.
‘It’ll be much better this way. They see me coming.’
Hard not to, thought Esme. She could only assume that such a swift turn-around from football hooligan-ette to Savile Row gentleman – albeit one dip-dyed like a bag of sherbet – indicated he’d laid out his clothes the night before.
‘You can go straight after work tomorrow. Be my eyes and ears – pick out a masterpiece or two.’
Good, thought Esme. This could be a big break. And if Oliver was there, all the better. She was glad the opening wasn’t that night. Time for her to lay out her own outfit.
Work raced by the next day. Before he vanished off to another meeting, Bill had handed her the money to go and buy as many of Oliver Maxey’s photographs as she could with the sum, especially his underwater visuals. She had been given the go-ahead to choose the ones she felt were his best and was now on a high, basking in Bill’s trust. With her ‘instincts and inherent taste that money can’t buy’, as Bill called it, she had a future. The art world was starting to feel like her natural milieu and for the first time in her life she felt valued and able to contribute more than just being a conduit to her society connections.
Esme was pleased with the way she looked. Not too try-hard and her hair had behaved and dried into a gleaming shank of gold. She was just locking up when the phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Es, it’s Cece.’
She’d been trying to call her for days, but there had been no answer. She was relieved to hear her voice.
‘Es?’
Esme paused, she still felt guilty that she’d let Cece vanish off into the night, half-cut.
‘Yes. It’s me.’
‘How are you?’ The question sounded a perfunctory one. She couldn’t tell if Cece was pissed off or embarrassed by the events at the gallery.
‘I’m well. I was just leaving. Got to get to an exhibition.’ Her mind fast-forwarded to Oliver in his leathers, but her voice didn’t follow.
‘Oh? That’s exciting.’
‘Yeah. It is. Not paintings but these stunning photographs.’
Esme realized as the words came out of her mouth, she still wanted to impress her.
‘I was wondering what you were up to later? There’s this party… and well, I thought you might like to come. It’s a friend of Dan’s. But it sounds like you’re bu
sy.’
‘No, I… well, yes, I am…’
‘There’s a cool bunch of people coming and well, you know…’
Esme decided she should accept the invitation by way of an olive branch. Make peace and move on. She realized she’d judged her friend harshly because she had built her up to be this all-powerful tower of strength and invincibility and it had been a shock to see that Cece had weaknesses too.
‘That’d be nice. I’ll come on the way. I won’t be able to stay too long as I have to get to North London for the launch.’
‘Everyone’s contributing to grog and grub so maybe pick up some supplies on the way. It’s not far from your gallery.’
‘OK. I could swing by Harrods and stay for an hour or so.’
Esme felt like she had robbed a bank as she left the gallery. She clutched her bag close, fearful it was obvious she was carrying £500 in cash. The money was disrespectfully bound in a rubber band and was an unsightly lump. Every passerby was a potential mugger. There had been a spate of attacks in Knightsbridge, with one woman even having a finger chopped for the diamond she was wearing. It wasn’t until Esme had passed under the green-and-gold awnings of Harrods that she felt safe.
The Harrods Food Hall was comfortingly familiar – her mother had used it as her local grocery store when they lived in London. She fondly remembered the excitement of a trip she had accompanied Diana on once to buy ingredients for dinner. When she was well, her mother had been a good cook; a natural with no need for recipe books. Esme must have been about ten years old at the time and when she thought back she could still taste the frothy smoothness of her chocolate milkshake at the Soda Bar. Her mother had Earl Grey, which she ‘cooled down’ with the contents of a small ornate bottle. ‘I always bring a little water in case I get thirsty,’ she explained. Looking back, Esme now understood why the water smelt of gin.
The Art Deco opulence remained, with veined marble sprawling across surfaces, wall partitions and internal columns. Piles of fruit and vegetables were positioned with artistic precision. Some of the produce Esme had never seen before, imported from hotter climes, and now looking exotic and unseasonal in the heart of a Northern European metropolis. Lychees and grapes were coated in a powdery bloom. Families of cherries, figs, citrus fruit, apples and pears were piled high in gleaming heaps. Squash, peapods, lettuces, asparagus, tomatoes, bunches of chives, rosemary and basil filled displays. Overflowing wicker baskets were the main focus, positioned with the painterly flair of Caravaggio. She looked at a bowl of bicoloured peaches with a bright red blush that, Esme observed, had an uncanny resemblance to a dimpled derrière. Next to them, split-open pomegranates lay, disgorging their jewelled seeds. Bunches of grapes were heaped next to curved cucumbers and courgettes that looked like some kind of sea monster. Huge speckled vine leaves displayed warty melons that looked nothing like the smooth fruits Esme was used to. It seemed the whole world’s offerings were stacked up and offered for sale here. But this harvest was so profuse it seemed almost symbolic. The ripeness, the burst fruit, the tempting red apples speaking of original sin and their blemishes hinting at the transience of human life. All very Baroque, she thought – or perhaps she’d been spending too much time with Max.
Cece had given her a small but expensive shopping list after Esme said she could try to use her mother’s account card. She’d held onto it when she had gone into care. It was the only thing she had of her mother’s with her in London, apart from the old shirt, and she had no idea if the last bill had been paid. It seemed worth a try. The gold and green piece of plastic had her mother’s signature on the back, the uncertain scrawl and flamboyant capitals. Even her writing was a contradiction.
Esme was to meet Cece at a house in Eaton Square belonging to some ‘loaded’ friend of Dan’s. She had agreed to pick up Stolichnaya vodka, cigarettes and shell-on prawns. As she stared at the fish counter, she found it hard to believe a world of variety had been caught and delivered to the heart of London. A huge taxidermy marlin of record-breaking weight hung above a fishmonger in his straw boater.
‘What can I get you, miss?’
Not knowing how many a pound of prawns would be, she said, ‘Three double handfuls, please.’
He weighed up the prawns and tipped them into paper and then a bag. There were enough to feed an army, but she was too embarrassed to say there were too many, even when he stuck the price on.
‘Thanks,’ she said awkwardly, feeling like she was playing at being grown-up.
She added two bottles of vodka to her basket and strode over to the check out, ready to forge her mother’s signature.
‘That’ll be £25.46, please.’
She found her purse in the bottom of her bag and without a beat, handed over the card, praying the payment would go through. Poor Mum, thought Esme, she should be the one to be buying delicacies for dinner, not dining on hospital dinners in her care home. But she also knew her that if they had been together, her mother would have encouraged her to take nothing but the best to the party.
Esme was amazed when the card went through. She felt a buzz of adrenaline at having got away with it. An idea fizzed into life. It was late-night shopping in Knightsbridge, so she’d still have time to go and browse the fashion rails in Way In, upstairs. Surely her dad would forgive her the odd indulgence when he came to pay the bill on the card.
By the time she left Way In with a new dress and pair of wedge espadrilles, it was later than she’d thought. Cece had said she would meet her at the party and as she hurried in the direction of Eaton Square, Esme was looking forward to seeing her again and laughing off her drunken behaviour and Esme’s overreaction to it.
She felt good in her new mini wrap-dress and her shoes, though high, were easy to walk in. It was a lovely evening and London had never looked better, bathed in gold and harbouring smiling faces enjoying the balmy temperature. Esme paused to take in the magnificence of Pall Mall and its majestic Regency architecture, the clean lines and uncomplicated façades. Then she dashed on, the vodka bottles clinking.
Number 81 was on the corner of Eaton Square and Elizabeth Street. The house was a larger version of Pelham Place, three times the size and with cleaner windows that reflected the communal gardens behind her. The entrance was flanked by two leafy orbs in cubic urns and there was an oversized knocker cast in the shape of a lion’s head. Buoyed by the reassuring familiarity of this kind of place, she was slightly surprised that Dan swam in such circles. He’d given the impression that he was a class warrior, the kind of person to despise such wealth and opulence. She hoped Cece hadn’t been as intimidated as she’d been at the gallery and legged it back to Camden. Checking her reflection in the window, Esme smoothed her hair, retouched her lip-gloss and rang the bell. After a beat, a butler in full livery answered the door.
‘I’m here to meet Dan.’ Esme realized she didn’t know his surname and was going to ask for Cece but she didn’t know hers either.
‘Would you like me to put your bags in the cloakroom, or will you be taking them with you?’ the butler asked.
Thank God they were Harrods bags.
‘I’m not sure. I’ve bought prawns and vodka with me,’ she said, feeling foolish. Who brought prawns to a party? ‘And cigarettes.’
‘We have plenty of those. I’ll take the food and drink to the kitchen.’ His voice was monotone and weary. ‘May I offer you something before you go in?’
‘Vodka and tonic would be lovely, thank you.’ Assuming a drink was what he meant.
He nodded his head, and she waited in the hallway. She could hear voices upstairs. The doorbell rang again, just as the butler returned with her drink. She hoped it was Cece but a tall, sleek man wearing an expertly cut three-piece suit in material more fitting for soft furnishings made his way in. He seemed to crackle with an odd mix of watchfulness and obstreperous confidence. Esme put his age at somewhere in his late twenties despite his precocious get-up. She took in his cartoonish oversized coronet tie-pin, like somethin
g you’d find in a Christmas cracker, and shiny patent leather shoes. He was flashy and overbearing with whiff of used-car salesman, she decided.
‘Sorry, Maynard, I left my keys at the club.’
‘You didn’t take them, sir,’ said Maynard scooping a set from a silver tray on the hall table. ‘Some of your guests have arrived and I have shown them to the drawing room.’
‘Guests? Are we having a party, Maynard?’
‘It appears so, sir.’
‘Are you one of them?’ he asked Esme. He put out a pale hand that Esme shook. It was cold and clammy.
‘Yes. Well, I think so. I was invited by—’ She stopped abruptly as the man reached over and took a sip from her glass.
‘I’m Esme,’ she said, nonplussed.
He introduced himself as ‘David,’ returning her glass. ‘Come, I’ll take you upstairs.’
The light in the drawing room was low, the curtains drawn for a premature nightfall. It was difficult to make out who or how many people populated the sofas and seating areas. Stained-glass lampshades threw shards of colour across the walls, papered in bordello red which created a sense of womb-like security, detached from the real world. The air was thick with smoke and the sweet aroma of marijuana. It was far too intimate for comfort.
David left her and went to join a group of bright young things who Esme instantly clocked as restless trust fund children. Their earnest conversation was punctuated by bursts of laughter and wild gesturing. Smooth music issued from two speakers hidden amongst the bookshelves. The rest of the room was a murky snapshot of London in all its diversity. Both the worlds she’d been trying to inhabit were colliding – moneyed society and a fashionable edgy crowd in one room. There was a heightened gaiety, an artificial insouciance which made Esme feel uneasy. High and low life mixed with handsome clingers-on, somehow familiar faces, outcasts, wasted self-destructive exhibitionists and ambitious voyeurs watching from the shadows. It was an exclusive group, based less on family name and wealth, and more on glamour, style and street cred.
Summer in Mayfair Page 20
