Pandora

by Jilly Cooper

  Although he had protested to Hanna that he had merely thought of Emerald as a marketable property, Hanna couldn’t stop crying. Her tears fell on the huge watercolour she was painstakingly assembling of all the wild flowers in Galena’s meadow, creating a ravishing wet on wet effect. Jupiter, never very good at communication, couldn’t comfort her. Leaving her in the country, unable to sleep, he worked himself into the ground in London. God knew what Pandora’s Box Emerald had opened. He didn’t believe she was Raymond’s daughter any more than Jonathan did. How could they make their besotted father have a DNA test?

  As the days passed, Jupiter grew increasingly fed up with journalists ringing the gallery, wanting to interview his father about the art world and the vain old bugger not realizing they were fishing about Emerald. Raymond was also getting sloppy. Revving up for a BBC programme on the High Renaissance, which meant a lot of research, he had not checked the provenance of a Turner and, having sold it to a private collector, discovered it had been stolen from a museum in Houston, who very much wanted it back. Even worse, far more punters were going into the Pulborough, which had gone above the Belvedon in the dealers’ profit parade for the first time.

  Raymond had succeeded in the past by selling paintings on brilliantly or hanging on to them until they went up in value. But in recent years he had borrowed huge sums to buy pictures which had slumped instead. Many of the paintings at Foxes Court were held as collateral for the loan.

  Jupiter kept trying to persuade his father to have the Raphael revalued so they could borrow against it. Another alternative would be to sell it, or lend it to a big touring exhibition, which could treble its value. Best of all, to avoid capital transfer tax, would be for Raymond to make it over to Jupiter as the eldest son. After his father’s death, Jupiter promised he would split whatever the picture was worth between the others. But Raymond, who didn’t trust Jupiter, almost hysterically refused. He was only seventy-five, and his ambition, which he hadn’t revealed to Jupiter, was to give the Raphael to the National Gallery.

  Jupiter was also unnerved by the increasing publicity being given to art looted from the Jews by the Nazis during the last war. More and more of the original Jewish owners or their descendants were trying to reclaim their pictures. What if Pandora had been stolen? Raymond had always been slightly hazy about how he acquired the Raphael, some story about a dying Kraut handing him the picture in return for a glass of water in a burning château.

  Finally, was the picture ‘right’? Alarming rumours were coming out of the Vatican that one of the most famous Raphaels hadn’t been painted by the master at all. No wonder, apart from his obsession with Emerald, Jupiter wasn’t sleeping.

  Help, however, was at hand. Si Greenbridge, the vastly rich arms-dealer who had cancelled lunch with Jupiter the day Emerald had wheedled her way into the Belvedon, was back in London for Royal Ascot and the big antiques and art fairs.

  Accompanying Si, as well as his four guards, was his third wife Ginny, a former Miss New Jersey who travelled with Pascal, her interior designer, and endless colour swatches. Ginny Greenbridge, who was only interested in pictures that enhanced the décor, was in her late twenties. Si was in his middle fifties. A brusque belligerent hunk who looked as if he could crack safes with the lift of an ebony eyebrow, Si was a serious collector with many millions of dollars to launder.

  In early June therefore, both the Belvedons and the Pulboroughs vied to take Si’s money off him and entertain him in the most exciting way. Raymond kicked off with a very smart drinks party at the gallery, with pictures by his leading artists on the faded burgundy-red walls, and some enticing Old Masters in the vaults as a cabaret after dinner.

  Despite a damp and dismal evening, the gallery was packed out. Amid the chattering royalty, the rock stars and the shadow cabinet ministers Jupiter wished to impress, Si looked like a huge grizzly who’d gatecrashed a teddy bears’ picnic. Among the sprinkling of ravishing girls, Emerald, in a little kingfisher-blue number from Amanda Wakeley which turned her eyes an even witchier green, shone the brightest.

  On her first official outing as a Belvedon, however, Emerald was desperately nervous. She was also mortified that Alizarin, Jonathan and Sienna had all blacked the party, whilst Jupiter, who clearly hadn’t forgiven her, was looking more adamantine than his head, which Raymond had subtly lit and proudly displayed in an alcove and at which everyone giggled and said ‘Good evening, Jupiter’ to as they swanned in.

  Seeing Emerald quailing as the paparazzi swooped down on her, Si moved in with the fleetness of a heavyweight boxing champion, whisking her into a corner and shielding her with his massive frame, so no-one could get at either of them.

  ‘Oh thank you,’ gasped Emerald, ‘I always panic in crowds. I’m so small, I’m terrified of getting trampled underfoot. This is an incredibly smart party, I’ve just seen Liz Hurley and King Constantine walk in.’

  ‘So smart,’ replied Si in a very strong gravelly Bronx accent, ‘I can’t figure how in hell I got invited.’

  Emerald laughed.

  ‘Because you’re the most important person in the world.’

  Si in fact was incredibly shy and had been so busy dealing in arms and making fortunes in hotel chains, gambling dens, newspapers and television stations, he hadn’t had much time to acquire social graces on the way up. He also had a horror of being trapped, because people always wanted things from him.

  Examining his pugnacious cave-giant face, Emerald decided he was definitely attractive. She’d always liked rich, powerful, older men; father figures or – in Si’s case – godfather figures. In his dark suit, dark shirt, and tie as white as his beautifully capped teeth, he could have walked straight out of a Thirties gangster movie. He was also very brown and fit, his gold-ringed hands were beautifully manicured and nothing could dim his passion for art. Only stopping to see her glass was refilled, he fired questions at her about her sculptures, her taste in pictures and had soon learnt of her elusive New York boyfriend and her tricky new family.

  Si’s guards, whose chunkiness added to the crush, never took their eyes off their boss. Nor did the rest of the guests, from the shadow cabinet ministers, who wanted vast pledges for the Tory Party, to the princes and princesses who wanted freebies in the Greenbridge jets, to the celebs who wanted their picture taken beside Si, to the photographers and reporters who were climbing into sofas and chairs to see Emerald over his shoulders, and who all wanted jobs on Si’s highly successful newspapers.

  Even Anthea, bashing herself like a pale moth against his dark wall of back, had no success.

  ‘Mr Greenbridge?’

  ‘In a minute,’ snapped Si.

  ‘We’ve got to get him away from Emerald,’ hissed a white-faced Jupiter. ‘People like Michael Portillo are only hanging on to meet him. There are endless pictures he’s got to see.’

  ‘Plenty of time for that after dinner,’ said an overjoyed Raymond. ‘If Si commissions work from the darling child, she’s made for life. Look, she’s pointing out your head to him.’

  Si was so impressed by Jupiter’s head that he beckoned over Ginny, his wife, and suggested Emerald did her head while they were in London.

  Ginny, who disliked competition, pouted, and said she’d rather be done by Joan Bideford, whose flesh tones matched the poolroom in Long Island. Lesbianism anyway was so hip in the States.

  Anthea, outraged that Emerald had been spurned, took Ginny Greenbridge aside.

  ‘My dear, I too married a much older man. Do remember that men of that generation are used to calling the shots, and should be pandered to in every way. If Si prefers Emerald’s work . . .’

  But Ginny Greenbridge had belted off to try and melt icy Jupiter.

  Anthea, used to being the sex kitten centre of every Belvedon party, was not enjoying herself. She had been shoved aside by Si in his haste to rescue Emerald, and how dare Raymond reproach her for spending £2,000 on a Meissen parrot at the ceramics fair, when he was force-feeding everyone Krug? Ev
en Si’s guards could be seen discreetly knocking it back, and Ginny Greenbridge was so glittering with diamonds, she must have emptied the jewellery fair at Grosvenor House.

  Anthea also regarded it as a personal insult to herself that not only Alizarin, Jonathan and Sienna but also her stepdaughter-in-law had boycotted the party. A sharp-eyed reporter from the Evening Standard had picked this up.

  ‘Surely Hanna Belvedon’s a gallery artist?’

  Another gallery artist, Casey Andrews, noisier and more bombastic than ever, a bottle of Krug protruding from the pocket of his hairy ginger jacket, had decided his destiny was Raymond’s new daughter. Not realizing how rich Si was, he in turn shoved Si out of the way, and leered down at Emerald. Noting Casey muscling in, aware of Si’s perennially itchy feet, Raymond glided over, murmuring that very shortly they should move on to the Garrick where he’d booked a table. Whereupon, to his horror, Si glanced at his Rolex.

  ‘Ginny and I oughta go, we’re meeting with David Pulboro’ at eight-thirty.’

  ‘But you’re dining with us. I’ve got some ravishing things to show you later,’ protested Raymond, needing all his sang-froid not to betray his fury, particularly when a drooling Casey announced he wasn’t doing anything and would be only too happy to take Si’s place at the Garrick.

  ‘And I’ll take Ginny’s place,’ boomed Joan Bideford, sliding an arm round Emerald’s waist.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t make it either, Dad,’ said Jupiter, who was quite unable to face the heaven and hell of dining opposite Emerald.

  Game, set and macho to David. In delight, he clocked Raymond’s frozen smile as, watched by a scribbling press, and protected by guards with umbrellas, Si and Ginny swept through driving rain twenty-five yards across the road to the Pulborough.

  As his contacts were not as starry as Raymond’s, David had arranged an intimate little dinner at Le Caprice. Rosemary had not been invited because among the guests was David’s mistress, Geraldine Paxton, whose rich husband Maurice didn’t get much of a look-in either. As someone who advised the affluent on what to put on their walls, the sexually voracious Geraldine enjoyed inspiring gratitude in handsome young groovers by introducing them to generous patrons.

  David had therefore ordered his newest grooviest gallery artist to be present to chat up Geraldine. Jonathan, who had just returned from Yorkshire, digging into Emerald’s past, and who would much rather have done a number on the delectable Ginny Greenbridge, grumbled that he didn’t like the Arts Council.

  ‘They’re a monument to tokenism and political correctness who spend their time squandering taxpayers’ money on works of art by their friends.’

  ‘That’s why I want you to become a friend of Mrs Paxton,’ said David smoothly.

  He had also dragged fat Barney away from the gaming tables to persuade Pascal, Ginny’s gay interior designer, how much the work of Pulborough artists would enhance the Greenbridge properties. Both Jonathan and Barney struggled not to laugh when Ginny Greenbridge, on entering the gallery, whipped out a blue and gold side plate and rejected a ravishing Burne-Jones because the blues in Guinevere’s dress wouldn’t quite match the dinner service on the yacht.

  ‘She’s a former Miss New Jersey,’ murmured Barney.

  ‘A Miss New Dress and a Miss New Jewellery, judging by that Tiffany cross disappearing down her cleavage,’ murmured back Jonathan. ‘How’s Charge Nurse Bisley?’

  ‘Doing nights,’ smirked Barney. ‘How’s Abdul’s nude of Sophy coming along?’

  ‘Nearly finished,’ lied Jonathan.

  ‘I like paintings I feel I could fly over or walk through,’ confessed Si, admiring a tiger-ridden Rousseau jungle.

  ‘How did you enjoy my father’s party?’ asked Jonathan. ‘Did you meet my new sister Emerald?’

  ‘An absolute knockout,’ Si admitted, ‘and goddam talented. Sir Raymond is giving her a show in October.’

  Dad’s given her the slot I would have had if I hadn’t defected to the Pulborough, thought Jonathan, trying to suppress an explosion of jealousy.

  ‘She was being monopolized by Colin Casey Andrews as we left,’ added Si.

  ‘At least she’s met someone with a bigger ego than her own,’ sighed Jonathan. ‘What was she moaning about this time?’

  ‘Her boyfriend being away, and the antagonism of her siblings,’ said Si reprovingly.

  ‘Ah,’ said Jonathan lightly. ‘We may not be her brothers and sisters much longer. In Yorkshire yesterday I unearthed an old biddy who’d once cleaned for the hospital where Emerald was born. She clearly remembers Anthea being visited by’ – Jonathan’s big dark eyes rolled innocently in David’s direction – ‘a very pretty blond man, young, but not very tall, which doesn’t sound like my father.’

  David choked on his drink.

  ‘Probably her brother,’ he spluttered. ‘Drink up, everyone, taxi’s waiting.’

  Barney, who’d been looking forward to a delicious three-course blow-out at Le Caprice, was bitterly disappointed. The Greenbridges, like many rich couples who constantly dine out, ate little and drank less except for quantities of bottled water. Si ordered smoked trout and a filet mignon; Ginny, asparagus, then strawberries.

  Si, who had no small talk, was only interested in picking David’s brains, frequently recording information on a dictaphone. Geraldine Paxton, skeletal thin in a pinstripe suit, and yellow paisley tie, toyed with a plate of vegetables. Jonathan on her left, buoyed up by another line of coke, flirted with her outrageously as he drew first Ginny, then Si, on the backs of two menus. Si had a good face, strong and square. Although the low forehead and underhung jaw added a Neanderthal ferocity, the mournful dark eyes were those of an Alsatian long abandoned in a dogs’ home.

  Realizing while he’d been quizzing David everyone else had practically finished, Si picked up a steak knife and fork to attack his smoked trout.

  ‘Fish knife, Si,’ murmured David.

  Feeling he’d done his stuff chatting up Geraldine, Jonathan turned thankfully to Ginny on his left, who was toying with strawberries, enhanced by neither cream nor sugar.

  ‘How long have you been married?’ he asked.

  ‘Six months.’

  ‘Happy?’

  ‘Kinda – Si’s last wife passed away, but he won’t verbalize about her. My analyst told Si he was being very selfish not helping me to work it through and bury her ghost.’

  Hence the sad Alsatian eyes, thought Jonathan.

  ‘It would be worse if he talked about her all the time,’ he said, drawing the thick black hair on the top of Si’s head as a jagged palisade. Next moment his pen shot downwards giving Si a thin gigolo sideboard as Geraldine, on his right, slid a bony hand under his table napkin.

  ‘My clients call me their “hired eyes”,’ she was simultaneously boasting to Si. ‘I help people put art on their walls, not unlike an interior designer’ – she flashed big teeth at gay Pascal – ‘but art is more intellectually stimulating, and does have an asset value.’

  ‘She helps lame dogs over lifestyles,’ giggled Jonathan to Ginny.

  ‘Si keeps buying new properties to accommodate our art,’ murmured back Ginny, who was longing to run her hand through Jonathan’s hair – he was so cute.

  Geraldine turned to Ginny warmly. ‘I am sure I can advise you and Si. I’d love to introduce you to . . .’

  But Ginny had shot off to the Ladies.

  ‘Every time a marriage breaks up, I make a fucking fortune,’ gay Pascal was whispering to Barney. ‘The new wife moves in and changes all the décor and needs fifty million dollars of new art to go with it.’

  ‘Can’t be bad.’ Barney let Pascal do the talking, enabling himself to shovel quantities of Scandinavian ice berries smothered with white chocolate sauce into his face.

  As Si was still being clobbered by Geraldine, David pinched Ginny’s chair.

  ‘I’ve just had a call from Dame Hermione,’ he told Jonathan furiously. ‘I learn instead of videoing her yourself, yo
u sent round that scrofulous beast Trafford with a Box Brownie. Dame Hermione is most displeased and threatening to pull out. And Enid Coley is even more disappointed with her portrait, she doesn’t think you even painted her face.’

  ‘I thought she did that herself with a trowel,’ said Jonathan sulkily.

  ‘Stop being flip. This cannot go on.’

  ‘It can’t,’ agreed Jonathan. ‘I at least did these all myself,’ he added, handing two menus to a returning Ginny Greenbridge, who went into ecstasies.

  ‘Oh my Gard. This is to die for, so like me. May I keep it? You have real talent, and look, Si, Jonathan has made you look like a real gentleman.’

  Si was so touched by this miracle – and also because Jonathan hadn’t made a pass at Ginny (most men did) – that he promptly commissioned him to paint her portrait.

  ‘Can you do it straight away?’ begged Ginny. ‘We’re off to Berlin on Sunday. Si and I are global citizens.’

  Jonathan tried not to laugh.

  ‘Certainly he can,’ said David firmly, ‘I’ll sort out a price.’

  I expected David to be fun and easy to work with, thought Jonathan darkly. He’s just a bloody Hitler.

  ‘I wouldn’t tell everyone,’ Geraldine was now confiding to Si, ‘but Maurice, my husband, and I have given half a million to Tate Modern.’

  ‘Si gave forty-four million dollars to cultural projects last year,’ interrupted Ginny crushingly, ‘and Si and I not only give money, we give of ourselves.’

  Si was still looking at Jonathan’s drawing.

  ‘I’m told the Norwich School is a good buy, I kinda like an artist called John Sell Cotman.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ agreed Jonathan.

  ‘Too parochial,’ said David dismissively. ‘I wouldn’t bother.’