With a table of inferior red and warm white wine and a two-hour time limit, it’s like a cut-price wedding, Viv says to Geoff and Eliza, only with three hugely disparate guest lists. The mood is positive. Those in Daisy’s camp feel her work puts the others in the shade – and not only because the others are dark and hers are bright and glowing.
She is surrounded, like a bride, by gushing well-wishers. Her portraits have become more political lately. Pensive studies of refugees silhouetted against brilliant backgrounds: a Syrian mother and child, an Iraqi girl, a couple from Yemen. Daisy met all of them through Viv’s volunteer network.
Already two of the male nudes have red stickers. One would be Julia’s; she sent word that she wanted one. Geoff finds them confrontational. They’re too in your face, he says.
‘Can’t be too in your face for the likes of us girls. Can they, Vivien?’ Eliza laughs. Viv catches her husband’s eye. He dislikes noisy, crowded gatherings like this.
Adrian is the most dashing male in the room in Viv’s view, as she feels he would be in many other rooms and views. Being taller than average and considerably more extrovert he is easy to track as he navigates the crowd. He’s decked out in a floppy yellow bow tie with black spots, black shirt and a bespoke, three-piece denim suit (distressed). He’s introducing himself to everyone as the artist’s muse and willy model.
‘If you care to look closely you can see the cocks are all the same,’ he’s saying to the throng around the nudes. ‘I’m looking into organ transplants for variety. Have to keep rivals out of the studio. You know how it is with artists and their models.’
He has discovered a vicious vein of hetero-jealousy he never knew existed, although it must have been latent. Eliza is hanging onto every word. Geoff can’t hear most of them, which is a relief to Viv.
Adrian spots them. ‘Doesn’t your daughter look fabulous tonight? I’m basking in reflected glory. Don’t you just love the cutting-edge new work? She’s going to be a name, right up there with Bacon and Freud. You heard it here first.’
He brings a couple forward as Geoff retreats. ‘You remember Daisy’s old flame, don’t you, Vivien? Henry, my more respectable twin – he’s in insider trading – and his gorgeous pouting wife, Venetia. They adore the refugee pictures. They want to commission one of themselves dressed as asylum seekers, but Daisy’s being very po-faced about it.’
Heggers has evolved into a bluff, generic type. There are vestiges of the old charm, although Viv finds herself immune to it and is rapidly revising her former opinion. She feels her phone vibrate. A text from Leary. She replaces the phone in her jacket pocket without reading it.
Adrian keeps it snappy. He looks to his right. ‘Gotta go rescue the tortured artiste from the clutches of those terminal bores. I’ll bring them over for your assessment.’ A glance at the nudes. ‘Just keep in the forefront of your minds, bold, confrontational, figurative art is not quite their thing. Along with art in general.’
Eliza grabs Geoff’s arm. ‘Wow, was that Daisy’s boyfriend?’ Viv sees her husband flinch. She glimpses the terminal bores, a faded, inoffensive-looking couple of around their own age talking to Daisy. Soon afterwards she and Geoff are being introduced to them: Macaulay and Ruth.
Viv becomes aware that Ruth is regarding her fixedly. It seems an inappropriate glance to receive from someone she has only just met and knows nothing about: intense, but with an obscure subtext. She can’t begin to think what it is trying to convey. The dilapidated husband Macaulay, however, seems to be completely out of it. Pickled, probably.
And now Ruth is offering her a business card and saying, most surprisingly, ‘It would be lovely if you and I might meet for coffee.’
The voice is earnest and slightly strained, and it dawns on Viv who they must be. She gives Ruth a vigorous nod, but before she can reply they have been buttonholed and swept away. Viv puts the card in her bag. She is trying to decode, retrospectively, the message of Ruth’s glance. She thinks she might have a fairly good idea of what it was trying to convey: fellow-feeling, and a measure of relief.
‘Who the hell were they?’ Geoff asks. ‘Friends of yours?’
Daisy reaches them. She is indeed looking fabulous, hair piled up, her denim suit coordinating with that of her companion (as her mother has decided to call him) – yellow bow tie, long pencil skirt and jacket over a black shirt.
There are hugs, a special one for Joy who has just arrived unaccompanied (Mr Jackson works five nights out of seven, Viv recalls; assuming he has not been shipped out) and a quick intro to Eliza. Daisy allots her a tight smile.
‘Sorry, I did try to warn you but I was ambushed,’ she tells her parents loudly. ‘What did you make of them? Adrian says they should bring back the guillotine. But they’re actually quite harmless. Lord Mac’s as deaf as a post as well as permanently paralytic, so he wouldn’t’ve heard a word anyway.’
Lord? Viv hopes she misheard. ‘They’re Lord and Lady Frensham,’ Daisy says with disdain. ‘I thought you knew. Antediluvian, isn’t it?’
The titles are confusing on several fronts. And rather unwelcome, overall. ‘Does that mean Adrian and Heggers are Hons?’ Viv asks her daughter. Evidently it does. Heggers will be a Lord eventually.
‘Nothing to stop him renouncing it,’ Geoff says.
‘Oh, he’d never do that. He can’t wait for his dad to peg out. Lucky he came out first, wasn’t it?’
It’s too crowded to see any of the work properly, although they make a half-hearted effort to push through into the other rooms. But Geoff in particular, who has a low tolerance of bad wine, noisy gatherings and art (other than his daughter’s) of less than museum quality, is desperate to get out of there. They will return another day, when Daisy says they’re quite likely to have the gallery to themselves. She waves them off with, Viv fears, a touch of relief.
They take refuge in an Indian restaurant down the street. It’s nearly empty, which might be a bad sign. Viv can tell Joy wants to talk, so she sits next to her.
Her husband, who is grumpy on several counts, asks for drinks before the menus arrive. A bottle of house white and cold beers for him and Eliza. Large bottles. Should be an improvement on the bilge you were just swilling, Lize, he says to her. Although she hadn’t seemed to mind, Viv noted, and neither had Joy. Being younger they probably didn’t notice what they were swilling.
Geoff’s mind hasn’t moved on. He reaches for his beer. ‘God send me patience,’ he groans, to no one in particular. ‘Why can’t she get herself a proper man?’ Viv, sitting opposite Eliza, can’t quite reach his leg to kick him. She shakes her head, frowning.
Joy is looking puzzled. Does he mean Daisy? Nothing improper about that fella, in her opinion. He’s hot. Probably loaded too.
Eliza agrees. A hottie and an Honourable, hey! Probably with a stately pile. What more do you want, Geoff? And what a dress sense! She and Joy high five each other.
‘A hottie?’ Geoff echoes. Viv hopes the other two diners are out of earshot. ‘Are you out of your mind? Turkey cock’s more like it.’
‘Geoff—’ Viv interrupts, midway, but he takes no notice. What has he told Eliza? Probably nothing.
‘Dress sense?’ he’s repeating incredulously. ‘He’s as camp as a row of tents.’
Eliza and Joy roll their eyes. ‘You can’t tell anything by what guys wear these days, Geoff,’ Eliza scolds, with a headmistressy shake of the head. ‘Can you, Vivien?’
Joy chimes in. ‘They’re all interested in their wardrobe, believe me.’ She too glances at Viv. Like Lady Frensham, she’s trying to telegraph something. Again, Viv has no idea what it might be. ‘Some of those macho guys, they have as many clothes as us. More, I’m not kidding. They’re worried about things going with things or not going, and stuff clashing, you know?’
‘That’s right, Geoff, I’m afraid you’re way behind the times,’ Eliza giggles. ‘They’re all caring and sensitive now and they all use moisturisers.’ She clinks glasses with everyone. ‘
Cheers.’
‘And not just aftershave, honey – cologne,’ says Joy. ‘Spicy lime and pomegranate, with woody notes—’
‘Sensual fragrance sprays—’
‘For the manly, waxed chest. Excuse me, Geoff,’ Joy leers, ‘but your wife needs you to play major catch-up here. Just saying.’ She and Eliza, who appear to be bonding over this, burst into gales of laughter.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Geoff explodes. ‘He’s gay, period. Is that simple enough for you?’
A little taken aback, the two of them look at Viv, whose face is resolutely vacant. Then back at Geoff. Well, they say, okay. So?
Joy shrugs. ‘What’s that got to do with the price of fish?’
‘Who gives a rat’s anyway?’ asks Eliza. ‘This is the twenty-first century, you know, Geoff. LGBTIQXYZ or whatever, what’s it matter? Gender fluidity rules. People chop and change all the time, no one gives a fuck about rigid sexual orientation anymore.’
She takes a copious swig of beer. ‘Young people, anyway.’ She grins at Joy. ‘Maybe it’s different for—’
This riles Geoff. ‘There’s no need to lecture me about passing social fads. Nor is there any need to patronise.’ Eliza’s eyes widen. An uneasy silence settles on the table.
Joy breaks it. ‘Whatever. It was still nice to be there and see Daisy’s work. Especially the full frontals, right?’ She and Eliza snigger.
‘I never would’ve guessed his parents were lords, would you?’ Eliza persists. ‘They sounded hoity-toity, but they looked quite dowdy and ordinary.’
‘It costs mega-bucks to look as dowdy as that, honey,’ Joy sighs. ‘I sure hope they buy up big. I’d snap up every one of her pictures and put them on my wall, if I could.’
‘Yes, she’s incredibly talented and beautiful and cool,’ Eliza agrees brightly. A sly glance at Geoff. ‘And her boyfriend’s cool too, I don’t care what you say. And well connected. Don’t you just hate her?’
Viv, who is still extremely annoyed with Geoff, realises she hasn’t said a thing for some time. And any chance of Geoff and Eliza getting in a huddle and enabling her to speak quietly to Joy on personal matters seems to be receding.
A platter of mixed appetisers is placed in the centre of the table. Reaching for a samosa, Viv feels her phone buzz again. She slides it onto her lap and glances down, aware of Joy’s eyes on her. It’s Martin this time. The message is short and to the point. A single question mark. She chews the samosa. It’s very dry.
Joy nudges Viv, and leans towards Eliza. ‘That cute accent you have, honey,’ she says in a cooing voice. ‘It’s not from here, right? Is it Aussie?’
‘Kiwi, if you don’t mind,’ Eliza protests, as Viv slips out and heads for the WC. It’s unisex, and not far from their table.
Martin is number six on her favourites list, after Geoff, Daisy, Judith, Jules and Joy. She hits the button. He picks up immediately. ‘Is it Vivien, or is it Beatrice?’
‘I think it’s both.’ She keeps her voice low. ‘I haven’t heard from you for days.’ She is in a very small and badly lit loo. It’s spotlessly clean, though. She puts the lid down and sits on it.
‘I could say the same thing.’
‘Three days at least.’
‘Is it that long? You sound very fuzzy. Are you underwater?’
‘I’m in the loo at an Indian restaurant. You couldn’t swing a cat in here.’
‘Is there a particular reason for talking in there, then? Other than – efficacy?’
‘Efficacy doesn’t come into it; I didn’t want to be overheard.’
‘You’re not alone?’
‘I’m with my husband, his young female friend, who’s a New Zealander, and my friend from Louisiana.’
‘Your husband and his friend,’ he says.
‘That’s right.’
‘And you and yours.’
‘Mine’s Joy, my quilting friend. What did your question refer to?’ she asks.
‘My question?’
‘Your question mark.’
‘I’d been wondering how you were.’ A noncommittal tone.
‘Had you?’
‘And wondering,’ more briskly, ‘whether you had anything to report. Any developments or firm conclusions, one way or the other.’
No, there had been no developments. And no conclusions, firm or otherwise. ‘Leary’s working 24/7. He’s been texting, though. He’s an indefatigable texter, you can say that about him. He last texted half an hour ago but I haven’t read it yet.’
‘You haven’t?’ A pause. ‘No thoughts, then?’
‘I think I should go back to the table. They might think something untoward’s happened. The samosa I had wasn’t up to much.’
‘I meant, thoughts about Mr Davidson.’
The door handle rattles. ‘Someone’s trying to get in.’ She flushes the toilet, which makes a surprisingly loud noise. ‘No thoughts right now, no.’ She doesn’t want to think about Leary. ‘Other than – well, I suppose we ought to have another meeting. It would be lily-livered not to, wouldn’t it? Given he’s a director who likes to resolve things quickly.’
‘I’m not sure that ought should come into it,’ Martin says. ‘Or lily-livered. You probably shouldn’t let yourself be rushed into anything, Beatrice.’
‘The type of thing I might regret later, you mean? Another Dauntish escapade?’
‘Something like that. Are you feeling—’ he stops mid-sentence. ‘Would you like me to line up another rabbit? Is that what you’re leaning towards?’
Another pause. Viv says, ‘Perhaps I am leaning towards that, I’m not entirely …’
‘I get the sense that now isn’t the time?’
‘No I’d better let that poor person in before they have an accident. Should I flush the toilet a second time?’
‘Your call. It might add to the verisimilitude.’
‘Yes it might do that. Well, I suppose I’d better go.’
The cistern thunders again. Waiting outside the door and frowning is the female half of the other couple of diners. Viv mutters an apology and returns to the table, where the appetisers have been replaced by a selection of oily curries.
Eliza has moved on to white wine. She’s telling Joy the plot of a new sci-fi film involving rogue algorithms. Geoff is joining in, looking less peevish, and is on his second beer. The bottle of house white is nearly empty. Viv toys with desultory forkfuls as Eliza and Joy clean up their plates. They must look as if they’re enjoying it, Joy urges, for the waiter’s sake. The poor sap’s hovering anxiously outside the kitchen.
Eliza is enviably slim and seems to have a gargantuan appetite. When she announces that what she’d like now more than almost anything is some kulfi, preferably mango though she’d settle for pistachio, Joy gives Viv another surreptitious prod. Sorry to spoil the party, guys, but she’s got an early start in the morning. Viv says she’s feeling slightly queasy and she’ll go with her.
Geoff looks concerned. ‘Take the car, hon.’ He rummages for his keys. No need, she assures him. She can always Uber. She just needs a bit of fresh air.
Joy doesn’t care for fast walking. She and Viv saunter towards the Tube, heads down and hands in pockets. With a heavy cloud cover it’s not as cold as it was and the street is almost deserted. Joy mutters, ‘Geoff’s girlfriend’s quite a nice little thing but she’s got an eating disorder, right? Can’t be anorexia. Must be bulimia.’
‘Might be just a racing metabolism. I don’t know if she is his girlfr—’
‘Born yesterday, were you?’
‘Probably was. So.’ She gives Joy a probing look. ‘How’s it all going?’
Joy is reticent about personal matters until she needs to get something off her chest. ‘That Mr Jackson Adeyemi,’ she says, with an upward inflection. ‘Think back to when you first saw him. Did you say to yourself, there’s something offabout that fella? You tell me the honest truth, now.’
Viv tells her no, she definitely did not say anything like that to he
rself. She thought he seemed very decent. She liked him.
Nothing different that made you think, uh-oh, what fresh shit is that damn-fool woman getting herself into now?
Well, he was different, Viv supposed, in that he was a burly security guard who was interested in learning to quilt and didn’t mind being the only man in a group of women. That was unusual in a good way, she thought.
‘With a group of women.’ Joy shakes her head. ‘That should’ve told me a bunch of important stuff straight off, shouldn’t it?’
‘Well, I don’t know. Should it?’ Where is this heading?
‘And it was Ondine. She introduced him. That should’ve told me something.’
‘Like what?’ Viv is genuinely perplexed.
‘She goes to those clubs, you know?’
Viv has only the haziest idea of the nature of those clubs. She goes over the previous conversation in the restaurant. ‘Is it that he’s got a thing about his clothes matching,’ she asks at last. ‘Or clashing? Maybe he’s just colour blind.’
Ha-ha. Right. He did bring a truckload, so Joy let him have the big old closet that had been Mr Ronnie’s. He moved all his stuff in there.
Yes, Viv encourages. Hurry up and get to the point, for God’s sake.
Well, one evening she’d had a little poke around. Joy looks defensive. Like you do when you don’t know much about them. First up, under some tracksuits, she found a blonde wig. Maybe a bit of leftover fancy dress, she thought. Then, in the back of a drawer, she found make-up. Shocking pink lipsticks. Lord have mercy!
Then a dress. Must’ve been made to measure, with his size. And two pairs of high heels, hidden behind his work boots. She laid them all out on the bed when he came home from work on Saturday morning. That was before last week’s quilting circle.
Viv is not unduly surprised to hear this news. Joy draws an indignant breath. Well, it sure surprised the hell out of her.
The Age of Discretion Page 29
