“This can’t be right,” said Robert. “How could they know I’ve been taking instructions from Regina? We haven’t even filed a claim yet.”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. Just stop asking questions.” Caroline ran off leaving Robert to ponder the twin mysteries of married and corporate life and to curse his wife’s stubbornness. She was heading towards a cluster of people being filmed by the cameraman.
The camera had plenty to point at. The great and the good had come to the National Portrait Gallery to be present when Princess Fiona, the charity’s patron, unveiled the twelve pictures and launched the worldwide online bidding. The charity was expecting to raise millions even before the calendar was published. Evening dress was de rigueur. The artists’ models had been asked to make a special effort to make sure there were plenty of pictures in tomorrow’s papers and newsfeeds.
Xena had arrived and was attracting attention. She saw such happenings as a work of performance art, and had managed to dress in a manner which suggested nudity more completely than if she wasn’t wearing a stitch. Caroline and Antonia worked their way over to her. Xena abandoned the journalist who was hanging on her every word when she saw Caroline approaching.
“Darling, at last. Where have you been?” She planted warm kisses on Caroline’s cheeks. “This young journalist has suggested I am under-dressed and that the Princess may be offended. Just wait ‘till she sees the paintings. In fact, I told him he should examine me more closely. It is a clever illusion, even my ankles are covered.”
“It’s certainly dramatic,” said Antonia. “I suppose it was made especially for you. I can’t imagine it would fit anyone else quite so perfectly.”
“I should have introduced you two,” said Caroline. “Xena, this is my best friend at work, Antonia. She’s brilliant at PR and a good pole dancer to boot.”
“Ah, another performance artist,” said Xena. “Welcome to the club. Is it difficult, pole dancing in boots?”
“It’s just a hobby,” said Antonia. “Caroline’s being wicked; I do it for fitness.”
“But you perform, yes?”
“I did once, and I loved it. And I’ve given one or two private shows.”
“I prefer intimate events myself,” said Xena. “This is all too predictable; except for one thing. Why are there four paintings on the wall behind the stage? That makes thirteen, unless I’ve forgotten how to count.”
The violins came to a sublime conclusion. An avuncular man, the chairman of the charity, coughed into the microphone on the stage. The hubbub subsided and the guests hurried to occupy the velvet covered seats arranged in rows in front of the stage.
“Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen. Thank you for giving up your time to be here. This is a very special event for BCRI, marking, as it does, our thirtieth anniversary. I trust it will be the biggest fundraising event in our history. I know you haven’t come to listen to me talk about all the fantastic work done by our army of helpers, but there are sixteen special volunteers that I want to introduce to you this evening.
“Firstly, the three artists, who have given many hours of their time and the gift of their talent. Could you stand up please?” The artists rose artistically from their seats, except Cecil Sharpe who, well into his nineties, painted from a wheelchair. They received the acclaim to which they were accustomed as multiple prize winners.
“And next, the twelve models. Now I should explain, these are not professional models in the usual meaning of the word, although I know they all approached their role with the utmost professionalism. They are ordinary women – nurses, businesswomen, civil servants – doing something extraordinary. They were chosen specifically by the artists because they felt they were the right women to convey the message and spirit of the charity’s research and support work.
“They too have given up many hours of their precious time to further our work. They have also given something of themselves, as we will all see shortly. It is very brave of them, they have made an outstanding contribution, and they have our thanks. Could you stand please, models, starting with January?”
One by one the models rose from their chairs. The audience applauded each one generously, but Caroline noted that August got the longest ovation.
“Finally, there is one volunteer who has contributed more to our work than any other individual. Princess Fiona of East Anglia has been our patron for nearly five years and not one month has gone by without her being involved in one of our events. She has visited literally hundreds of women who have benefited from the treatments made possible by the charity. And by agreeing to attend our launch this evening, she has lent her weight to our ambitious plans for international fundraising over the next decade.
“I am sure you will appreciate how difficult it is for her to be in the public eye every moment. The press have, at times, overstepped the bounds of good taste on the pretext that our patron is interested in breasts. I am confident that the generous support of the public will send a strong message that good works will always triumph over sordid intentions.” The crowd applauded the sentiment loudly.
“Now I will shut up because I know it’s not me you want to look at on the podium. May I introduce our patron, Princess Fiona of East Anglia? Ma’am?” The chairman extended an arm towards a door at the corner of the gallery, and Princess Fiona floated into the room, preceded by a duo of shaven-headed security guards and followed by a trio of ladies-in-waiting.
All eyes were trained on the imposing figure of Princess Fiona as she glided with perfect posture to the podium. The chairman bowed slightly and shook her hand before retreating a respectful distance. Two official photographers were permitted to take a number of pictures of the Princess smiling at the audience, and were then ushered to the back of the room. The Princess did not speak often in public and an expectant hush settled over the gallery.
“Thank you, Mr Chairman, for inviting me to speak to you this evening. I am full of admiration for the work of the BCRI and it will always have my support. I have to correct one point, Mr Chairman. You suggested that I have contributed more than any other individual and that is certainly not the case. On the contrary, I feel I take more than I give. The cancer sufferers and volunteers I speak to are an enormous inspiration to me. So much so, that they have given me the courage to take an important step, one which would have seemed impossible for one in my position just a few years ago.
“In fact, I have to correct you, Mr Chairman on two points. The second one is the suggestion that I am lending my weight to this campaign to raise funds worldwide. It is not a loan. My energy will be behind this more than ever, though admittedly in a different way. I intend to dedicate myself fully to the cause.”
Puzzled looks began to be exchanged and the journalists in the back row began surreptitiously texting their colleagues. They sniffed a significant announcement.
“Sorry, three points, Mr Chairman,” continued the Princess. “You said it is difficult for me to live every moment in the public eye. You are wrong. It is a privilege. I’m sure I would have been very lonely at times on that Caribbean island were it not for the gentlemen of the press emerging from behind a coconut palm or out of the waves in their wet suits.” The audience laughed.
“I do admit the attention can be a little tiresome when added to the speculation about my possible relationship with every eligible bachelor in Europe. I wish to confirm that the rumours concerning a future marriage to Prince Lippi of Giulia are entirely erroneous. This evening I plan to put all speculation to rest.” The journalists began hopping up and down with excitement. News was about to happen. A security guard forced them to sit down on pain of expulsion.
“But before I give everything away,” continued the princess, “it is my great pleasure to declare the online bidding open for these unique works of art, and to ask each of the models to pull the curtain back on their likenesses for the first time in public.”
Caroline, Xena and the ten other artists’ models assumed their stations by t
he curtained pictures and awaited the signal from the chairman, who led the assembly on a countdown.
“Ten, nine, eight…” Princess Fiona left the podium and slipped to the back of the stage with one of her ladies-in-waiting, beneath the thirteenth painting.
“Three, two, one. Miss January, please.” Miss January pulled the chord and revealed herself in goose bumped glory. The audience applauded nervously, unsure how enthusiastic they were supposed to be when faced with bare flesh in front of royalty. As each painting was revealed, the applause grew more confident. When Xena’s likeness was exposed in all its lush summer glow, a raucous male cheer was added to the clapping. Xena smiled slightly, knowing that Erik had captured something true.
Caroline grew anxious as summer turned to autumn. Miss October had been painted by Cecil Sharpe. In his youth he had been dubbed the Yorkshire Picasso, his paintings and sculptures, according to the gallery notes, charting the fracturing of traditional relationships between men and women. In his dotage, he had mellowed, seeming to enjoy the female form as an object of desire, tinged with humour and regret (according to the gallery notes) that something so lovely was slipping beyond his grasp. To the philistines who made up the bulk of the audience and hadn’t read the notes, Miss October was simply a stunner in the act of discarding her nurse’s uniform.
It was Caroline’s turn to pull the chord. Not for the first time she had doubts about the wisdom of her decision to reveal herself so completely. Caroline looked nervously over to Robert. Antonia was holding his hand supportively. She shut her eyes as she drew back the curtain. She waited for the audience reaction. None came. Then a few hands clapped politely. She tentatively opened her eyes.
The newspaper art critics were grouped together. They looked to each other, mouths gaping like fish. They needed a leader. Was it good or was it terrible? Was it clever or was it obscene? Then Benjamin Cummerbund from The Times leaped to his feet and shouted “Bravo!”
The audience gave a sigh of relief that it was considered acceptable to enjoy such an explicitly sexual work. Thank God it was art and not pornography. Caroline turned round to see what Erik had done to her. He hadn’t made her look horrible after all. He had removed all the work tension from her posture and had her loose and inviting on the couch, every sensuous brushstroke applied in loving realist detail. Her hands went to her face to hide her blushes, and as soon as the cameras and the attention moved on to December, she slipped back to her seat next to Robert and Antonia.
“I wouldn’t mind having that on my wall,” said Antonia. “Do you think it would fit above my bed? I think I’ll make a bid.” Antonia rummaged for her phone and looked up the on-line auction. “Perhaps not, you’re already over a quarter of a million.”
“You see, Robert, it was in a good cause,” said Caroline. Robert was not sure whether the cause was good enough. It would take him more than a moment to work out his feelings. On one hand it was obvious to the whole world that Erik had been making love, in some shape or form, to his wife. On the other hand, he was proud to be married to such a beautiful, desirable woman. It was a turn-on to imagine her exposed to a worldwide audience. He let his emotions do battle behind a quiet façade.
“Tell me what you think,” insisted Caroline.
“I don’t know what I think. It’s a bit of a shock to share you with Erik and all these people.”
“You’ve always been jealous of Erik. You don’t understand the artistic temperament.”
“I understand that painting, though.”
Their deliberations were interrupted by the return of the chairman to the podium.
“Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen. I think we can all agree that our artists have done a splendid job in capturing the essence of the seasons. The more observant of you may have noticed there is one more painting on the wall behind me. No, it’s not a lunar calendar. But our patron requested that we include one extra image to enhance the published work and raise additional funds. The thirteenth picture, painted secretly by royal appointment, will adorn the cover of the charity calendar. Ma’am, can I ask you to reveal the final work of art.” He stood back and there was Princess Fiona. She pulled back the red velvet curtain.
Pandemonium erupted at the back of the hall with the journalists jumping on chairs and taking pictures with their phones. There was an interlude whilst security forced the journalists back into their seats, but when order had been restored, Princess Fiona took the hand of her closest lady-in-waiting, whose naked likeness also appeared in the picture, and they approached the podium together.
“I know some of you will be shocked to see one with no clothes on. But believe it or not, one is human too. Hermione and I have been together in a relationship for two years now. The painting, which I trust you critics will judge is a tasteful nocturne making clever use of moonlight and shade, is a reflection of the love we feel for each other.
“I will continue my work for BCRI, but not as Princess Fiona. Out of respect for my family, I am renouncing my position of ninth in line to the throne. Henceforth I will be known as Dame Fiona of Fakenham. Sorry as I am to disappoint you, when Hermione and I get married in July, it will not be a royal wedding. However, we will put on a jolly good bash and an outdoor popular concert to cheer up the unemployed youngsters.” Robert was struck with a flash of inspiration. His warring band could bury the hatchet and reform for Fiona and Hermione’s grand party. He busied his fingers with a text to Rick Hammer.
Nobody who was at the National Portrait Gallery that night was ever short of a dinner party story. Yet momentous as these events of national significance were, Caroline and Robert could not escape their personal domestic dramas. Robert drank too much at the after-show party and made accurate but unsubstantiated allegations about Caroline’s conduct with Erik. Caroline retaliated with almost accurate, but also unsubstantiated accusations about what Robert and Antonia did after she went to work the day she was suspended. Loud and cross words were exchanged. The upshot was, though neither of them desired it, that Caroline went home with Erik and Xena to his flat in Belgravia, and Robert went with Antonia back to her flat near London Bridge.
Fifteen
Caroline was determined to think positively. Not having to go to work every day had its advantages. She had been able to behave in a bohemian manner with Erik and Xena, indulging in soft flesh late into the next morning. And now she was free to respond to the invitation of her mystery mother to meet at some legal offices in Edinburgh, an old grey stone building close to Waverley Station.
The wheels of her blue case rattled over the cobbles of the steep side street. She looked at the brass plaque on the door of number 26 and something about it reminded her of Robert. Wasn’t one of the firms of solicitors that gave him work called Forbes-Somebody? She rang the bell and was met by a prim woman with a perfect bonnet of blond hair.
“I’m Dorothy, Mr Forbes-Brown’s secretary.”
“I’m here to meet my mother. Only I don’t know her name yet.”
“Please take a seat. Mr Forbes-Brown will be with you shortly.”
Caroline did as she was told and leafed through a dog-eared Classic Car magazine while she waited. A restored Aston Martin caught her eye. She imagined it parked in front of the porticoed entrance to her house. She must not sit back and let Andreas and the spineless creeps in his management team take everything away from her, even her dreams.
She opened her case and took out the note he had left on the table at the Copacabana Palace Hotel. How would it stand as evidence in a hearing? It certainly contained lewd suggestions, and referred to lewd activities that had already taken place. But did it amount to a confession that he had organised her kidnap? It made her shiver just thinking about it. She read the note again:
“…you owe me for the repairs. But don’t worry; I will accept payment in kind.”
How did he know the kidnappers’ van was damaged? She hadn’t told him about how she had escaped halfway up the hill and let the handbrake off. He could onl
y know because he’d picked up the bill. No, she wouldn’t cut her losses, as all her so-called colleagues thought she should. She would fight. She would take that bastard down, even if it meant taking the company down too.
She took out her tablet and composed an email to Ivan, subject line: A new chief executive for Monsaint? What had she learnt from Melody on the management course in Spain? The successful executive harnesses the ambition of others…
A grey haired man in a waistcoat put his head round the door of the waiting room.
“Caroline Fanshaw?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
Forbes-Brown shook her hand warmly. “Delighted to meet you, my dear. I had no idea you’d be so young and pretty. What ever attracted you to that idle bugger Robert?”
“You know Robert?”
“Of course. If it wasn’t for me he’d never have got started on the commercial side. I did it as a favour to his father. Now there was a fine QC, God rest his soul. Don’t see much of Robert since I crossed the border but still keep an eye on him. Just had to take him off a case to protect him from a client.”
“I’m sorry, I’m confused. I was given this address to meet my natural mother. I was adopted as a baby and I’ve been trying to make contact.”
“No need for confusion, my dear. It’s all straightforward. Your mother happens to be a client of ours, so I suggested, or she suggested, that it would be convenient to meet you here for the first time. Miss Heart lives out in the wilds.”
“Miss Heart? Is she Scottish?”
“Not from her accent, but you can ask her yourself. She’s asked me to give you this confidentiality statement to sign first. She wants you to keep her identity secret from everyone. You must understand, even after all these years, it’s still an embarrassment to her that she had a child in her teens when she was in no position to care for it.”
“It? So, I’m an embarrassment?”
“No, no, not at all. I’m being clumsy. It’s just that she has had a high profile career and does not want any unnecessary attention on her private life. That’s why she contacted you directly and not through the charity.”
Shameless Exposure Page 16
