by Jilly Cooper
‘I’m so ashamed,’ muttered Jupiter. ‘Because he wasn’t with Hanna, I feel as though a great poisoned thorn has been tugged out of my side and I can love him again.’
He and Sophy were less euphoric a few days later when tests proved that Alizarin had a dangerous and very rare tumour, known as Norfolk’s Disease, which was pressing increasingly on his brain and the optic nerve. Doctors knew very little about the condition.
‘His best hope,’ Gordon Pritchard admitted privately to Jupiter, ‘would be an operation in the States, which would cost a fortune.’
The truth could probably be kept from Raymond, reflected Jupiter, but Alizarin was too intelligent and tuned into people’s voices ever to be fobbed off with lies. This made it even more important to make his exhibition a success.
With the private view scheduled for 15 February, Jupiter had just over a month to get things organized. Tipped off by Mrs Robens when Anthea and Raymond would be away, he drove Sophy and the gallery van down to Limesbridge. Crossing the bridge, he could see Foxes Court behind its prison bars of leafless trees – a frequent subject of his mother’s paintings. Had Hanna felt as trapped? The house would be his once Raymond died, but what would be the point without Hanna to share it?
His desolation increased as they passed the Lodge. In the front garden, the nettles had been replaced by neatly edged beds and a wheelbarrow planted with mauve and yellow pansies. Net curtains twitched behind a Tory poster. Alizarin would have gone ballistic. Jupiter felt even more guilty at chucking him out.
With renewed determination he and Sophy were soon dragging canvasses, often mildewed and escaping from their stretchers, from packing chests, barns, potting sheds, and outside lavatories. Having loaded these, they raided the attic, finding earlier pictures, not just of out-of-work miners and shipbuilders, but of dogs and children, even tennis parties, which had somehow escaped Anthea’s skips.
‘Thank God she’s frightened of spiders and seldom comes up here,’ said Jupiter.
‘Who’s this? She’s beautiful,’ sighed Sophy, as from behind a headless rocking horse she dragged a ravishing nude with her blond pubes cut in the shape of a heart. Then she blushed furiously, realizing it was Hanna.
Jupiter’s face was expressionless as he examined the picture.
‘When did you get married?’ stammered Sophy.
‘Ninety-four.’ Then, after a long pause: ‘You can date it by Alizarin’s paintings. They get steadily darker, no more industrial landscapes, just an obsessive catalogue of disaster, atrocity piled on atrocity.’
Hearing a step on the stairs, Jupiter glanced at his watch. He didn’t want to bump into Anthea. But it was Dora, full of plans for a Labrador puppy, which she could look after until Alizarin needed it as a guide dog.
‘What I really came to say,’ she went on, ‘is that Dicky’s seriously broke, so why don’t you put Upside-Down Camels into the exhibition?’
The next few weeks, when Sophy wasn’t teaching, were spent shooting out invitations and press releases, proofreading a makeshift catalogue, framing, hanging, lighting and visiting Alizarin who, because he refused to let the family pay for a private room, was now in a public ward full of eye diseases and the aftermath of dreadful operations. Locked away in darkness, the noise must have been driving him crazy.
Nor did he seem remotely roused out of his despair by the prospect of an exhibition, which would not sell enough pictures to pay for the operation. Aware that he had lowered his guard, clinging to Sophy the morning she and Jupiter found him, he was dauntingly offhand when she rolled up to read him the Guardian, bearing quiches rather badly baked by Patience and freesias he could smell if not see. She would have stopped coming if Alizarin’s favourite nurse, black Molly Malone, hadn’t confided how much he looked forward to her visits.
‘“Where is Sophy?” he demand all day.’
The story of Alizarin’s sleeping rough had reached the papers. His homeless friends around Charlotte Street did extremely well giving interviews about the Tender Toff. Dora also cleaned up. The Sun, much beguiled by her stories of Visitor’s body being flown home ‘just like Princess Diana’s’ in Rupert Campbell-Black’s helicopter, promised to give her a chocolate Labrador puppy the moment Anthea’s back was turned.
Although Alizarin’s story was rather overshadowed by a by-election and the coming out of a rock star, it had not been good for the Belvedons’ image. Not only did they harbour suspect Raphaels, but neglected their own.
Meanwhile, there was an exciting development in Hoxton. Jonathan’s seedy friend, Trafford, who was now the protégé of Geraldine Paxton, had just landed himself the £20,000 Whistler Prize for Shagpile. This was an eight-foot tower of male nudes engaged in the sex act, plugged into each other like Lego, which those ‘in the loop’ thought both ‘pivotal’ and ‘challenging’. There was even talk of a board game.
Although Trafford, according to Jonathan, would be willing to service a musk ox, he didn’t like Geraldine – old Needy in Toyboy Land – and yearned for the long, ringed and studded white body of Sienna Belvedon. Even more, he missed the high jinks he had enjoyed with her brother Jonathan, who was far too devastated he couldn’t marry Emerald to come home from Vienna.
One morning in late November, Trafford had taken a call for Jonathan from Abdul Karamagi. The Saudi was still so enraptured with the nude which he believed Jonathan had painted of Sophy that he wanted to fly Jonathan out to the Middle East on his private jet to paint his favourite stallion for a seven-figure sum.
Having cosily explained that Jonathan had gone permanently abroad, Trafford accepted the commission. He was also convinced that he had earned his fee. Abdul’s stallion was even rattier than Jonathan before he left for Vienna. Trafford, nevertheless, felt guilty enough to persuade Abdul, who longed for recognition as a discerning collector, to enter Sophy of Shepherd’s Bush, as the nude was now known, for the British Portrait Awards.
At the beginning of January, Trafford and a troupe of Jonathan’s cronies (none of whom had any idea Alizarin was the artist) collected the nude from Abdul’s house and delivered it to the British Portrait Museum in Gower Street. The winner of the £25,000 prize would be announced at a big dinner at the Dorchester on Valentine’s Day.
‘No-one’s to tell Jonathan,’ ordered Trafford, ‘then he won’t be choked if he doesn’t win.’
Also among the 700 entries was one of Alizarin’s portraits of Visitor, which Dicky and Dora had submitted as a joke.
The Awards themselves were sponsored by Doggie Dins Petfoods, whose chairman, Kevin Coley, had recently become a Labour peer. Having failed to grapple his way up the social scale through show-jumping or polo sponsorship, Lord Coley had turned in the Eighties to art and, with the help of Raymond’s eye, had built up a fine collection of pictures.
David Pulborough and Geraldine Paxton, both avid to snatch Lord Coley’s custom from Raymond, were on his judges’ panel. They spent their time manipulating the other judges, on the premise that they were ‘the experts’, and enjoying several excellent lunches together on expenses. Naturally they wanted Jonathan to win because he was a Pulborough gallery artist, but after the bollocking he’d received in October, Jonathan was refusing to answer David’s calls.
David was also furious when he saw the magnificent nude of Sophy. Jonathan had yet again failed to pass on the commission on the fat fee that Abdul must have paid him. This, however, could be rectified once Jonathan had been lured home to receive the first prize.
The other judges had already spent two days in the museum boardroom, drinking coffee, eating ridged fawn biscuits, getting on each other’s nerves, and sulkily being bullied into shortlisting four of David’s artists, including Jonathan and Casey, when yet another judge rolled up. This was Casey Andrews’s ex-wife, Joan Bideford, who’d been delayed by a freak snowstorm in Peru. Wearing a charcoal-grey suit and a Guards’ tie, roaring like a sergeant major that the entire panel was in need of a decent optician to have selected such junk,
Joan chucked out three of the Pulborough artists, including her ex’s oil of Margaret Jay.
‘Gather you’ve taken on the old bugger,’ she bellowed at David. ‘You’ll regret it.’
The only entries that were worth a toffee, she went on, were Daisy France-Lynch’s portrait of Tabitha Rannaldini, Jonathan’s nude of Sophy and Alizarin’s painting of Visitor.
Kevin Coley was enchanted. Like Joan Bideford, he loved pretty women, and had bought many of Joan’s erotic nudes in the past which had rocketed in value. He trusted her opinion and longed for a wonderful dog portrait to win. He could then put Visitor’s beaming face on every tin of Doggie Dins. The rest of the judges agreed, except for David and Geraldine – the experts – who said Visitor wouldn’t dignify the competition.
‘And the dog has just passed away in rather tragic circumstances,’ said Geraldine quietly. ‘It wouldn’t be available for publicity.’
‘Nor will his master,’ insisted David, ‘chap’s unlikely to paint again.’
‘All the more reason to give it him,’ snorted Joan.
‘How much more on message would be a beautiful plump young woman, with glorious flesh tones,’ urged stick-thin Geraldine. ‘Fat is after all a feminist issue. Jonathan’s nude has greater artistic merit than his brother’s Labrador.’
Joan lit a cigar and took another look at Sophy’s sleepy smile and sand dune curves.
‘Sorry, Kev, Lab’s wonderfully painted but this does have the edge, bursting with energy, staggeringly confident. Never thought Jonathan was capable of such innocent unguarded lyricism.’
Joan mopped her brow. Sophy of Shepherd’s Bush was declared the winner, Visitor the runner-up, with Daisy France-Lynch, who had won last year, in third place. Joan even allowed Casey to be fourth.
‘Then I can watch the vain old tosser’s face when he doesn’t win.’
David was shocked to find himself agreeing with Joan. Casey was getting far too above himself. Geraldine belted off to ring Jonathan in Vienna. Trafford, as a lover, although vigorous, didn’t bathe enough and Jonathan had looked so handsome when he’d rolled up at the Commotion in New York.
In his dingy digs in Vienna, Jonathan had reached rock bottom. The room, which was the size of a whelping kennel, was only furnished with a narrow bed, a wireless, and a hundred canvasses, on which wistful variations of Emerald’s wan, white face gazed at him from different landscapes. He had failed to dig up any dirt which might jeopardize Zac’s claim on the Raphael. Having not sold a thing since the summer, he was flat broke. He was shocked by his jealousy that Trafford had won the Whistler and become a media star.
Deciding not to buy a litre of whisky and get plastered because his rent was due tomorrow, Jonathan switched on the radio. The Vienna Phil were about to play Tchaikovsky’s Sixth Symphony.
‘The irony,’ the announcer was saying, ‘is that before Tchaikovsky wrote perhaps his greatest work, he had lost all confidence in himself as a composer. “What I need”, he wrote to his brother Modest, “is to believe in myself again”.’
‘Tchaikovsky et moi,’ sighed Jonathan.
The ascending scale of the opening bassoon solo coincided with the telephone ringing.
‘Jonathan, it’s Geraldine.’
‘Oh, go away.’
‘Don’t be silly. You’ve just won the British Portrait Award, and twenty-five thousand pounds.’
‘What for?’
‘Trafford submitted one of your nudes.’
‘Which one? I’ve done so many.’
Outside there was a rosy blur on the linden trees. One day he wanted a shirt like the purple and white striped crocuses being flattened by the rain.
‘Doggie Dins will pay for your flight home,’ insisted Geraldine.
And I’ll be 800 miles nearer Emerald, thought Jonathan.
‘OK. I’ll come.’
‘Don’t tell anyone you’ve won. The press will only know you’ve been shortlisted.’
Jonathan was fractionally cheered up. Perhaps he wasn’t such a meretricious, forgotten artist after all. The BP Award was hugely prestigious. He hoped Emerald would be proud. It would also give him a chance to see Alizarin.
The ballroom at the Dorchester was packed. The Doggie Dins logo of a jaunty mongrel adorned every menu, and flashed orange and green, like the Cheshire cat, above the platform. The shortlisted portraits would be later shown on a huge monitor. The future High Sheriff hopped from table to table, massaging dinner-jacketed shoulders, caressing bare backs, charming, networking, David the player.
‘I wouldn’t be giving away secrets if I told you the Pulborough’s got the winner.’
News that Jonathan had been shortlisted had been just the tonic Raymond needed. He hadn’t seen his darling boy since October. The Belvedons had therefore taken a front-row table and sod the cost. Anthea, on the other hand, was feeling paranoid. David was still livid she’d let him think he was Emerald’s father. Jupiter, who’d always been so affectionate and supportive, appeared to have gone over to Alizarin’s side. Last time she’d seen Jonathan, he’d called her a whore and stolen her David Shilling hat, and now he’d won a prize, God knew what he might get up to.
Anthea was also irked that on a table to the right, David had annexed most of the Belvedon’s big clients. The newly ennobled Lord Coley, looking like a thatched pig with his brick-red face and brushed-forward grey hair, who’d always made passes at Anthea in the past, was now chatting animatedly to Si Greenbridge and Rosemary Pulborough, who looked irritatingly better than usual in dove-grey chiffon. On Si’s right was frightful Geraldine with even more frightful Trafford next to her. Hopefully Trafford would get drunk and embarrass them all. Anthea had never seen anything so disgusting as Shagpile. And next to Trafford, like a fuchsia barrel, was Kevin’s ghastly wife Enid, who was ecstatic about becoming Lady Coley. She had been dreadfully patronizing towards Anthea as they’d queued to leave their coats.
‘How embarrassing to find your stepson sleepin’ rough in the gutter,’ she had yelled, ‘and what’s this about you havin’ looted art in your attic?’
Everyone had turned round.
Anthea was also livid with Emerald, who’d flatly refused to show up because it would be too agonizing to see Jonathan. Nor was Emerald very happy about Sophy of Shepherd’s Bush.
‘You never told me you’d posed for Jonathan,’ she’d stormed.
‘I sort of forgot,’ mumbled Sophy.
‘Did he sleep with you?’
‘Oh no, no, no,’ lied Sophy, then, truthfully: ‘He was never interested in anyone but you.’
Sophy was worried stiff that Jonathan would be lynched if it leaked out that Alizarin had painted the portrait.
To David, Geraldine and Lord Coley’s consternation, Jonathan’s flight was delayed, and he only reached the Dorchester as the guests were scraping up the last of their mango and ginger ice cream and drifting off for a pee break.
Jonathan, who was wearing Emerald’s blue shirt with his dinner jacket and no cufflinks, was far too nervous to face the family and the agony and the ecstasy if Emerald were with them, so he hovered in a side room, sketching the judges.
Over at David’s table, Lord Coley, talking across dull Rosemary, had been highly gratified by his long chat with Si Greenbridge. You certainly networked when you dined with the Pulboroughs.
Somerford, who didn’t feel that Casey Andrews winning the award was much of a story, and who was looking for a better lead for his column, paused beside Si’s chair.
‘Is it true you’re planning to build a Greenbridge Museum in Detroit?’ he asked. ‘And fill it with works of art for the benefit of the city?’
‘What a wonderfully philanthropic gesture,’ cried Geraldine, ‘I hope I may be allowed to make suggestions.’
‘Bloody good career move, Si,’ grunted Trafford, ‘you’ll be able to launder your dirty money and your murky reputation at the same time.’
‘Trafford!’ thundered a horrified David. Geraldine looked as t
hough she was about to faint, but Si, who seemed in an amazingly good mood, roared with laughter.
‘I’ll remember that remark next time you want me to buy a picture, young man.’
‘Lord Coley and I,’ butted in Lady Coley, who was determined to keep her very big end up, ‘also feel it is our duty to open our collection to the public next year. As yet we cannot decide what to call it.’
‘What about Art Nouveau Riche?’ murmured Trafford, scooping up all the table’s allocation of petits fours and washing them down with a glass of Barsac.
As a roll of drums sent people racing back to their seats, Casey Andrews could be seen combing his beard in anticipation of accepting the award. As the lights dimmed, Rosemary was amazed to feel Si’s huge warm hand closing over hers and the pressure of his iron thigh against her own. Overjoyed but disbelieving (perhaps he was just stretching?), she edged her leg an inch away. Immediately Si’s leg followed.
Geraldine, looking thin and graceful in silver – like the twigs Anthea used to paint at Christmas, thought Jonathan – mounted the rostrum to give away the prizes.
‘My lords’ – big flashing smile at Lord Coley – ‘ladies, and gentlemen, welcome to the tenth British Portrait Awards sponsored so generously by Doggie Dins.’
After that Jonathan couldn’t take in what she was saying.
‘Although we rejected nine-tenths of the send-in, blah, blah, blah, we were struck by the extraordinary skills, blah, blah, blah, keeping figurative painting alive, blah, blah, blah, Lord Coley, whose huge enthusiasm for art brought this competition into being, blah, blah . . .’
Jonathan, who was busy drawing Kevin Coley’s fourth chin, didn’t look up at the monitor as the winning names were flashed up to loud cheers.
‘I have to confess that this was Lord Coley’s favourite,’ shouted Geraldine over the din, as a beaming yellow face appeared on the screen.
‘Visitor!’ gasped Raymond in delight and anguish.
