Christmas at the Dancing Duck

by Daisy James

  When she had taken on the role of manager and curator for one of the hippest independent art galleries in London’s West End two years ago, she had reassured herself every time she surveyed a fresh exhibition with the ‘one day this will be mine’ mantra. But the leather portfolio under her bed had become a comfortable colony for dust bunnies that even a ravenous Dyson would struggle to evict.

  She refused to admit it to anyone but she was now frightened to revisit her canvases in case the unbridled passion she had possessed at university had been shipwrecked on the sea of necessity to pay her rent. Even Pippa, the most positive person she had ever encountered, had downgraded her constant barrage of encouragement to weekly instead of daily. It was just the evening’s events that seemed to have reawakened her friend’s indignation that Evie was concealing her ambitions under a veil of workaholic mist.

  ‘And, whilst we’re on the subject of self-interested creatives, what’s happening with you and Dylan?’ asked Pippa, holding Evie’s gaze so that she wasn’t tempted to avoid the subject. ‘Why isn’t he gracing us with his presence tonight? What can be more important than being here to support his girlfriend?’

  ‘I told you, his band’s got a gig. It’s been such a long time since the last one, I couldn’t expect him to turn it down. This could be the breakthrough he needs to get his career back on track.’ Evie hoped her optimism wasn’t as misplaced as it had been many times before and that his refusal to come to the exhibition before the gig was not yet another symptom of the fizzling out of her relationship with would-be rock guitarist Dylan.

  ‘You can’t keep defending him, Evie. You deserve better.’

  Evie flashed Pippa a grateful smile but before she was able to respond, her colleague erupted into a volley of excitable squeals.

  ‘Look! Look! Oh my God, I don’t believe it! The paparazzi have arrived!’

  Evie took time out of her frantic list-checking mode to glance at the violet-tinged street beyond the huge, plate-glass front window. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the uniformed doormen – straight from central casting as extras in a Mafia movie – hired by James Bradbury to guard the entrance in case of gate-crashers from the Jaxx Benson Fan Club intent on getting a personal audience with their idol. It would be a fruitless wait but that never seemed to deter the most ardent of admirers.

  It was almost seven o’clock and twilight had started to tickle the rooftops and send shadows skipping across the pavements. All day the sky had presented a canopy of darkening clouds but the expected rain hadn’t materialized – yet.

  Pippa was right – a gaggle of photographers had set up camp on the opposite side of the road where they jostled to secure the best vantage point for their long lenses and stepladders in a misinformed fit of optimism over reality. Jaxx Benson had made it abundantly clear via his Twitter and Facebook accounts that he had no intention of attending the gallery that evening. He had declared that he had hung up his microphone and shunned his addiction to the limelight to concentrate on his first love – not the creation of music but of art.

  The pop star had stated that his life as a rampant exhibitionist – which necessitated the tossing of chairs from third floor balconies of Knightsbridge hotels – was all in the past. He had gone on to report that, now he had succeeded in evicting the stimulants provided by Messrs Jack and Daniels from his life, he was able to feel his creativity flow through his body once more and it was liberating. He professed to prefer his self-imposed isolation at his farm in South Wales and had stubbornly refused all of James Bradbury’s attempts to cajole him into appearing at his opening night, even for ten minutes.

  When Jaxx had reasserted that he no longer craved publicity to justify his existence, Evie had laughed. If that were true, why then had he ordered a full-colour portrait of himself at the height of his fame to be splashed across the front cover of that evening’s glossy brochure? What was the point of the life-sized billboards flanking the entrance?

  Evie shook her head and returned to the lengthy list on her iPad, grateful for her detailed preparation for the evening’s event. To her, obsessive organization was the salvation of the workaholic and had served to save her skin on frequent occasions when time was her enemy and reluctant delegation a necessity. She ran her fingertip down the remaining items.

  ‘Antoine, have you checked the champagne has been chilled to the correct temperature? You know how particular James is about that.’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Does anyone know why James hasn’t arrived yet? He promised he’d be here at six-thirty. He’s ten minutes late already, which is really unusual for him.’

  ‘Don’t worry, he’ll be here.’

  ‘Did you display those extra copies of the inventory, Pip?’ asked Evie as she shot forward to nudge a recalcitrant canvas a little to the left.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Pippa automatically, rolling her eyes at Pierre when she thought Evie wasn’t looking, a smirk playing at her lips as she applied an extra layer of apricot lip gloss to her perfectly outlined cupid’s bow. ‘Relax, Evie, or you’ll have a coronary. Everything is perfect. You’ve done an awesome job. How do I look?’

  ‘Gorgeous, as always.’

  Evie watched Pippa check her mascara in the solid gold compact her parents had presented her with when she had acquiesced to their persuasion to spend six months at the gallery belonging to her father’s best friend and fellow barrister, James Bradbury, instead of chasing around the capital’s night clubs and bars in pursuit of unsuitable men and the most exotic cocktails. Sadly, their plan had backfired as Pippa continued to reel in a string of very ineligible bachelors who called into the gallery on a regular basis to add a piece of artwork to their already bulging collections and took a fancy to the living work of art poised behind the reception desk.

  And who could blame them? Pippa Newton-Smith was a classic beauty, with a smooth porcelain complexion, wide brown eyes enhanced by copious coatings of mascara, and a mane of glossy mahogany hair that rippled freely to her shoulders. But it was not these physical attributes that drew her admiring audience. She had been bestowed with a sweet, caring personality and her unquestioning friendship had provided an invaluable balm to Evie’s ragged nerves, which enabled her to sustain the manic schedule required to run the gallery successfully in the increasingly difficult economic climate.

  ‘Look, Evie, there’s only twenty minutes to go until we open the doors. Why don’t you go and swap your ballet flats for those stilettos you’ve been drooling over all week?’

  ‘Okay. But, Pip, whatever you do, do not open the door to anyone, no matter what excuse they come up with. Jaxx’s management were very specific about the guest list. Promise?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’ Pippa saluted, before pushing her gently towards the circular steel staircase that led to the private quarters on the first floor that James Bradbury had allowed them to use that evening.

  Evie glanced at her watch again and a spasm of panic shot from her chest into her throat. This was the biggest night of her career so far. Okay, so it was someone else’s exhibition, not hers, but she had organized every aspect, right down to the museum-themed loo roll in the bathroom. It was good practice for when she did … eventually … one day … probably in the far distant future … have her own opening night.

  She slotted her toes into a pair of towering heels but the expected whoosh of confidence didn’t materialize. She had curated over two dozen VIP exhibitions since she had landed her job at James Bradbury Art, but none had been as high profile as this one. What if it was a disaster? What if a bevy of Fire of Fury fans forced their way inside and the resulting turmoil was caught on camera and splashed all over the internet? What if no one bought the artwork? Whilst she had accepted a long time ago that the appreciation of art was extremely subjective, apart from the new canvas, the paintings were lacklustre at best. Would their specially selected guests feel the same way?

  She squashed her insecurity demons into their well-used box and turned the key. Sh
e was determined not to allow anything, even Dylan’s absence, to spoil this evening. She attached the pearl earrings her parents had presented her with as a congratulatory gift when she had graduated with a first class honours degree in Art History, and allowed a sigh of relief to escape her lips. Thank God she’d had the foresight to visit Henrik that afternoon to have her hair pinned and teased into an elegant chignon – at least she looked like she was ready to do battle.

  An insistent hammering floated up the stairs.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it!’ called Pippa in her sweet sing-song voice.

  ‘No! Wait! Don’t!’

  But it was too late. She heard the tinkle of the chime as the front door was wrenched open.

  A blade of anxiety sliced through Evie’s chest and her heart drummed out a painful concerto against her ribcage. She wouldn’t put it past Pippa to have succumbed to the charms of an early arrival. Or worse – had she inadvertently fallen victim to the persuasive prattle of an overzealous paparazzi keen to snatch a first unauthorized image of Jaxx Benson’s foray into the world of fine art?

  Chapter Two

  ‘Hi, Sam,’ cooed Pippa, as she let their boss’s son in to the gallery. ‘We weren’t expecting you until later.’

  ‘I thought I’d pop in to wish you luck, and to take a quick peek at what the famous Jaxx Benson is offering his adoring fans by way of artistic talent. Don’t worry, I’m not staying long. Wouldn’t want my presence to wind Dad up on such an auspicious occasion, but I’ll be back when the gallery closes. There’s something I need to talk to him about after the show, and a hint from the wise – you might want to make yourselves scarce. If I know Dad at all, I’m not expecting an enthusiastic reception. How’s everything looking?’

  ‘Fabulous! Especially now that the pièce de résistance has arrived. Better late than never, although I’m not sure Evie would agree with me. That girl is seriously stressed out.’

  ‘What do you mean “better late than never”?’ asked Sam, slotting his hands into the pockets of his elegant dinner suit and flapping his elbows.

  ‘Prepare to be amazed!’ exclaimed Pippa, as Evie arrived back downstairs.

  Whilst Pippa pointed out the new arrival, Evie stole a covert sweep of Sam Bradbury from under her lashes. Whenever Sam called in to the gallery to chat to her and Pippa and scrutinize the various exhibitions, he was usually dressed in his ‘starving artist’ uniform of faded jeans and washed-out rock band T-shirt liberally splattered with splodges of oil paint.

  She knew he did it just to annoy his father who disapproved of his son’s adamant pursuit of his passion for painting instead of being crowned the next Lord Chief Justice. But, in honour of that evening’s exhibition, Sam had clearly reverted to type. His short blond hair had been professionally tamed into a trendy quiff and he wore a tailored dinner jacket, starched white collar, and a jaunty crimson bow tie.

  Evie smiled to herself. For James’s sake she was pleased Sam had decided – for one night only – not to engage in his usual rebellious warfare with his father. She knew James had christened Sam the ‘wild child’ of the family and Sam seemed to do everything he could to live up to the badge of honour. Nevertheless, Evie had struggled to figure out why his father steadfastly continued to refuse to allow Sam to exhibit his own art at the family’s gallery. If Sam Bradbury, privileged and precocious heir of James Bradbury, couldn’t get a break in the art world, then what hope was there for her?

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked, joining Sam and Pippa in front of the star of the show, taking a few moments to consider the subject matter with her artist’s eye. ‘Your professional opinion, please. Personally, I think it’s the best piece in the collection. It’s probably Jaxx’s most recent canvas judging by the darkness and despondency of the rest. Either that or it’s been “ghost-painted” by someone else!’

  Unlike the canvases on either side, the last-minute substitution was lively and flamboyant – exactly what she had expected to see from the pop star-turned-painter. The juxtaposition between the cobalt and turquoise blues of the backdrop and the saffron and sap green of the foreground delivered a thump of joy to her soul, causing her emotions to scream a connection with the image. Its complex composition was an intensely woven poem of colours that pulled her into its embrace.

  ‘Well, I love it!’ declared Pippa, her eyes shining. ‘Hey, I’ve just had an amazing idea! What if Jaxx is the elusive street artist that everyone is talking about? Flex? You know, the guy who’s been painting the empty shop windows with those fabulous optical illusions?’

  ‘No one knows who it is, Pip, but I don’t think it’s Jaxx Benson.’ Evie laughed. ‘Anyway, what makes you think it’s a man? I happen to have it on good authority that they were painted by last year’s winner of the RCA Young Artist’s prize and that was a woman … and she’s called Martha Felicity Evans. Flex has to be her, don’t you think?’

  ‘I have to agree with Evie, I’m afraid, Pippa. You can’t compare any of the canvases hung on the walls in this room with what the street artist is aiming to do. Their art is a gift to the whole community, transforming ugly, disused retail premises into places of beauty for everyone to enjoy – free of charge.’

  ‘I loved the one that made it look like the store was a quaint, old-fashioned teashop crammed with people enjoying afternoon tea. It looked so real, like you could just push open the door and go inside and grab a cucumber sandwich and a cupcake. They’re even calling the artist – him or her – the new Banksy!’ said Pippa.

  ‘I don’t know why the press insist on labelling every street artist who chooses to maintain their anonymity the new Banksy. Why can’t they be individuals in their own right?’

  Pippa rolled her eyes at Evie and turned back to the canvas in front of them. ‘What do you think, Sam?’

  Sam folded his arms across his chest, his pewter eyes narrowing as he too studied the work of art. The lemony fragrance of his aftershave floated in the air between them and Evie suddenly wondered why he wasn’t accompanied by one of his many attractive female friends. Almost every time he came into the gallery, a different girl accompanied him, each of whom could have graced the cover of Vogue but who rarely, if ever, showed any interest in the artwork that was on display.

  ‘I think it’s …’ began Sam, tipping his head to one side and rubbing his thumb and forefinger on the point of his chin.

  ‘Hey, why are you all just standing around like guests at a royal garden party?’ demanded James Bradbury, striding into his eponymous gallery, his Italian leather loafers squeaking on the varnished parquet flooring. ‘There’s already a long queue outside. Everyone, get into your positions please! I’m going to cut the ribbon and announce this exhibition open.’

  ‘Awesome!’ Pippa clapped her hands and displayed her perfect teeth in such evident pleasure that she could have been a model for a toothpaste commercial.

  When she had dashed off in James’s wake, Sam leaned forward to whisper in Evie’s ear. ‘Once again, it seems you’ve escaped my interrogation as to why you choose to curate other artists’ exhibitions rather than organizing your own. I know you are much too discreet to reveal what you truly think of these canvases, but I’m sure your opinion is the same as mine. Jaxx Benson has little talent. Next time I see you I’m expecting a full-blown inventory of the progress you’ve made towards fulfilling your own dreams instead of delivering on others’.’

  A blast of hot indignation shot into Evie’s chest. How dare he accuse her of shelving her dreams as though she had a choice? Sam had no idea what it was like to have to work for a living. It was all right for him. He didn’t have to worry about landing the next big, juicy libel case, because he was secure in the knowledge that if he couldn’t pay his rent, there would always be room for him at the family home in Guildford.

  ‘Is that what you’re doing, Sam? Because last time I looked you were following in your father’s – and your brother’s – footsteps by providing the capital’s criminal frater
nity with legal services. So why aren’t you focusing on your own passion to paint?’

  ‘Touché.’

  Heat flooded her cheeks, but Evie managed to rein in her emotions, as she didn’t want to engage in a rerun of their habitual sniping contest before the Jaxx Benson exhibition even got under way. They both had their reasons – albeit very different ones – for putting their dreams on hold. She replaced her frown with a smile; after all Sam Bradbury was her boss’s son.

  ‘Why don’t you stay? It’s not just star-struck Fire of Fury fans with VIP tickets. We’re expecting quite a few journalists and art critics too.’

  She watched Sam’s gaze follow his father’s ramrod-straight back as he strode towards the door to admit the waiting guests into his gallery, issuing staccato directions over his shoulder to Antoine and Pierre about keeping the guests’ drinks topped up.

  ‘Dad made it perfectly clear he doesn’t want me here. I had the misfortune to bump into him at my brother’s house last weekend. I had to endure yet another one of his lectures about his disappointment and frustration that I haven’t ditched my passion for creating art in favour of honing my networking skills – not to mention how well Ben’s doing as a tax barrister at his chambers. My brother thinks it’s funny, tells me to ignore him, but to be honest, Dad’s constant criticism is really starting to get to me.’

  Evie glanced from Sam to James. Save for the smattering of grey hair at his temples, he was a carbon copy of his son. They both sported deep creases across their foreheads and a fathomless sadness in their silver-grey eyes. Whilst Sam’s reflected the same cause of pain, it was not as acute as his father’s. Evie hadn’t met Sam’s older brother, Benjamin, but she could hazard a guess that he too carried his grief with a heavy heart.