by Jilly Cooper
‘You’d better read this. I’m breaking the embargo, but your mother would understand.’
What bold, flamboyant writing, thought Jonathan, balancing the diary on Brigadier.
‘September 8th, 1970,’ he read, ‘Raymond and I have had no sex for four months. Thank God for David. At first he was a little lapdog, yapping round my feet, now his warmth, energy and passion have enslaved me. He burrows into my body and my heart.’
‘You were born prematurely at the beginning of April 1971,’ observed Lily drily. ‘Don’t need to be very good at arithmetic to work that one out. They didn’t have calculators in those days. Raymond, like Dicky, could never add up.’
‘Mum and David, wow!’ Jonathan shook his head. ‘When I drew him as Lust, I was spot on.’
‘He had a sort of hedonistic life force that gets away with things again and again, rather like you.’
‘Am I like him?’ asked Jonathan, suddenly appalled.
‘You’re what David should have been. He was clever and charming, but he came from a very rigid, repressed, lower-middle-class background. Stumbling on all the music, books, pictures and beauty at Foxes Court, plus Galena’s arms and Raymond’s uncensorious understanding, he must have felt he’d found Paradise, and was determined never to lose it again.’
‘Dad didn’t love me best because I was so like David?’
‘No, no, because you were lovable.’
‘And you will go on being my aunt?’
‘If you go on bringing round champagne like this.’ Lily patted her nephew’s cheek fondly, then sighed. ‘I don’t want to blacken David’s character, but he has been appallingly treacherous. It was he who tipped Si Greenbridge off about the Raphael.’
‘He didn’t,’ said Jonathan in horror.
‘He’d seen it enough times when he was poking Galena and then Anthea up in the Blue Tower. He described it exactly to Si and said it was in the house. Si told Zac. Zac didn’t trust David and double-checked with Alizarin.’
‘My God, how d’you know all this?’
Lily looked smug.
‘Si’s distraught Rosemary won’t speak to him any more, so he asked me to mediate. Rosemary was desperately worried because she told Si that Raymond had found the Raphael in a château in Bonfleuve. She thinks that lost you all the picture. She didn’t realize that Dirty Dave had already told Si everything.’
‘I don’t believe all this.’ Jonathan clutched his head. ‘Are you trying to tell me Si and Rosemary . . .?’
‘They were’ – Lily emptied the bottle into their glasses – ‘but she’s blown him up, because she thought he was merely sleeping with her to get information.’
‘Dear, dear, everyone seems to have been shagging their brains out except me,’ grumbled Jonathan.
‘Makes a change.’
But Jonathan wasn’t really interested in Si and Rosemary.
‘I need to be sure,’ he said slowly. ‘I daren’t hope. They’ve presumably still got Dad’s DNA profile in Harley Street from when they tested him and Emerald. I’ll just have to trot along there and bung them to speed up the process. Christ, how could David have done that to Dad?’
‘The Judas factor,’ observed Lily. ‘There’s more frisson in betraying best friends – and they are always the ones we want to beat.’
‘I don’t go along with that,’ mused Jonathan, ‘although I’m seriously pissed off Trafford’s got a room in Tate Modern.’
‘A sickroom?’ suggested Lily.
Jonathan laughed; then, after a pause: ‘Was Dad gay?’
‘Slightly,’ admitted Lily. ‘Didn’t do much about it. Like Tennyson’s dog, he hunted in dreams. He was much more hooked on beauty. That’s why he couldn’t bear to part with Pandora and was so mad about David, who was extraordinarily good looking when he first arrived at Foxes Court . . .’
‘And probably why he immediately fell for Emerald,’ said Jonathan.
Over in Shepherd’s Bush, Emerald was finding her maquette the hardest thing she had ever sculpted Trying to capture Galena’s blazing vitality, which never came across in photographs, she chucked out one attempt after another. Leaving herself too little time, she had to stay up all night before submission day, hardening the clay with a blow-drier.
She’d also had terrible trouble getting Shrimpy right, taking every book on Jack Russells out of the library, but Shrimpy still looked like a pig. She even dogsat for a sculptor friend’s Jack Russell puppy over the weekend, but the little terror ran about, chewing her brushes and her shoes and only stayed still when he fell asleep. So in the maquette, Shrimpy flopped down exhausted across Galena’s feet.
In return, the fellow sculptor lent Emerald his estate car for the day and with the maquette laid on foam rubber and cocooned in bubble wrap in the back, she set out to deliver it. The trip down was anguish. She was so tired, she was terrified she might drop off at the wheel – and every deepening green leaf reminded her of Jonathan and darling Raymond, her loving, welcoming father.
There was the church ringed by trees so tall and proud they seemed convinced they were entirely responsible for holding up the sky. She hadn’t visited Limesbridge for nearly a year, and would have delivered the maquette to the village hall and fled, if Anthea hadn’t begged her to give them a preview at Foxes Court.
Having thrust some red roses into Anthea’s hands and nearly dropped the maquette in her nervousness, Emerald unveiled it on the dining-room table.
Oh help, she thought, as Anthea burst into tears, I’ve made Galena too glamorous.
‘I didn’t mean it to hurt you.’
‘You haven’t, it’s so beautiful. Everything: the bluebells, her water jar, the little sleeping dog, the cheesecloth dress, her haughty Slav face held up to the sun . . .’ Anthea skipped excitedly round the table. ‘The straw hat cast aside – she was so untidy. She could be standing there. Raymond would have been so proud.’
‘I couldn’t have done it if you hadn’t dug out all that stuff.’
Mrs Robens bustled in then crossed herself like the Portuguese football players.
‘Heavens, it’s brought her back from the grave.’
Then Emerald froze as Sienna, her traditional enemy, her rival for Jonathan and possibly Zac, wandered in, as usual covered in paint. How would she react to such a subjective interpretation?
To her amazement, Sienna fingered the thick, straight hair and the tilted face in wonder.
‘Christ, it’s miraculous, I feel like I’ve met Mum at last. It’s got to win. It’ll look fantastic in the High Street. Shrimpy’s adorable. You are like so bloody talented.’
Emerald, unbelievably touched and gratified, couldn’t speak. She had never known Sienna enthusiastic.
‘Galena was so strong and beautiful,’ Anthea was now saying wistfully. ‘You can see why Raymond worshipped her.’
Sienna, however, had been wised up by Jonathan about the perfidy of Galena and David. To everyone’s amazement, she suddenly blurted out: ‘Mum was like an absolute cow to Dad. You made him a million times happier.’
‘Why, Sienna.’ Anthea blushed a deeper red than Emerald’s roses. ‘You can’t mean that.’
‘I do seriously. He loved you infinitely more than Mum.’
‘Oh, thank you.’ Anthea, near to tears again, held out a shaking hand. After what seemed an eternity, Sienna reached out and took it.
‘Let’s have a huge drink to wish Emerald good luck,’ she said gruffly.
‘I daren’t drink,’ sighed Emerald, ‘it’s not my car.’
Aware that Anthea and Sienna were embarrassed yet dying to talk, Emerald left immediately, only pausing to put six pale pink lilies on Raymond’s very new grave. Then, on impulse, she divided them, propping three against Galena’s mossy headstone. Having spent so much time agonizing over her rebirth, she had grown very attached to Raymond’s first wife.
Limesbridge was full of tourists taking photographs. After dropping off the maquette, Emerald drove past the site earmark
ed for the memorial, praying she would win, not least because she was absolutely skint. Probate wouldn’t be through for weeks because of the wrangling. She’d spent so much time on Galena, she must get down to the other commissions Raymond had found her. At least her tears would keep the clay wet. I’ve just got to get over Jonathan, she told herself hopelessly.
If only she didn’t have to return to Larkshire next week for the announcement of the winner by ghastly David Pulborough. She hoped their last scuffle wouldn’t totally prejudice him against her. The ceremony was taking place on 6 July, ironically on the eve of her twenty-seventh birthday. How anxious she’d been to be married by then.
The sun was gilding the willows along the river bank as she drove over the bridge. What a bitch she’d been at her last birthday – making sure her parents and Sophy were dressed as she wanted, taking family heirlooms, beautiful dresses and Augustus Johns for granted. She’d also still been besotted by Zac, public enemy number one in the Belvedon household, particularly as the Raphael was coming up at auction on the evening of the 6th.
As Sophy was now blissfully living off Putney Common with Alizarin, both besotted with their new Labrador puppy, the Cartwrights had turned Sophy’s bedroom into a tiny studio for Emerald. Here, as midnight approached on 5 July, she was still up, desperately trying to finish the head of a Cuban heiress in time for the girl’s father’s fiftieth birthday next week. Her back ached, and so did her little hands, which were engrimed with clay as if she’d been scrabbling down a rabbit hole. It was stiflingly hot. Moths crashing against the window made more noise than Patience’s timid knock as she brought her daughter a cup of chocolate.
‘Please go to bed, darling. We must leave by eight-thirty, we’ve got this detour to make on the way. Daddy mustn’t be late.’
Patience was trying not to get too excited that tomorrow Ian had an interview for a bursarship at Bagley Hall, a school in the next county to Larkshire. Perhaps by some miracle she might be able to have a dog and a horse again. But all Patience could really think about was the despair and exhaustion to the point of collapse of her elder daughter.
The 6th of July dawned very hot and beautiful, with not a breath of wind nor a cloud in the sky. After such a rainy summer, the woods seemed to be boiling over more Prussian blue than olive green and the farmers were still haymaking. Patience listened to the clunk of the baling machines as they spewed out vast fawn cotton reels of hay and gazed longingly at glossy horses grazing in every other field.
As they crossed over into Rutshire, and Ian swung the ancient Volvo up a little road called Bagley Hall Lane, Patience smiled at a huge notice in the barley saying: ‘The Countryside is for Life not just for Ramblers’.
How had she existed in London so long? she wondered. Please God, let Ian get this job.
Searston Town Hall slept gold and proud as a lioness in the midday sun. The press, revved up by David and Geraldine, were out in force. Inside the great hall, a splendid room with goddesses gilding the walls and a stage flanked by dark-red velvet curtains, was already packed in anticipation of an exciting result and drinks and canapés afterwards.
As Patience changed into black high heels in the car park, an utterly untogether Emerald noticed for the first time that her mother was looking unusually smart.
‘Lovely dress, Mummy. That blue really suits you.’
‘Can’t let you down on your big day.’ Patience blushed slightly. ‘I thought we might have tea in Bath later and buy you something nice for your birthday. Have a think what you’d like.’
Only Jonathan, thought Emerald.
Inside, she was amazed to find the Belvedons packing the front rows. Alizarin, still in dark glasses although his sight was improving all the time, was actually wearing a tie and Sophy looked adorable in a sort of flowered nightdress. And there in a suit flaunting a large blue rosette and rather self-consciously pressing the flesh, was Jupiter. With him was Hanna, suntanned and stunning in cream silk with her figure back at phenomenal speed, and little Viridian, adorable in a sailor hat, whom Jupiter liked kissing much more than other people’s babies.
Anthea, finally out of black, and equally stunning in Schiaparelli pink with a new crimson-and-white-striped halo hat, was actually giggling with Rosemary Pulborough, whose hair had become softer, blonder and longer, and who looked almost glam in a citrus suit and a terracotta straw boater. Aunt Lily wore her standby, a dashing vermilion Stetson. Even Sienna had washed her hair and put on a skirt.
How embarrassing they were all tarted up and she was only wearing jeans and a purple T-shirt. At least it matched the shadows under her eyes.
‘You’re supposed to look arty,’ said Patience reassuringly.
Then Emerald realized why they were all so smart, as David clanked in in his High Sheriff’s dark-blue velvet and frills.
‘He’s only supposed to wear that fancy dress on ceremonial occasions,’ fumed Lily.
‘Good luck, Emerald,’ called out Mr and Mrs Robens and Knightie, who were sitting in an excited row with the landlord of the Goat in Boots, and who all agreed the poor lamb was looking dreadfully peaky.
‘We’re rooting for a Belvedon victory,’ boomed General Anaesthetic. Green Jean perched at the end of the row, waiting to disapprove.
Biting her lip to hide her disappointment that Jonathan hadn’t shown up, Emerald looked so small and vulnerable as she took her seat between huge leering Casey and massive Joan Bideford, who both knew they’d won. Beyond Casey, the fourth finalist, a sleek Indian called Ranjit Chitajan, sat with his eyes closed, praying that he might.
Casey, who’d dyed his beard a startling orange, promptly suggested that Emerald and he had lunch afterwards.
‘I wouldn’t,’ hissed Joan Bideford from her other side, ‘he’ll make you pay for the honour. Come and have a bottle of fizz and a sarnie under the haycock with me.’
On a table on the stage, the four entries of the finalists had been covered in green plastic, which two minions had been practising whipping off all morning. Geraldine had organized a big screen and monitors all round the hall, so everyone could see what was going on.
Rather muted clapping greeted her and David’s appearance on the platform. David was not quite so popular in the county as he imagined. Smiles weren’t even suppressed when he nearly tripped over his sword. Suavely he introduced Geraldine, with much play on how privileged Larkshire was to be graced by her presence.
Geraldine, the sort of woman who made even linen too frightened to crease, was immaculate in a pale grey trouser suit. She told the audience how happy she and the High Sheriff were to bring glory to Larkshire by commemorating their greatest painter, Galena Borochova, thanks to the co-operation of Lady Belvedon – Geraldine smiled coolly in Anthea’s direction – who had urged them to go ahead.
‘We had four outstanding entries,’ she went on. ‘Galena was a powerful but very subtle artist, and we wanted something subtle to illustrate her special qualities. The first is a marvellous contribution from arguably our greatest painter and sculptor, Colin Casey Andrews.’
Casey Andrews leapt to his feet, raising clasped hands in the air. But the storm of clapping died almost instantly as a ghastly upended palette with huge breasts and pubic hair round the thumb hole was unveiled and appeared on the big screen.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ shouted the landlord of the Goat in Boots.
‘You’re not supposed to ask,’ hissed Green Jean.
‘Great art of course defies explanation,’ said David smoothly, ‘but in principle, Mr Casey Andrews’s palette symbolizes Galena the artist, the breasts Galena the woman, and the thumbhole the fecundity of her womb producing so many talented children.’ He nodded sourly at the Belvedons.
‘Load of crap,’ shouted Robens.
‘Be kwy-et,’ said David furiously.
Little Viridian started to cry. Sophy and Sienna got the giggles.
‘A work of towering genius. Imagine the impact when it is enlarged to eight or nine fe
et high,’ exhorted Geraldine.
‘Jonathan can train Diggory to jump through the hole,’ whispered Hanna.
‘It will fit very comfortably into the space,’ said David.
Remembering how David had tried to fit his rainbow-condomed cock into her space, Emerald jumped out of her skin as she felt Casey Andrews’s nicotined fingers stroking her left breast. He didn’t even remove his hand to clap when his wife’s entry was unveiled. A large nude, with no head, feet or hands and riding a bicycle, it was greeted with even more boos and yells of derision.
‘On yer bike,’ yelled Robens.
‘How does she change gear?’ shouted Knightie.
Joan Bideford turned purpler than Emerald’s T-shirt.
‘Philistines,’ she thundered.
Little Viridian bawled even louder.
‘He’s a discerning critic already,’ said Jupiter proudly.
Sienna nudged Emerald from behind.
‘You’ll walk it,’ she hissed.
‘Anything’s better than biking it.’ Sophy wiped her eyes.
Ranjit’s entry, a monkey who was simultaneously eating a banana and defecating, evidently to symbolize the artistic process, got given even shorter and noisier shrift.
Here we go, thought Emerald, dear God make the Belvedons like it.
Back slid the green plastic, catching in Galena’s paintbrush, making the maquette sway alarmingly for a second, before a minion leapt forward and steadied it. There was a long pause, as Galena was shown from all angles on the big screen, then an explosion of cheering.
‘That’s the one,’ yelled the audience.
‘We don’t want any junk in Limesbridge,’ piped up Knightie.
‘And Emerald’s a Belvedon,’ shouted Sienna.
‘Other lot are a waste of taxpayers’ money,’ roared the General and was shushed again.
Geraldine was unable to make herself heard, so David took over.
‘Emerald Belvedon’s entry is quite excellent, particularly for a young woman of only twenty-six,’ he said coolly when the din had died down. ‘All the judges feel she has a promising future.’
