by Lindsey Kelk
There were a lot of things I could live with – smelly feet, bad taste in movies – but I couldn’t pretend to be OK with a complete lack of moral compass. Sometimes, when you kissed a frog all you were doing was kissing a frog.
I aimlessly rolled a pencil back and forth along the desk, resting my temple in my hand and scanning Jane’s magazines, her notebooks. Everything about the palazzo was beautifully put together, all crisp white walls and elegant gilt edging, perfectly appointed furniture accented by the most exquisite antiques; it screamed good taste. But this room was different. I hadn’t noticed it when we were shooting – I was too busy shouting at Amy to lift up the reflector and trying to do a good job of the photographs – but this room, beautiful though it was, seemed to be a million miles away from the rest of the house. The walls were painted a warm creamy colour and the curtains at the window were light voile, designed to let the light through all day and night, whether it was from the sun or the moon, and the furniture looked worn and loved.
I pulled out what I thought was a leatherbound notebook from the bookshelf built into the side of the desk. Al had pulled out some sketches for us to look at and I hadn’t investigated beyond them but suddenly I was curious about the big brown leather books stacked seven or eight to a shelf. Opening it carefully, I was hit by the smell of old paper. It wasn’t a notebook, it was a photo album, Jane’s own photo album.
Looking around, I wondered, just for a moment, whether or not I should be looking at them. Surely Al knew they were in here? And he knew what a nosy cow I was; surely he must have had an inkling that I would have to take a peek? But then, if I’d learned anything over the last few days, it’s that Al was far too trusting, I thought, flipping gently through the pages. And however unnatural it felt, that was something I was going to have to learn to let go of. Nick was right, I was too naïve.
The photographs were wonderful. I’d heard Al’s version of his love story, I’d been in his houses, I’d seen Jane’s clothes and I’d even talked to their friends but this was something else. It was as though she was telling me her side. The pictures started out in black and white, small and square and matte, with pencilled-in dates and descriptions by the side. The first album I had pulled showed me her life before Al, before she had been Mrs Bennett. Instead of glamorous parties, I saw her childhood, smiling mother, happy father, everyone much more erect that they really needed to be. Jane really had been very beautiful. As a teenager, she was all big eyes and long hair, carefully styled in ways that my hair would never have accepted.
As she got older, she only got better looking and she documented everything. I wondered why Al had never told me what a keen photographer she had been as I pored over the pages. It seemed like she never left the house without a camera. There were weddings and birthdays and christenings and family holidays to the seaside, to visit family in Ireland – Jane had been a master of the selfie long before Instagram was even thought of. And then, halfway through the second album, her mother had disappeared from the pictures and her father couldn’t seem to raise a smile. After a while, another man started to appear but it wasn’t Al. I remembered him telling me how Jane had been engaged to another man when he met her and this had to be him.
At first, she looked happy in their pictures, holding his hand, resting her head on his shoulder, even though he looked incredibly suspicious of the camera. Jane’s dad was in nearly every shot of the two of them and it almost seemed as though Jane’s dad was crashing their good times. Her first fiancé was definitely a lot older than she was; there was a story there, for sure. And then it happened. The older man disappeared and Al arrived and with him, the light returned to Jane’s eyes. I smiled as she smiled, staring up at Al with complete adoration and in turn, he couldn’t keep his hands off her. There weren’t that many pictures before I came to their wedding but once the rings were on their fingers, the fun really began. I couldn’t name a country that they hadn’t visited; every page had photos stuck in from a different continent. No wonder they hadn’t had time to launch a clothing line. It was hard to get any work done when you were riding an elephant through India.
Eventually, near the end of the fifth photo album, Jane started showing off a baby bump. Maternity wear was so much cooler in the sixties, I thought, eyeing her pedal pushers and swing tops with a touch of envy. And there he was. In the baby blue, leatherbound album, I was introduced to Arthur Albert John Bennett, six pounds and four ounces and the apple of his mother’s eye. There was no shortage of photos of Artie, a babe in arms in New York City, toddling around Hawaii, scooting around the palazzo gardens on his tricycle. But there was a shortage of photos of Artie with his dad. Almost all of them were of Jane and her baby boy or Artie, standing proudly by himself.
I stared at one of the few family shots I found, all three Bennetts standing in front of the house in Hawaii. Clearly it had once been bright with the lurid colours of the seventies but now it was faded and Jane’s flower-print maxi dress was almost pastel pink. Al had arms draped around his wife’s neck and Jane was clutching Artie to her as though someone might try to take him away.
I pulled my phone out of my bag and dialled a number I usually avoided, still staring at the photo.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Brian, it’s only me,’ I said, sniffling into the microphone. ‘Is my mum there?’
‘She’s watching Pointless,’ he said in hushed, reverential tones. ‘I don’t know if you want to bother her.’
‘Who is it?’ I heard my mum shout from the living room.
‘It’s Tess,’ Brian shouted back, deafening me for the next three hours.
‘What does she want?’ she yelled again.
‘Can you please tell her I need two minutes,’ I asked before there was any more bellowing. ‘I’ll be quick.’
‘She wants two minutes,’ Brian shouted. I really should have seen that coming. ‘Come and get the phone.’
There was some muffled chuntering and complaining but eventually, my mum picked up the phone with a loud sigh.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘I’m watching Pointless.’
‘I know, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I wanted to call and say sorry for storming out the other week. I was out of order. I wanted to apologize properly.’
‘Right,’ she said stiffly. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ I rubbed my prickling nose and closed up Jane’s photo album. ‘Just fancied saying hello to my mum.’
‘Well, I’m the only one you’re getting,’ she replied. ‘You’re sure nothing’s wrong?’
‘Everything is fine.’ I smiled into the phone, not sure what I had expected her to say. We weren’t the kind of mother and daughter that had long, pointless conversations. Especially during Pointless. ‘You and Brian are all right? Liz? Mel?’
‘Everyone’s fine,’ she said, clearly annoyed. ‘Where are you? You’re not still in Milan are you? Where’s Charlie?’
‘You get back to your game show,’ I said, satisfied that everything was as OK as it needed to be. ‘I’m fine, Charlie’s fine, and I’ll call you next week. Maybe I could come up next weekend, have that Sunday dinner?’
‘Fine, I’ll talk to you later.’ Her attention was already back on the TV.
I hung up and rested my head on the desk, staring at the family portrait of the Bennetts and wondered who had taken the photo. Was it Kekipi? Kekipi’s dad? I had so many questions – if only Jane was here to answer them, to make things right between Artie and Al. It looked like she was the only one who knew how.
‘I feel really weird,’ I muttered, following Amy out of our suite and down the hallway. ‘We shouldn’t be all dressed up for a party, I should be talking to Al.’
‘You can’t say anything now,’ Amy said, fiddling with the front of her slashed-down-to-there midnight blue Naheem Khan gown. It was a little bit Seventies, a little bit sexy and entirely inappropriate. She looked amazing. ‘Let him have this party, talk to him tomorrow.’
‘I s
till don’t know what I’m going to say.’ I pulled at the cap sleeve of my own dress, a deep pink silk, off-the-shoulder, full-skirted affair, picked out by Kekipi. ‘Thanks for the cocktails; by the way, your son is totally sabotaging your business.’
‘At least you look nice,’ Amy said as she straightened out the train of my frock. ‘I still think the yellow sparkly ballgown was more fun but Kekipi insisted on this one.’
‘I can’t imagine why.’ I attempted to flip the skirt out behind me – and succeeded in nothing more impressive than sending myself flying sideways into a wall. ‘Although was a train really necessary? We’re going to be so overdressed.’
‘We are not overdressed. It’s going to be dressy,’ she assured me with a smile while I righted myself. ‘And anyway, you need to look amazing. Make Nick hate himself.’
I frowned. ‘Nick wouldn’t hate himself if he lost a winning lottery ticket.’
‘Which he has,’ she said, stroking a strand of my hair into place. ‘And don’t forget it when he walks in looking all James Bond in his tux.’
‘I won’t,’ I lied. I was dreading seeing him. ‘I just wish I’d been able to get hold of Al. He isn’t answering his phone; Kekipi isn’t answering his phone, and I called Charlie and left a message for him to call me back yesterday and he hasn’t. I’m starting to take it personally.’
‘Left Charlie a message saying what exactly?’ she asked as I rounded the first staircase, incredibly carefully. ‘Tell me you didn’t confess all about tall, dark and dickish to his voicemail?’
‘Of course I didn’t.’ One step, two steps, three steps, pause. ‘I’m not that stupid.’
‘Yeah, you are, but whatever.’ Amy trotted down the stairs like she was wearing trainers instead of four-inch borrowed Gucci sandals. ‘He hasn’t called you back?’
‘No.’ I shook my head. Downstairs, I could hear music swelling over muted conversation. How many people were down there already? ‘I only called to make sure he’d got everything for the pitch. I didn’t say anything.’
‘It feels like we’ve been here forever,’ Amy said, tossing her head and helping me around another corner. ‘I know I was a bit mental yesterday but I’ve been thinking about everything and I’m really excited. For both of us. Thank you for bringing me out with you.’
‘Are you kidding? What would I have done without you?’
‘I don’t know, took some photos, shagged a super stud, told him you loved him and then busted into some random bloke’s office?’ She gave me such a proud look. ‘Oh wait, you did that anyway.’
‘You’re a fantastic influence,’ I told her.
We took the last few stairs at a slightly faster speed, arriving in the lobby at the same time as two incredibly well-dressed older gentlemen, both of whom were seemingly very interested in Amy’s almost visible navel.
‘Fuck Al’s shops,’ she whispered. ‘I’m going to marry a rich old man. Are they famous, do you think?’
‘They’ve got a definite Berlusconi vibe to them, haven’t they?’ I held my camera tightly in my right hand, the left still clutching the banister. ‘Not your usual type, though.’
‘I don’t know, I assume they have a penis,’ Amy reasoned. ‘After you?’
‘You’re such a gent,’ I said, tottering after Silvio one and two.
I hated admitting when I was wrong but in this instance, I was the first to admit it: Amy was right. We were not overdressed for the party.
The last couple of days had been so strange. I’d been so worked up over everything – Charlie, Nick, getting Al’s photos right, getting the Perito’s pitch right and then all the Artie drama, not to mention the thought of spending another night walking around in an evening gown and too-high heels – I really hadn’t given an awful lot of thought to the actual event. Al had called it a party. To me, a party was a few drinks, crisps and dips and perhaps a specially put together iPod playlist. When I saw the dress Kekipi had picked out for me, all fitted bodice and too many skirts, I just assumed he was playing dressing-up again, with me and Amy as his living dolls. I’d thought it would be nothing more than a few of Al’s fanciest fashion friends, hanging out in the dining room, maybe the odd celeb that Amy would be able to point out to me and my camera, and way too much booze.
Well. How wrong could you be? Two of Al’s invisible staff, all fancied up in their light grey suits and coordinating black ties, directed us towards a pair of double doors to the left of the staircase that I hadn’t really paid attention to before and opened them with an understated flourish.
‘Fuck me,’ Amy breathed. ‘Where did all this come from?’
‘Just something I pulled out my ass.’ Kekipi swept through the doors behind us, snaking his arms around our waists and drawing us into the centre of the ballroom. ‘You like?’
We were in an actual, honest-to-God ballroom. It wasn’t until I was standing in the middle of it that I realized I’d only I’d ever seen them on TV before and most of those were animated. Beauty and the Beast, eat your heart out; this place makes your ballroom look like a shed. I was struggling to work out the geography of exactly where we were in the palazzo, but the ceilings were at least twice as high as those in our suite and two huge chandeliers hung from the ceiling, glowing beautifully. At the far end of the room, there was what looked like half an orchestra sitting patiently in their all black outfits, holding their instruments and waiting for the nod. At the other, a small stage was set up with a microphone stand. On either side of the room were two long bars busy with bartenders shaking up cocktails or pouring champagne, and everywhere I looked, there were dozens and dozens of people in the most ridiculously beautiful clothes I had ever seen. I didn’t even have a drink yet and I was already terrified of spilling it on them.
And hanging from the ceiling, on each side of the room, were my photographs.
‘Kekipi, it’s amazing,’ I told him, my trigger finger itching on my camera. ‘The photos—’
‘Your photos,’ he corrected. ‘They were my inspiration. The centrepiece of the event.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’ I tried to swallow down the thickness in my throat, I was not going to cry all this mascara off, mostly because I didn’t want to have to go back upstairs in my heels to fix it, but also because I was so, so proud. ‘Thank you for picking the dress for me. It’s so pretty.’
‘It’s a masterpiece, just like you,’ he said, cinching in my waist. ‘You’re so tiny.’
‘The three words every woman wants to hear,’ I replied, smiling. ‘Especially after I had to pretend to be pregnant this morning and no one questioned it.’
‘Am I missing something?’ Kekipi asked, glancing at Amy. ‘Will my next event be a baby shower? Please tell me we won’t do the wedding until after you’ve lost the weight – it’s vulgar.’
‘You are missing something, but not that,’ I said, struggling to concentrate on my friends when the constant swish of silk and tulle was calling to me. ‘Is Al here yet? Is Artie here?’
‘They’re both here somewhere.’ He gestured off into the crowds before stopping a waiter passing out champagne. ‘Artie had some bizarre change of heart and decided to invite half of Milan at the last minute. I’m sure he’s surrounded by all of his cronies somewhere. I would imagine near the food.’
I held out my hand to accept the champagne but was struck with a sudden flash of sobriety. ‘Better not,’ I said, pulling away. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to talk to Al.’
‘You can’t do it here,’ Amy begged, a glass of champagne in each hand. ‘It’s too awful.’
‘But why else would Artie be here if it wasn’t to cause trouble?’ I asked while Kekipi’s attention flipped between us like he was watching an especially dramatic game of table tennis. ‘I’m not Nick, I can’t stand around and let him make a fool out of Al in front of all those people.’
‘I think you ladies need to tell me everything right now,’ Kekipi said, drawing us off to the side of his masterpiece. ‘What are you
talking about?’
‘All this trouble Al has been having getting the clothing line off the ground,’ I said, pressing a hand into my waist and wishing I had eaten before I let Amy fasten me into my frock. The inner workings of it were more architecturally impressive than the Eiffel Tower. It was tight. ‘It’s Artie. He bribed Warren to pull out by offering him space for his own collection in Bennett’s,’ I explained. ‘And he got the factory to cancel and God knows what he did to the estate agents, but that’s why Al can’t get the retail space he wants. It’s all Artie. And maybe Domenico. But mostly Artie.’
‘Domenico?’ Kekipi’s eyes widened and then narrowed sharply. ‘He’s in on it?’
‘I saw him coming out of Artie’s room,’ I shrugged. ‘When he was on the phone with China.’
‘That fucker. And that little shit!’ Kekipi turned his attention to the assembled masses, scanning for his nemeses. ‘He’s always been a self-obsessed turd but this is a new low. Kind of. Did I ever tell you about the time he tried to close Bennett’s down by phoning in a bomb threat when Princess Diana was visiting in the eighties? No? Remind me after I’ve slapped him silly, it’s a good one.’
The three of us scoured the room but it was very hard to pick out a tall, attractive grey-haired man in a suit amongst dozens of tall, attractive grey-haired men in suits. No matter how hard I willed it, I could not see his handlebar moustache anywhere.
‘I’ve been so distracted,’ Kekipi muttered, pulling out his mobile phone and dialling Al. ‘This is all my fault. It’s a shame when ambition is overpowered by psychosis. Jane and Al should have drowned him at birth.’
‘Maybe they didn’t realize at birth?’ I suggested. ‘Maybe he didn’t turn mental until he was a little bit older?’
‘Please,’ he sniffed. ‘I’m certain they shaved the horns off when they cut the umbilical cord. He is the devil. He’s a rich, only child who was coddled his entire life and now his mother isn’t here to hold his hand, he has to do things for himself and he doesn’t like it. It isn’t Al’s fault that Artie never achieved anything, it’s Artie’s fault. If he put half as much effort into creating something as he does into destroying things, he’d be president of the USA by now.’
