Pandora

by Jilly Cooper

  Alizarin was absolutely livid.

  Sophy found taking her clothes off the worst part. At least she was super-glammed up for Jonathan, with pink-painted toenails, shining hair, body lotion rubbed into every acre of her body and no shoulder strap or knicker elastic marks, because Jonathan had ordered her not to wear any underwear.

  Alizarin kicked Visitor and Diggory off the big sofa and, spreading a blue sheet over it, arranged Sophy on top. For a second, she fought back the tears, when she saw the plaster on her leg, where in her excitement she’d cut herself shaving. But once Alizarin got going, he was so kind and so quiet. She noticed he kept polishing his spectacles, his tummy kept rumbling, and twice he apologized to her shoes thinking he’d stumbled over Diggory.

  Worried she might be cold on such a dank, cold evening, he whacked up Jonathan’s central heating, but she noticed how this made him pour with sweat, obviously not used himself to such warmth. When he whipped off his checked shirt, which had lost most of its buttons, and then his dark green T-shirt, she noticed how little flesh there was on his huge frame.

  I wish I could feed him up, she thought, admiring at the same time the endless legs in the ripped jeans. She was dying to ask him what he thought of Emerald, but she didn’t want to distract him. Alizarin didn’t talk much except to ask if she were all right and occasionally tell her she had a lovely body.

  ‘Too much of it,’ sighed Sophy. ‘I expect in Saudi Arabia, where Abdul lives, there’s lots of sand to stretch out on.’

  ‘How long have you known Jonathan?’

  ‘Four weeks and three days.’ She blushed. ‘I ought to have seen the writing on the wall. The last time he made love to me, the foreplay was so fantastic, I didn’t realize till afterwards he’d been watching The Bill with the sound turned down.’

  That bloody charm, thought Alizarin furiously, which gets away with things again and again.

  ‘One good thing,’ admitted Sophy, ‘I wanted to have something interesting to talk to him about this evening, so I went to an exhibition of Raphael’s drawings at Buckingham Palace. They were so wonderful’ – Sophy stretched joyfully – ‘and I had no idea that so many Raphaels were painted by so many different people.’

  ‘Like Jonathan’s pictures,’ said Alizarin drily.

  ‘But the ones Raphael did himself are so much greater. He seems to paint people as they really are, the pupils’ stuff looks chocolate boxy by comparison, as if they were trying too hard to flatter. Sorry, you know all this.’

  As the windows darkened, she told him about the children she taught, and Alizarin told her about his students.

  ‘They’re so trusting. Once you win their confidence, you could tell them to jump through fire. They’ve been so short changed,’ he went on roughly. ‘A whole generation of students has never been taught how to draw or paint because it’s unfashionable. Video and the installation are all, and, even more important, marketing. My old college is run by bank managers.’

  ‘I wish my bank manager would go off and run an art college,’ sighed Sophy.

  Increasingly, she marvelled at Alizarin’s obsessive concentration, the tension in his body, and the fire in those long screwed-up eyes.

  Four times they were interrupted by a wrong number. Not wanting Sophy to alter her position, Alizarin answered it, on each occasion getting less polite.

  ‘It’s some man asking for a Mrs Greenbridge,’ he told Sophy.

  The telephone rang again. Throwing down his brushes and palette for the fifth time, Alizarin stalked across the room and picked up the telephone.

  ‘No, I’m very sorry, Mrs Greenbridge is upstairs being fucked by the window cleaner,’ he snapped and hung up.

  Sophy giggled.

  ‘Goodness knows what I’ve started,’ grunted Alizarin. And then he smiled for the first time, which lifted his harsh features, showed off beautiful teeth, and softened the suspicious, angry eyes. He’s not ugly at all, thought Sophy in amazement.

  At least no-one rang again to break his concentration.

  Occasionally, as if in a trance, he wandered over, running his hands over her to memorize a length of nose or curve of her belly.

  ‘My eyes aren’t very good,’ he apologized, ‘I have to use touch.’

  Sophy felt increasing quivers of excitement. When he put a hand over her breast, a nipple shot out to meet it. Really, Alizarin wasn’t her type.

  By two o’clock she had stopped wondering what had happened to Jonathan. At four, Alizarin realized the time, apologized profusely to her and the dogs whom he took out for a pee.

  Thinking how lovely he was, Sophy rushed off to find the food she’d bought. In the stifling studio, the white wine was nearly boiling, the quiche had melted and the smoked salmon was practically swimming round the carrier bag, but she laid out a picnic.

  As they tucked in, a mood of euphoria took over.

  Sophy, Alizarin decided, was like a handful of coloured balloons tied to a garden gate, indicating a party within.

  ‘It’s been great having someone to talk to,’ he confessed. ‘One goes crazy painting away on one’s own all day.’

  Sophy hadn’t looked at the portrait yet. Outside it was getting light. Alizarin didn’t want to pull the curtains and let even the fading stars look in in case they broke the spell. Between them they finished the runny quiche and the smoked salmon and gave the chocolate biscuits to a yawning Visitor. Diggory couldn’t be bothered to wake up.

  By the time the painting was finished, at seven, Sophy was half asleep, only conscious of delicious warmth and rightness, as Alizarin collapsed beside her.

  Alizarin in turn felt incredible peace, not just the happiness of producing something he knew was good, but also because Sophy was like summer rain. She would drift through the leaves, reaching plants never watered before, making everything blossom, even sad, uptight, bad-tempered Alizarin.

  They were woken around nine by Jonathan, curls wet from the shower, hot from his night on several tiles. Slightly defensive, he had brought croissants and Sancerre, nicked from Geraldine’s fridge, as a peace offering. He was amazed not to be chewed out for being so late. He was then decidedly jolted by the extraordinary beauty and rare tenderness of Alizarin’s portrait.

  ‘It’s awesome,’ he said slowly, ‘flooded with inner light, like one of Mum’s crossed with Renoir. Visitor is the only thing you’ve painted with as much affection. Fucking marvellous. He’s got you, Sophy.’ He ruffled Sophy’s hair.

  Sophy wept when she finally looked at it. She had expected eyes in the middle of her tummy, cubes and triangles, rampant ginger pubes, but Alizarin had made her look absolutely gorgeous, a radiant contemporary Venus with a pink plastic grip comb just containing her gold waterfall of hair and a plaster on her plump leg, celebrating her size rather than hiding it.

  ‘It’s the loveliest compliment I’ll ever be paid, thank you so much.’ And she stood on tiptoe to kiss Alizarin’s stubbly jaw.

  Jonathan yawned. He looked so beautiful, even first thing in the morning, thought Sophy, with just the right shadows under his eyes. But suddenly she felt he’d only been painted by the pupils, whereas Alizarin’s strength and ruggedness was the real Raphael.

  Surreptitiously she retrieved the watercolour of Visitor from the waste-paper basket and put it in her bag.

  ‘How was Dame Hermione?’ asked Alizarin.

  ‘Ghastly. I stopped her yakking by telling her her face looked most beautiful in repose, when she left her lips together like two lovers asleep on top of each other.’

  Sophy caught Alizarin’s eye and blushed. She felt sick as Jonathan signed the canvas. Then he said airily, ‘Abdul’s flying out at midday, I’d better take it round at once. It’s so effing marvellous, I ought to charge him ten times as much. How the hell did you get her left boob to fall like that?’

  ‘Paint’s still wet,’ snapped Alizarin disapprovingly.

  ‘So’s Sophy.’ Jonathan slid a sly hand between her legs. ‘Christ, you are too,’ th
en, as Sophy leapt away and Alizarin winced, he added, not even bothering to lower his voice, ‘Keep yourself warm, darling, I won’t be long.’

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ said Alizarin bleakly.

  Sophy was appalled how desolate she felt that both her intimacy with Alizarin and the beautiful painting should disappear so fast.

  ‘Sweet, isn’t she?’ said Jonathan as he and Alizarinwalked towards the dirty Ferrari and the ancient van.

  ‘Far too sweet for you,’ growled Alizarin.

  ‘At least she’s not sexually out of bounds.’

  ‘Whadya mean?’

  ‘Didn’t she tell you? She’s the Green-Eyed Monster’s sister.’

  As Alizarin drove off with a succession of bangs, a smoking exhaust and Visitor grinning in the passenger seat, Jonathan reflected it was time his brother bought a new car. He must hand Alizarin’s cut from Sophy’s portrait over to him at once. Then he started wondering how he could make his portrait of Dame Hermione even more radiant without throttling her, and forgot all about the money.

  Jonathan, who was basically good-hearted, returned later to the loft to find Sophy, tidying up as best she could, had unearthed the corkscrew.

  ‘You are an angel. Let’s have a drink. What d’you think of my brother?’

  ‘Gorgeous – and a genius.’

  ‘That too. Alas, he won’t compromise. No-one works harder to less effect. Mind you, if he made any money he’d give it away.’

  ‘He loves his students.’

  ‘And they absolutely revere him. Although even they find him a bit left wing. Big Al’s very politically erect, he could never get it up for a Tory.’

  Sophy laughed and accepted a glass of red.

  ‘Er – has he ever been married?’

  Jonathan explained about Jupiter stealing Hanna from Alizarin.

  ‘The worst part was that Hanna was pregnant with Alizarin’s child, who would be about six now. Jupiter, who’s a shit, made her have an abortion. Al’s still hopelessly in love with her. I doubt if there’ll ever be anyone else.’

  Jonathan had picked up the Evening Standard, turning to the arts pages. Looking up a moment later he saw Sophy was crying. Embarrassed to say she was miserable she’d probably never see Alizarin again – how fatuous to fall in love in twelve hours – Sophy confessed things were hell at home.

  ‘Bloody Emo appears to have dumped us. Daddy’s drinking and cab-driving, Mummy cries whenever Daddy’s out, and she’s lost her job in the pub, because she kept giving the punters whisky and tonic.’

  Sophy also didn’t add that she should be handing over her wages to pay bills rather than blueing it on smoked salmon and white wine for Jonathan. Jonathan, who’d just been paid in cash by an ecstatic Abdul, forced another £500 on Sophy as a modelling fee and said he’d see what he could do.

  After she’d gone, he rang Raymond and explained the Cartwrights were devastated at losing Emerald. Raymond, even more good hearted than Jonathan, had a brain wave. He and Anthea were planning a twenty-sixth birthday party for Emerald on 7 July, to make up for all the birthdays she’d missed with them. Why didn’t they ask the Cartwrights: Ian, Patience and Sophy – he’d just have to square it with Anthea.

  Anthea, to his amazement, was wild about the idea. What a wonderful chance to show off and upstage.

  ‘But just in case the Cartwrights are, well, rather humble – after all he drives minicabs and she works in a pub,’ she suggested, ‘why don’t we have an intimate little dinner, instead of a big do, which might faze them.

  Just ask the Pulboroughs and us, so all the families can get to know each other.’

  Emerald had already dismissively let slip that at parties in Yorkshire Patience had always done the cooking: ‘Just plonking baked potatoes and saucepans of bubbling rabbit stew on the kitchen table, and telling everyone to get pissed and on with it.’

  In a frenzy of competitiveness, Anthea announced she would cook for Emerald’s birthday party.

  ‘We must make a note to have a large high tea beforehand,’ Jonathan told Sienna, ‘I gather it’s black tie.’

  ‘Black eye more likely. Someone’s bound to punch someone.’

  ‘I wonder if her sinister boyfriend will make it.’

  ‘He promised to be back for her birthday.’

  Emerald, meanwhile, had been getting her size three feet under the table at Foxes Court. She had returned to the flat in Shepherd’s Bush only to shudder at its squalor and seediness and to pillage photographs of herself at all ages to show Anthea and Raymond. Out of embarrassment and defiance, she had picked a time when the family were all out working.

  Raymond, far more interested in the photographs than Anthea, found a lovely art deco tortoiseshell frame for the most beautiful and placed it proudly among the family snaps on the big table in the drawing room. The Belvedon children were furious and kept shoving it to the back.

  Raymond had already made a list of rich and famous people for Emerald to sculpt for her exhibition next year. He had also started converting one of the barns into a studio for her and had bought her a new car.

  Emerald had in addition become a mini-celebrity, asked to open the village fête, to take part in a photo shoot for Tatler and appear on Richard and Judy. The press rang constantly for interviews. Smart locals, out of spite because they disliked Anthea intensely, kept asking her to dinner. Emerald consequently grew more and more uppity.

  Raymond was enchanted and kept quoting Tennyson: ‘A rosebud set with little wilful thorns, As sweet as English air could make her.’

  Anthea was not pleased. Twenty-six years ago, she’d given up a cuddly little bundle, who’d grown into a critical and opinionated young woman.

  Everyone in the household was affected. Dicky, having said: ‘Yuk, another sister,’ was now swooning with first love. Dora, accustomed to being the rosy-cheeked apple of her parents’ eye, bitterly resented them not having time for her any more. Anthea in particular had not forgiven Dora for calling her a ‘slapper’ in the Mail.

  ‘Daddy’s going to give Emerald a one-man show,’ Dora told Aunt Lily furiously. ‘Don’t think one man would be enough for her.’

  Poor Hanna in particular was utterly miserable. As well as painting flowers, she had before she was married been a successful illustrator of children’s books. This, Jupiter had felt, was the ideal career for a politician’s wife: something lucrative and creative which could be done from home.

  In the past, because he had refused to leave her in the country near Alizarin, Hanna had had to pile everything into the Volvo on Sunday nights and exhaust herself looking after Jupiter, accompanying him to meetings, endlessly entertaining clients and politicians and never having enough time to paint.

  How often had she in those days thought longingly of her life before she was married, when she had her own lovely flat, a job she adored, an excellent income (Jupiter, needing vast funds to take over the Tory Party, kept her very short) and half London including Alizarin in love with her?

  Now all Hanna could think about was of a time, before Emerald rolled up, when she’d been convinced, even if he treated her harshly, that her husband loved her.

  Shopping listlessly in Searston, she passed a second-hand bookshop with a poster in the window:

  ‘Marry a wife and you’ll be happy for a week.

  Kill a pig and you’ll be happy for a month.

  Plan a garden and you’ll be happy for ever.’

  And she burst into tears.

  Alizarin, angry that Hanna was unhappy, watched Emerald with increasing disapproval. Sienna smouldered with resentment. Raymond had never offered to convert a barn for her. But when she raged against Emerald to Aunt Lily, Lily had fairly pointed out that Emerald was clearly still confused about her identity. When Raymond had rung from the gallery to say he’d sold one of her heads, Emerald had burst into tears like Hanna and, saying: ‘I must ring Mummy,’ had promptly called Patience.

  Anthea had been furious about this and got subt
le revenge by repeatedly asking Emerald if she had heard from Zac, suggesting they had better think of some other man to ask on 7 July, in case Zac didn’t show up.

  Next door at the Old Rectory, Rosemary Pulborough, who had not expected to be invited to her husband’s little dinner for Si Greenbridge, was still harbouring dark suspicions that Emerald could be David’s child.

  Rosemary had been half relieved when Galena had died, because she’d had such a hold over David, but she’d infinitely preferred Galena’s reign to Anthea’s. Galena had been great fun. She, Lily and Rosemary had had merry suppers together, and Galena had never humiliated nor sidelined her.

  Rosemary remembered David going ashen that October morning nearly twenty-six years ago, when a tear-stained Raymond had stumbled round to the Old Rectory announcing that everything was going to be all right because Anthea was on her way.

  And from that day, Anthea had never stopped tormenting Rosemary, subtly putting her down, letting her know that David had confided some secret, praising everything he did, but quite unable to acknowledge any of Rosemary’s achievements: whether it was the brilliant marriage made by her daughter Melanie, or the snowdrop she had propagated in Galena’s memory which had won first prize at the Chelsea Flower Show.

  Rosemary, however, was planning her revenge. She had recently been appointed Chairman of the Limesbridge Improvement Society and held her first meeting at the Old Rectory on the afternoon of the third Thursday in June. This was packed out because everyone was not only dying to see Rosemary’s newly decorated kitchen but also how Lady Belvedon was looking after her skeleton-outing in the press. Radiantly complacent was the answer.

  Anthea arrived early and found the new kitchen something else to disapprove of. How could Rosemary have made it so messy so quickly? Look at all that garlic, onions, herbs and lavender hanging from the beams, those ragged recipe and gardening books all jumbled together, those piles of papers and photos of cats and children and all those vases of wild flowers on the table.