by Jilly Cooper
‘He’s flogging it – in an Old Masters’ sale in July. Sienna . . . Sienna.’
But she had plunged fully dressed into the icy water, vanishing beneath the leaves. For a moment David thought she wasn’t coming up. Perhaps he’d better leap in and hoick her out – good excuse for a grope. But Sienna had emerged, paler than Ophelia, algae greening her hair, murder in her eyes.
‘Bastard! Traitor! So much for recapturing his past. From the start, he and Si were in it for the money.’
Rosemary stayed away from the funeral, pretending she’d got flu, still devastated by the misfortune she’d brought on the Belvedons. Emerald didn’t go, for the same reason. If it hadn’t been for her, they’d never have lost the Raphael, nor been faced by this vast bill for costs, and an utterly stressed-out Raymond would be alive today.
She felt even guiltier when she learnt about the will. Having already made over Foxes Court and its contents to Jupiter, Raymond had also left him the gallery as well on condition that he provided for Anthea, Dicky and Dora. Raymond had also given Lily her house, £100,000 each to Sienna and Jonathan, £200,000 to Alizarin because of his blindness, £50,000 apiece to Dicky, Dora and Emerald and £5,000 each to the Robenses, Knightie and Eddie the packer. Far too much, in Jupiter’s mind. How the hell would he keep Anthea in hats and Dora in ponies?
Emerald meanwhile was having no success in getting over Jonathan. How could she when his doings were constantly in the papers, particularly his glorious outburst at Raymond’s funeral?
As Raymond had left her so much, she was even more determined to give something back to the Belvedons. She was therefore delighted and relieved when, having shown her portfolio and ideas to the Borochova Memorial judges, out of hundreds of entries, she had been shortlisted. Along with three others, she now had to produce a suitable maquette – or little model – by late June. The winner, to be announced on 6 July, would then complete the sculpture.
Seeing Emerald working night and day, Patience was equally amazed by the change in her daughter. Compared with Sienna, who was now so chic and glamorous, Emerald would go for days without bothering with make-up, hardly running a comb through her hair. Apart from the occasional flare of temper, she was also so quiet and sad.
Both Rosemary and Lily had been marvellous, helping her with photographs and tales about Galena. If the submission day had been a few months later, observed Lily, Emerald would have been able to read Galena’s diaries, which, locked in a drawer at River Cottage, were ticking away like a timebomb, only to be opened in October 2000.
In early June, Emerald had a particularly bad day. It was muggy and baking hot in London. On a rickety table in her bedroom, she was trying to sculpt Shrimpy, Galena’s little Jack Russell, which made her cry because it reminded her of Diggory and Jonathan. Next door her mother and father were glued to the European Cup. Portugal was playing and the gorgeous Portuguese players, with their dishevelled curls, big rolling eyes, mobile features and mock-serious ways of crossing themselves before they bounded onto the pitch, were so like Jonathan, it made her cry even more.
‘Telephone for you, darling,’ called her mother.
It was David Pulborough, his voice smooth as white chocolate pouring out of a vat.
‘My dear, sorry we didn’t have time to chat the other day. The Memorial Committee simply adored your portfolio. Thought I could give you a few pointers. How about a bite of supper tomorrow?’
And a chance to hear news of Jonathan, thought Emerald.
‘Oh yes, please.’
‘Prince Igor’s at eight o’clock then.’
The following night was even hotter and stickier. Even though the waiters at Prince Igor’s had been allowed to take off their satin embroidered waistcoats, their white muslin shirts already clung to their bodies. David had reserved a table in an alcove partly concealed by a large bamboo plant.
At first Emerald was touched by his kindness as he filled her up with white wine, ordered her a tiny helping of gulls’ eggs and shredded pigeon salad, to be followed by poached salmon. But he sat much too close to her on the red velvet banquette, which scratched the bare undersides of her thighs, and talked so grandiosely about himself, how he was advising Derry, Cherie and Tony and how last Friday he’d dined next to the Princess Royal: ‘a tireless worker for good causes like myself.’
He would be happy to represent Emerald, he went on, and was definitely going to put in a good word for her in the competition, but she needed proper advice if she were going to fly. To punctuate this monologue David kept putting hot hands on her bare arms and thighs, or brushing her breasts with his arm.
‘You’ve broken one heart besides mine,’ he teased. ‘Casey Andrews longs to paint you. He’s been captivated by your beauty since he met you at Raymond’s party. Will you sit for him?’
‘He’s a terrible lech,’ protested Emerald. ‘Jonathan says he puts girls on a revolving podium and crawls round gazing up their skirts.’
‘But think of the kudos,’ urged David. ‘It would be a terrific career move. I’ve just firmed up a big exhibition for him at the Tate next year. Imagine if your portrait were included. We could simultaneously put on a little show of your heads at the gallery. I’ll come to every sitting and chaperone you, how about that?’
David crinkled his eyes engagingly, and was just giving her bottom an encouraging squeeze, when Emerald said, ‘Oh, look, there’s another of the judges. Will she think it unethical we’re having dinner together?’
Geraldine clearly did and shot across the restaurant.
‘Hello, David, hello, “Rosemary”,’ she said sourly, ‘I hope he’s not giving away secrets,’ then flounced off to join her party at a nearby table. If I mixed purple lake with alizarin crimson I could just about capture the colour of David’s face, thought Emerald.
‘What was that about?’ she asked.
‘Must have got the wrong end of the stick,’ stuttered David, ‘and thought I was dining with Rosemary.’
Emerald took a deep breath which pushed out her enticingly high round breasts.
‘How’s Jonathan?’
‘Fine, I think.’
‘What’s he working on?’
‘New ideas.’
No need to tell Emerald that the little snake had sent an e-mail that very morning, saying he no longer wanted to be represented by a pompous crook. David had been tempted to pass the e-mail on to his solicitor.
‘Like to come back to the gallery and see them?’ he asked.
‘Oh, please.’
Shoving a £50 note into the hands of the waiter who had just arrived with two plates of poached salmon, muttering he’d settle up tomorrow, David whisked Emerald out of the restaurant. Anything to get away from Geraldine, peering slit-eyed through the bamboo like approaching Vietcong.
Emerald was jolted to be in Cork Street. Across the road in darkness, except for one of Joan Bideford’s outrageous lit-up nude sculptures in the window, was the Belvedon. She was so upset, she didn’t notice David slapping on Paco Rabanne and smoothing his hair in the underside of an Ella Fitzgerald CD, before slipping it into the CD player.
Pop went a cork, flying out of a very cheap bottle of sparkling wine.
‘“I have dreamt that your arms are lovely,”’ sang Ella.
‘I’ve got something to show you,’ called David from the back office.
Wandering in, Emerald found a splendid white sofa piled with mauve and dark purple cushions. On the desk, beside a very flattering silver-framed photograph of David in his High Sheriff’s uniform, and a pile of faxes and transparencies, was the most charming unframed little watercolour of Shepherd’s Bush meadows.
‘Vintage bubbly for a fair lady.’ David handed her a glass. ‘And an early Turner for your delectation.’
‘It’s beautiful.’ Emerald bent over the picture.
‘Changed a bit, hasn’t it? Can you work out where your parents’ flat might have been?’
Feeling his hot breath on her neck, and his
body pressed against hers, Emerald asked hastily if she could see Jonathan’s stuff, hoping it would include some of the portraits of herself in Vienna.
‘I’ll get it out,’ promised David prophetically as he disappeared through a second door into the stock room.
‘Sorry,’ he cried unrepentantly a minute later, ‘must have left Jonathan’s canvasses down at Limesbridge. Got something much more exciting to show you.’
Swinging round, Emerald shrieked, for David was wearing nothing but a rainbow-striped condom.
Remembering Jonathan’s professed loathing of condoms: ‘It’s like washing your feet with your socks on,’ she burst out laughing.
Interpreting this as approval, David was on top of her – oh that scent of violets, oh that soft white skin. One hand expertly unhooked her bra, the other scuttled like a tarantula up her thighs.
‘I love Jonathan,’ screamed Emerald, as David’s warm wet lips came down on hers. Falling backwards, she sent trannies, Polaroids, faxes, watercolours flying.
‘You’re too good for him.’ David whipped off her scarlet knickers. She’s as tiny as her mother, he thought excitedly as he explored further. ‘You need an older man to guide and cherish you.’
Emerald lost her temper.
‘Get off, you disgusting creep,’ she yelled, shoving him violently away.
For a moment David’s portly body barred her exit, but as she took a run and hurled herself against him, he gave way like a warped door and she fled out into Cork Street.
Unable to face another night alone at Foxes Court, Anthea had been to the theatre and supper with a sympathetic girlfriend, before returning to the flat in Duke Street, St James’s. As she always seemed to be cold these days, she’d just had a hot bath. This part of town always reminded her of first meeting David and the half-hours they always managed to snatch together. Now he was continually busy. Sadly she looked across at St James’s Park. The blossom had gone, giving way to the uniform green of summer. Jupiter’ll be selling this place next, she thought fretfully.
Some drunk was leaning on the doorbell. On and on, now in fits and starts, growing more frantic. Anthea would have been spooked if it weren’t for Gubbins the porter.
When she finally picked up the telephone, it was several minutes before she could identify a name from the hysterical sobbing. When Emerald finally fell into the flat, her lipstick was smeared, her floral dress ripped. David, she wept, had made the most ferocious pass. But she seemed far more upset over the loss of her purple pashmina, given her by Sophy, who could ill afford it, and a little black sequinned bag, which had been a present from Jonathan.
‘If David starts using my cheques they’ll bounce.’
At first Emerald was touched by her mother’s fury.
‘The beast, the brute, in fact the bastard,’ raged Anthea.
Having found desperately shivering Emerald a thick jersey, she made her a cup of cocoa. Emerald hadn’t the heart to ask for a stiff drink.
‘Did he – er – did he – put his thingy inside you?’
‘No, no.’
The last time she was here, Emerald remembered, was when the DNA tests proved she was Raymond’s daughter and could never marry Jonathan. A revelation so terrible, nothing afterwards, not even a pouncing David, could really dent her for long.
Anthea was pacing up and down, her suddenly aged face an ugly contrast to the spring flowers on her cotton dressing gown. Outside large cranes hung over St James’s Park like malignant birds. In the distance, Big Ben reared up like a floodlit sugar-sifter.
‘Now Sir Raymond has passed away,’ muttered Anthea, who was shaking worse than her daughter, ‘there’s something I must tell you. Try not to hate me.’
Oh God, what new evils are going to fly out of Pandora’s Box? wondered Emerald. That was such a sweet photograph of Jonathan going off to prep school in a cap and short trousers, she might try and nick it before she left.
‘When I first went to work at the Belvedon,’ a still pacing Anthea was saying, ‘I worshipped Raymond, he was so caring and such a gentleman. Then David came back from his honeymoon, all tanned and handsome in his lovely sports car. I fell for him laike a log. I simply couldn’t help myself. After Galena made Raymond sack me, I discovered I was pregnant with you . . .’ Automatically Anthea ran a finger over a Dresden shepherdess checking for dust. ‘I was convinced you were David’s baby. David accepted this and paid for everything, hospital bills, accommodation, on condition no-one found out and I gave you up. I thought he’d relent once you were born, but he was so petrified of Rosemary and Raymond finding out, and losing his new wealth and his nice job.
‘When I gave you up the pain was so terrible, I thought it would blot out the agony of David not marryin’ me, but it didn’t.’ Anthea hung her head. ‘I married Raymond because he was so safe.’
‘And you went on having an affaire with David?’
‘Yes, yes,’ whispered Anthea.
‘Poor Raymond, poor Rosemary,’ said Emerald in bewilderment.
‘Rosemary should have made more of herself,’ snapped Anthea. As the green flame of jealousy hissed out of the damp log, Emerald couldn’t help smiling.
‘Raymond wasn’t very exciting in bed,’ confided Anthea, ‘but David was such a wonderful, imaginative lover . . .’ Then, seeing Emerald shudder: ‘Well Ay thought so. He always knew the right buttons.’
Like an ace casting director for Cinderella, thought Emerald, fighting hysterical laughter. She was getting as silly as Jonathan.
‘When you rolled up with Zac’ – Anthea was frantically straightening coloured paperweights – ‘I couldn’t bear to be reminded of the terrible unhappiness of giving you up, and I was petrified . . .’
‘David would flip.’
‘Yes. I feel so ashamed. At our silver wedding party I thought only of myself, panicking and fibbing to Raymond that he was your father then biting my nails through the summer. The biggest shock was the DNA result.’
To her amazement, Emerald was smiling.
‘David must have had kittens.’
‘He did. He’ll never forgive me, and you know’ – Anthea looked up in amazement – ‘I suddenly don’t care.’
‘Hurrah!’ cried Emerald. ‘I’d have behaved exactly the same. I only dined with David tonight,’ she confessed, ‘hoping for news of Jonathan. What I could never understand was why you hadn’t told Raymond I was his, but if you were convinced I was David’s, it all falls into place.
‘Poor Anthea.’ She put an arm round her mother’s heaving little shoulders. ‘What a nightmare it’s been for you.’
‘I hated living a lie,’ sniffed Anthea.
‘Can we have a huge proper drink to celebrate?’
‘Do let’s, there’s some brandy and an untouched bottle of crème de menthe Raymond gave me for Christmas.’
Since it was true confession time, Emerald took a deep breath and told Anthea about sculpting the maquette of Galena.
‘I really need your help, now I’ve got into the last four.’
Anthea, to her amazement, was thrilled.
‘There are some of her clothes in the dressing-up box at Foxes Court, so we can get her measurements right, and lots of photos. There might even be some here. She was quite fat, you know.’
After that there was so much to talk about that a pink dawn gatecrashed the party just as the crème de menthe ran out.
‘Let’s have some breakfast.’ Anthea cannoned off a William and Mary winged chair as she tottered towards the kitchen. ‘The moment the Pulborough opens, Ay’m going round to sort out that rotter.’
Anthea found the Pulborough in uproar. Arriving earlier, David had been unable to find his Turner of Shepherd’s Bush and was furiously accusing his son Barney, his assistant Zoe, his cleaner Marlene and the office cat of stealing it.
Most of Cork Street, in order to listen, were rubbing non-existent smears off the insides of their front windows. Jupiter, Tamzin and Eddie the packer were all busily dusti
ng Joan Bideford’s nude.
‘You always complain if the bins aren’t emptied first thing, Mr P.,’ Marlene the cleaner was now protesting.
‘Here comes the US Cavalry,’ murmured Jupiter as Anthea came storming up Cork Street.
‘How dare you try and rape my daughter, you rotten swayne,’ she screamed, rushing into the Pulborough.
Whereupon most of Cork Street decided their outside windows needed cleaning.
‘Ay’ve come to collect her pashmina.’ Anthea snatched it back from a disappointed Zoe. ‘And her new handbag’ – Anthea grabbed that from an even more disappointed Barney – ‘and her scarlet panties, which you tore off her, you scoundrel. How could you abuse a young woman’s trust?’
‘Is this what you’re looking for, Mr P.? Must have fallen into the waste-paper basket,’ interrupted Marlene. From one finger and thumb were suspended Emerald’s red knickers; from the other, marinaded in pot noodles and bilberry yoghurt, hung the Turner of Shepherd’s Bush.
Soon after Raymond’s funeral, a big piece had appeared in the Evening Standard saying how delighted Sotheby’s were to be including the Raphael Pandora in their Old Masters sale on 6 July. This was not entirely true. Having seen glamorous photographs of Zac all over the papers during the court case, Sotheby’s staff were understandably excited when he asked them to sell his picture.
Alas, they soon discovered Zac was not as other Jewish heirs who sought their help in selling restituted art. These tended to be fragile, a little bewildered and touchingly grateful for any advice, free valuations and help with research. They were only parting with this infinitely precious part of their past because there was no other way they could pay the massive legal bills or because a Monet or a Sisley cannot physically be divided between five grandchildren. These heirs also spoke of their picture with such pride and longing, praying, like a single mother giving up a beautiful baby for adoption, that it would go to a loving, appreciative home.
Zac, by contrast, seemed only interested in making as much money as quickly as possible and showed no affection for the Raphael at all. From the start, he insisted on a terrifyingly high reserve of £15 million and that the picture must go into the sale on 6 July.
