by Jilly Cooper
‘Thirty-eight million against you, Mr Greenbridge.’
Si went to thirty-nine, David to forty.
‘Si’s running the little shit up,’ muttered Jupiter, ‘going to leave him with ego on his face.’
The longest pause of all followed; not a mobile cheeped.
‘I’m selling now for forty million,’ said Henry Wyndham softly, ‘going for forty million on the aisle.’
I’ve thrashed the Belvedons and Rupert, thought David in ecstasy. Oh please, please God, prayed Sienna. Si Greenbridge glanced at Rosemary, who smiled and nodded.
There’s something going on between those two, thought a momentarily distracted Sienna.
There was another flash of big gold rings as Si lifted his hand.
‘Forty-one million at the back.’
A yell of ecstasy went up from the press office, the record had been smashed. Cheering, clapping and stamping rocked the room. The din brought David to his senses. With the buyer’s premium, that would be over £45 million. Reality asserted itself. Like Portly the baby otter at the Gates of Dawn, the moment of his glory faded and he felt alone, bewildered and rather cold.
As the hammer came down, Sienna gave such a howl of despair that, even amid the tumultuous applause, the pandemonium and euphoria, people turned uneasily in her direction and a Spanish dealer crossed himself. Zac by contrast was smiling, hugging Si and kissing Rosemary, then pumping the hands of his lawyers. Sienna had never seen him look so happy, as well the bastard might. The Raphael had more than quadrupled its reserve.
The press had erupted, surging through the hall towards Si and towards the rostrum.
‘Must get a shot of the Chairman handing over the picture to Mr Greenbridge.’
‘Give us five minutes,’ said Chris Proudlove, the press officer, totally failing to hide his euphoria. ‘We’re going to hang Pandora in a side gallery. There’ll be champagne and canapés on offer. You can get your pictures of the Chairman and Mr Greenbridge then.’
‘Should have told me you were going on bidding,’ said Kevin bullyingly, ‘nearly gave me a coronary. Who the fuck were you bidding for?’
‘For stock,’ said David.
‘Made me look a right tit.’
‘Again,’ snapped David. He was fed up with brown-nosing Kevin. He was the major player now.
But infuriatingly people were surging forward from all sides to commiserate with Kevin: dealers, buyers, Sotheby’s staff, looking at him with new respect. He must be loaded to underbid a lot like that.
Jupiter felt wiped out by anti-climax, as though he’d turned up at his own wedding and found Hanna married to someone else, and not even a bridesmaid on offer. It was always worse when you came down after champagne. All the same, seeing Taggie and Rupert together made him gladder than ever that he and Hanna had patched it up.
‘Shall we go and have dinner at Green’s?’ said Taggie. ‘To cheer ourselves up? It’s only eight-thirty. It seems like midnight.’
‘I’ve had a brilliant idea,’ said Rupert, putting a hand on Jupiter’s shoulder as they fought their way towards a side door. ‘You’re going to be the next Tory leader, and take the party out of the wilderness.’
As David and Kevin struggled through the scrum, more and more people were commiserating with Kevin.
‘Back luck, Lord Coley, you nearly made it,’ called out Johnny Van Haeften. ‘How about lunch next week?’
‘I’m sorry you didn’t get it, Lord Coley, come and have a drink next door,’ said Henry Wyndham.
Bloody Kev, thought David furiously.
Ahead he could see Si and Rosemary ringed by press.
‘Better not leave together,’ he muttered to Geraldine. ‘See you in Green’s in half an hour.’
Battling on alone, he decided he’d better say ‘Well done’ to Si, after all he’d want to sell him more pictures. Si’s unusually frivolous tie covered in bright pink roses looked familiar. Hadn’t he seen it in Searston High Street that morning?
‘Congratulations, Si.’
‘Sorry about Pandora.’ Si grinned down at him, then, putting his father-bear arm proudly around Rosemary: ‘And I’m afraid I’m taking another little lady off you.’
Rupert and Jupiter, following behind, exchanged incredulous glances.
‘What d’you mean?’ spluttered David.
‘It means there’s life in the rich ugly old dog yet,’ giggled Rosemary. ‘I’m afraid you’re a high and dry sheriff now, David.’
A stunned silence was broken by the sound of clapping.
‘Good on you, Mummy,’ cried a delighted Barney, ‘as long as you and Si have care and custody of moi.’
When an apoplectic David tried to frogmarch Rosemary back to Bury Street, two of Si’s guards grabbed him. Next moment he was bearded by Adam Helliker of the Sunday Telegraph.
‘Evening, David, what’s this rumour about you being Jonathan Belvedon’s father?’
‘Don’t be fucking stupid, Jonathan’s Raymond son.’
‘I hope not or he married his sister this afternoon,’ said John McEntee from the Express, brandishing a copy of the Evening Standard. ‘Just have a look at this.’
‘Daddy’s first wife mated with David Pulborough’, announced the large caption beneath the charming picture of Dora and Loofah.
‘No comment,’ shrieked Larkshire’s High Sheriff, as he was engulfed by a tidal wave of press.
In a side gallery, Sienna discovered another rugger scrum as photographers fought to take Si and Rosemary’s picture as they gossiped with Henry Wyndham. Around them, celebs and luminaries of the art world embraced and fell on smoked salmon, angels on horseback and glasses of champagne, praying that some Midas gold would rub off on them if they managed to rub shoulders with Pandora’s new owner.
Everyone was so busy chatting forty-one million to the dozen that, like a bride neglected at her own wedding reception, because the guests feel she’s too special to waste time on them, the Raphael hung on the wall temporarily unattended.
What a beautiful picture, thought the curator from the Abraham Lincoln Museum tearfully, I should have ignored the board and gone higher.
The next moment, a strange, staring-eyed, pitifully thin young woman had slunk across the room and lifted the picture off the wall.
‘Don’t touch it,’ cried the curator in horror.
‘I only came to say goodbye,’ sobbed Sienna, and before anyone could stop her, put her blanched lips to the pale cheek of Pandora, and then to the glowing forehead of Hope.
Two kindly Sotheby’s porters, who’d been devoted to Raymond, pulled her away, and smuggled her weeping out of the St George Street entrance.
Not even the sight of David yelling, ‘I’ve already told you, “no comment”,’ as a pack of baying reporters chased him down Clifford Street, could bring a smile to her face.
By the time she came off the motorway, Sienna was beyond tears, beyond the bitter-sweet comfort of Arabella: disc two, band five. Moonlight was seeping through the tree tunnels, dappling the long silver road. Pale ghosts of willow herb brushed her car. Combines, like dinosaurs, lurked overnight in shorn fields. The stars were brilliant as though an overjoyed Jonathan had chucked a handful of confetti against the face of the night, but the moon was hemmed in by furry sable clouds – like the Raphael guarded by an escort of Zacs.
As Sienna dropped into the Silver Valley, however, the moon shook off her dark entourage and, dimming the stars with a switch, sailed radiant and solitary into a pearly-grey sky. The church clock was striking midnight as Sienna crossed the bridge. She had no interest in the helicopter landing on the cricket pitch like a swarm of fireflies. Perhaps it was Rupert dropping off a disappointed Jupiter.
Sienna had rung and asked Mrs Robens to leave the front door unlocked. As she went inside, Grenville pattered lightly down the stairs in eternal search of Raymond. Hoping for a miracle like me, thought Sienna, gathering his desperately thin, snaking body into her arms.
The wedding p
arty had been cleared up except for the odd glass and plate. On the hall was a note in drunken writing: ‘Masses of food in larder. Great party had by all. Hope you wasn’t too sad. Have a nice hot toddy, see you in the morning, love Knightie.’
In the fridge, she found a half-empty bottle of Moët with a silver spoon in its mouth. Pouring herself a glass, kicking off her high heels, she took Grenville out for a pee. The garden had been neglected since her father died. The parched unsprinkled lawn scratched her bare feet. Flowers wilted, their leaves cast down, heads hanging.
The moon was now hidden by the house, which cast its long ebony shadow across the lawn, its chimneys like pointing fingers saying: ‘Go from this place.’
It would be Jupiter’s house soon – a West Country Chequers with politicians landing in helicopters and intrigue going on all night. Rupert had been a very successful Tory Minister for Sport. Jupiter had clearly begun networking.
Despite the heat she shivered. There was no room for her here. Why had she driven down? She’d forgotten even to bring a toothbrush. In the hall she noticed another gap on the wall: Jupiter flogging another family picture.
Tiptoeing upstairs so as not to wake Anthea, she found her stepmother’s bedroom door most unusually ajar. Then she remembered: Anthea, not wanting to sleep in her lonely marriage bed after a wedding, had gone to stay with Green Jean.
Peering inside to double check, Sienna noticed the door up to the Blue Tower was open. Climbing the steps, remembering how she had made the same journey the night she stole the Raphael, she found the second door also unlocked.
Then as she pushed it open, her heart failed. For there in the moonlight to the right of the bed, where it had always hung, was the Raphael. It had to be a fake. Someone was playing a hideous joke.
Putting down her glass, she rushed across the room, climbing onto the bed, throwing aside a pile of old Belvedon catalogues to get closer. It was the Raphael. There was the little nick in the moon’s chin, which the madman’s slashing knife had made in New York.
In bewilderment, she fingered the winged evils of the world, touching the normally choleric face of Wrath, now drained of colour in the moonlight, touching terrified Pandora and Epimetheus, arms raised to ward off the dazzle of Hope in her gauzy dress.
As a shadow fell across the bed, Sienna gave a scream and swung round. A man stood in the doorway, a white shirt emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, the black trousers the leanness of hip and length of leg. His grey-flecked hair gleamed silver; his eyes were black hollows; his face ghostly and deeply shadowed as though he’d wandered without sleep for a hundred years.
‘I’ve brought Pandora home,’ he said slowly.
‘Stop taking the piss,’ snarled Sienna. ‘Have you bought our house as well? You’ve taken everything else that matters, my father, our good name, the Raphael. How the hell did you get down here so quickly anyway?’
‘Si lent me his helicopter.’
‘After the crooked bastard bought the picture,’ spat Sienna. ‘Way back at Emerald’s birthday party, he was saying he wanted a Raphael.’
‘He was bidding for me. I was so uptight, I figured I’d screw up if I bid myself.’
Sienna shook her head.
‘I don’t understand. Why’ve you bought back your own picture? What sort of dodgy deal have you and Si been involved in all this time?’
‘Hunting for the Raphael. While I was digging, Si made noises above ground, to flush it out.’
Zac spoke matter-of-factly, hardly a tremor in his deep husky voice.
‘So you weren’t an art correspondent at all.’
‘Not for a year or two. I was too busy searching.’
Little by little he was edging into the room. Huddled on the four-poster Sienna was in a complete panic, heart thumping, brain zigzagging like a hunted rabbit.
‘So why’s the Raphael hanging here like a sodding trophy?’
‘It’s for you.’ Zac’s voice broke. ‘I saw you across the sale room, you looked so hurt, I couldn’t sell it.’
‘But for Christ’s sake, you’ll be clobbered for the buyer’s and the seller’s premium and huge costs for the tour and the CD and the hardback.’
Zac shrugged. ‘It’s only money.’
‘Still doesn’t answer my question.’
‘You were the only person who loved Pandora for herself. And I love you for yourself,’ Zac went on despairingly, ‘I’ve loved you from the moment you caught me coming out of the bathroom after screwing Anthea. It was the worst moment of my life. I felt the hangman’s noose tightening round my neck. To track down the Raphael, I’d fucked Anthea and Emerald without a shred of contrition, only to discover I did have a heart after all, big as an ox’s, thawing slowly and painfully inside.’
‘I still don’t get it,’ whispered Sienna, rearing up on the bed, clutching the nearest bedpost for support.
‘I had to win the court case,’ stammered Zac, who was now shaking so much, he had to grab the same bedpost, his hand above hers. ‘If your side had won, the others would have flogged the Raphael, and split the money between them: Jupiter on the fucking Tories, Jonathan on living it up, Alizarin on struggling artists, Anthea on hats, Raymond on a Poussin or a house in Tuscany.’
Seeing his desolation and totally uncharacteristic uncertainty, Sienna longed to slide her hand up to meet his, but she was still numb with disbelief.
‘I had no hope at all,’ muttered Zac, ‘until you crossed the court and put your arms around me. Even in that bleakest moment when I realized the extent of Jacob’s treachery, I felt safe, as though you were Mom back from the grave telling me some frightful nightmare wasn’t true. I nearly made a move then, but I had so much to work through. I accept now I can’t change what Jacob did. I don’t want to unravel the past any more, just make a future.’
He was so close, she could smell traces of CK One and the faint peppermint of his breath. As a lamb bleated down the valley, a ewe gave a reassuring rumble.
‘I might have won the case’ – they both jumped violently as, almost with a mind of its own, Zac’s shaking hand closed over hers – ‘but what was the point of having the second most beautiful woman in the world hanging on my wall, when I wanted easily the most beautiful one?’ With a tentative quivering finger, Zac traced the contours of Sienna’s cheek. ‘In my bed all night, sitting by the fire with me in the evening, raising kids and growing old together. Don’t cry, baby, I can’t bear it.
‘It’s your picture now.’ For a moment his voice was too choked to carry on. ‘If by a millionth chance, you’d like to share your life with me, we can love it together. If not, it’s still yours. Without you, everything’s pointless: pictures, money, existence.’ His other hand crept shyly up her arm, then retreated. ‘Say the word and I’ll quit.’
Then, as Sienna said nothing, unable to speak, Zac turned towards the door. Seeing utter desolation on his moon-blanched face, Sienna gave a cry.
‘Don’t go,’ she sobbed. ‘Never like go away again.’
Gazing at him for a second, seeing the tears sparkling on his black lashes, she let go of the bedpost, held out her arms and fell into his.
‘Oh Zac,’ she whispered, pulling his trembling mouth to meet hers, ‘it’s not just the Raphael that’s come home.’
Too tired and happy to go to sleep, Zac and Sienna found another bottle and, welcoming a delighted Grenville onto the bed, watched the sky slowly lighten, as they waited for the sun to rise on the Raphael.
‘I’ve suddenly realized,’ murmured Zac, running a finger along her high cheekbones and long heavy eyelids, ‘why I fell in love so instantly with Alizarin’s Balkan paintings – because they were filled with people who looked just like you.’
‘And I’ve got to kiss you again,’ sighed Sienna happily, ‘because you are so beautiful and because that was the most brilliant fabulous sex I’ve ever had.’
‘Better than last time,’ murmured Zac when they finally paused for breath.
‘I
thought you were Jonathan,’ cried Sienna in sudden outrage, ‘I’d just stolen the Raphael. I was pissed. I was so off the wall, I’d have let Somerford shag me.’ She pummelled his chest furiously. ‘That was such a shit’s trick.’
‘I know. It was diabolical.’
The tiger eyes, still a little bloodshot, were full of laughter. She was so unused to Zac being happy.
‘God I enjoyed it.’ Zac ran a hand over her hipbone, dipping down into her waist. ‘You have such a great body, and it locks into mine so perfectly. What did you do with the Raphael that night?’
‘Shoved it under the floorboards where I used to hide booze and dope from Anthea. Where were you going when you bumped into me anyway?’
‘On my way to nick the Raphael. Weird if we’d met up in the Blue Tower. I’d arranged for Anthea to leave everything, including herself’ – Zac grinned ruefully, his fingers playing idle tunes on Sienna’s ribs – ‘open for me. Then I met you, and here is an indication’ – he buried his lips in her shoulder – ‘of how passionately, even then, I wanted you, that I could forget the Raphael – and you know how passionately I wanted that – for a few minutes.’
Twisting her head to kiss his hard cheekbone, feeling the soft flutter of his lashes, Sienna asked, ‘What did you do after you left me?’
‘Found the Raphael gone – and went apeshit. Si nearly buried me for screwing up.’
Sienna was still puzzled.
‘I don’t understand why Si’s involved.’
‘He was bankrolling me.’
‘Whatever for? Is he your boss?’
‘No,’ said Zac, sending ripples of delight through her body as he gently caressed the underside of her breast. ‘You have the cutest boobs.’
‘Don’t change the subject,’ pleaded Sienna. ‘Tell me – how does Si come into it?’
‘He’s my father,’ said Zac simply. Then, at Sienna’s look of incredulity, ‘Well, my stepfather actually. Si really loved Mom, married her four years ago knowing she’d got cancer. He and I fought like pitbulls at first, but whilst she was dying and afterwards, he carried me. I just love the guy. I was so bent out of shape, he suggested as therapy we search for the Raphael.’
