The Improbability of Love

by Hannah Rothschild

  Attendance of museums went up by 34 per cent for adults, but schools cancelled their educational trips, fearing a backlash from anti-pornography and children’s rights campaigners. Septimus Ward-Thomas, Director of the National Gallery, issued a statement: ‘While it is true that the gallery contains paintings of unmarried mothers (the Virgin Mary) as well as depicting violence, rape, murder, assault and other quite alarming human pursuits, these acts have been considered through the lens of an artist. We do not consider a visit to the National Gallery unsuitable for any age.’

  When it was revealed that the painting had been stolen from Buckingham Palace by a footman, there were further flurries of speculation. How could the royals miss something so valuable? Were they total heathens? Would the Winklemans bow down before the royals and hand the painting back? There was a silence of five days from the Palace before Her Majesty announced, ‘We are pleased that our painting has been rediscovered after such a long absence. We are delighted that it will be auctioned to raise money for an admirable cause.’ Every paper on both sides of the Atlantic and from Durban to Dar es Salaam, from Cape Wrath to the Cape of Good Hope, carried a picture of the Queen grimacing. (In fact, the photograph was taken the moment the Queen’s horse was beaten at Epsom, not when she made the announcement.)

  Media attention fanned the flames of avarice; it seemed everyone wanted to own The Improbability of Love. Monachorum fielded thousands of calls. Old-age pensioners offered their life’s savings; children their pocket money ‘for ever’; museums, private collectors, kings, queens, Russians, Arabs, rap stars and even governments came forward to register their interest.

  The Earl had never felt so popular – if only he could delay the sale by another couple of years and continue to enjoy the cases of wine, free dinners and other extravagant presents that came his way. He was also aware that it would take some skilful negotiating powers to keep everyone happy. There would only be one winner and somehow the Earl had to keep the runners-up calm. Monachorum could end up losing more than it gained if its Ultra-High-Net-Worthers felt played or hard done by.

  Sifting through the time-wasters and the out-of-their-league category, Beachendon identified some likely candidates. Mrs Appledore, an old friend of the auction house, wanted to use the millions in her husband’s charitable foundation before her death. The Earl thought she could bid up to £250 million.

  Ladies Halfpennies were ‘beyond excited’ by the mention of the rap singer M. Power Dub-Box. In recent months he had stunned the art world by buying some seminally important and expensive works of art.

  The Emir and Sheikha of Alwabbi had recently built a museum in their dusty Middle Eastern capital. The building was the same size as Heathrow’s Terminal 5, 1,227 hectares of polished marble. As recent arrivals in the museum world, they had found little of real importance to put in their museum. If the Alwabbis could get the Watteau it would immediately put their little kingdom on every art tourist’s must-visit list. As the largest producer of the world’s liquid gas, they might bid up to £1 billion, the Earl reckoned. Whether the Emir would allow his headstrong wife to go that far was anyone’s guess.

  Then there were the warring oligarchs whose battles had already driven up the prices of property and precious objects to unimaginable levels. The Earl had met London’s newest oligarch, Vladimir Antipovsky, with Barty and it was well known that the man who controlled 43 per cent of the world’s tin production and would stop at nothing to outbid his arch-rival Dmitri Voldakov, who controlled 68 per cent of the Earth’s potash. Both men had recently sold minority stakes in their companies for $8 billion and $9 billion respectively. The Earl didn’t dare speculate what they might spend to thwart each other.

  To his amazement, there had also been calls from representatives of the French and British governments. France believed that it had a right, as Watteau was one of theirs. (The Earl did not tell the French ambassador that Watteau was born in Valenciennes and was therefore technically Flemish.) While the British Prime Minister said the painting must remain on British soil, everyone knew the country could not afford the price tag.

  As recipient of 0.2 per cent of the winning bid, the Earl was looking at a tidy nest egg for himself and his family.

  ‘Snatched from poverty’s jaws,’ he told the Countess. ‘Not a second too early.’

  The Countess smiled and agreed that it was really too marvellous.

  Seeing Jesse lost in a fug of gloom in the Wallace staffroom, Larissa insisted he join her for dinner that night. When he arrived, she sat him on a stool by her worktop while she chopped and prepped dinner.

  ‘Of course I know about the Watteau – you’d have to be living in Nova Scotia with your head up a polar bear’s bum to have avoided it,’ she said, plunging a live lobster in boiling water. A terrible scream came from the pot; Jesse winced.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s just air coming out of the shell,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Can you peel those pieces of garlic, darling?’ She stopped. ‘Or are you seeing a girlfriend later?’

  Jesse shook his head.

  ‘Great gods – wasn’t the girl you liked Annie, the thief ?’

  Jesse winced again but nodded.

  ‘Lucky you got out alive.’

  ‘It never really got going.’ Jesse decided that Larissa didn’t need to know everything, for both of their sakes.

  ‘Chop the garlic into tiny segments please,’ Larissa instructed.

  Jesse felt a stab of sadness – the last time he had cooked was with Annie on the night of her triumphant dinner. She had looked so happy and at ease in the makeshift kitchen, sending dishes out like neatly ordered squadrons, one after the other.

  ‘Was Trichcombe a friend of yours?’ Jesse asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

  ‘I knew him for twenty years but he was only ever an acquaintance. Can you make mayonnaise?’

  Jesse nodded. Taking an egg, he cracked it on the edge of a china bowl and separated the yolks from the whites. Then, taking the tiny segments of garlic, he crushed them into the mix.

  ‘Do you like mustard with it?’ he asked.

  Larissa nodded and Jesse added half a teaspoon of mustard, a tablespoon of vinegar and some salt and pepper to the mixture. He beat these hard together before drizzling olive oil into the bowl.

  ‘He came here for dinner a few nights before he died. Never seen him so cheerful.’

  ‘What was he working on?’ Jesse asked.

  ‘He wouldn’t tell me exactly but something that would cause an absolute scandal – he kept saying “this is going to be big, very big”. Why do you ask?’

  ‘He called me up and kept going on about Apollo – I couldn’t think what he meant,’ lied Jesse.

  ‘I heard he was writing about Watteau.’ Larissa fished the lobster out of the pot and put it on a side plate. ‘He was going to publish a new piece of research he’d been working on – couldn’t decide if it should go to the Mail or Apollo. Rather different beasts if you ask me.’

  ‘Did he tell you what it was about?’ Jesse beat the oil into the mayonnaise. He felt his face redden slightly. He had always been hopeless at subterfuge.

  ‘Some issue of provenance, a lost painting. Bound to be wonderfully dry. Poor old Trichcombe, he was always off-beam. Never really recovered from being fired by Memling Winkleman.’

  Jesse stopped beating. ‘He was fired by Winkleman? What for?’

  ‘Keep stirring, darling, or it will curdle,’ Larissa chided. ‘I never could get to the bottom of his dismissal; it included a non-disclosure agreement so he couldn’t talk about it. In an unguarded moment Trichcombe said he discovered some skulduggery in the archives. Standard art-world conspiracy stuff. Delores said he had one drink too many and Memling flipped.’

  ‘It would be too much to hope that he sent you a copy of his manuscript for safe keeping?’ Jesse asked.

  ‘Good lord, no. He wouldn’t share anything like that with anybody. He probably sent it to a PO box in Timbuktu or a relative in Mold
.’

  ‘Mold?’

  ‘Where the family comes from.’

  Jesse remembered the noticeboard in Abufel’s flat on which the academic had written ‘Manuscript to Mold’.

  ‘Sit down, this pink gentleman is à point.’ Larissa plunged the lobster into icy water and placed a salad on the table. She dipped a finger into Jesse’s mayonnaise, ‘Not bad, not bad at all.’

  Jesse looked at the crustacean and his thoughts turned to Annie. Would she ever eat or cook a lobster again? Would she be able to make or taste fresh mayonnaise? He wondered what it would be like to be told that he’d never paint again, never be able to lose himself in a composition or express his ideas pictorially.

  Larissa looked at Jesse closely. ‘What’s wrong, Jesse? What have you got mixed up in?’

  Jesse shook his head and swallowed. ‘I was just thinking how delicious dinner looked.’

  Putting down her knife and fork, Larissa took his hand. ‘Take a piece of advice from me. The art world is not some cosy little backwater; it’s a cut-throat business. Beauty and the desire to possess have driven men mad for centuries. Add a hundred and twenty billion dollars annually to that equation and you have serious trouble. Think about it, Jesse – these days even a lesser work by a minor artist is worth more than most of us see in a lifetime.’

  Jesse nodded glumly.

  ‘To make matters more complicated,’ Larissa continued, ‘it’s a world built on reputation and the bigwigs will stop at nothing to maintain their standing – nothing. I don’t know what happened between Trichcombe and the Winklemans all those years ago – frankly, I didn’t want to know. When Trich came in here a few weeks ago claiming to have finally nailed “the bastard”, I asked him to shut up. I wish I hadn’t told you that I had seen him. The Winklemans’ influence spreads beyond salerooms, museums, galleries and institutions; they own dealerships, stringers; they bribe the police, the press. The old man probably owns Apollo and the Burlington. He’s the single biggest charitable donor, not just to the art world but also to the political parties. Trich thought he could take him on; now he’s dead – go figure. Even if I did know something, Jesse, I wouldn’t tell you.’

  Leaning across the table, Larissa looked earnestly at Jesse.

  ‘I’m sorry you fell in love with that girl. Truly sorry. But you have to accept that even if she is innocent, she is never coming out of prison.’

  ‘She is innocent!’ Jesse jumped up, red in the face.

  ‘One woman and her impassioned boyfriend against the world? It doesn’t work like that. Jesse, the best thing you can do is put the girl behind you.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You don’t have any choice. If she’s lucky, she’ll stay behind bars. Now eat your lobster and tell me about the rest of your life.’

  Jesse had no appetite and had to force the lobster down. He knew that Larissa spoke the truth and though it didn’t frighten him personally, he was terrified for Annie. Maybe being in prison was the safest place for her; at least there, they could not kill her.

  Chapter 35

  It was the first time that the Rt. Hon. Barnaby Damson had been summoned to the Prime Minister’s office in the Houses of Parliament. Damson waited outside while efficient private secretaries strode past, none giving him the time of day. Everyone knew that Damson’s ministry was a political backwater; at best a stepping stone to greater things, at worst a place of no consequence. Once upon a time, members who were either hopeless or hopeful were sent to Northern Ireland; now they went to the Department of Culture.

  After a forty minutes’ wait, Damson was shown into a room the size of a tennis court. The PM sat at the very end and Damson’s shoes squeaked loudly as he made his way on the parquet floor towards the stately desk.

  ‘Bit like being called before the Provost at ‘school’,’ Damson remarked.

  ‘For God’s sake don’t mention ‘school’,’ the PM hissed. ‘Eton was supposed to prepare us for life, not hang a rope of guilt around our necks. Now, why are you here?’ he asked crossly.

  ‘You asked to see me.’

  ‘What for?’

  Damson’s hopes rose and fell simultaneously; he was not being promoted or demoted.

  ‘Is it to explain about the painting, The Improbability of Love?’ Damson suggested.

  ‘Of course. Now start from the beginning. How do you pronounce the chap’s name?’ the PM asked.

  ‘Watteau – it rhymes with French for boat,’ Damson replied.

  ‘Boat, moat, float, John o’ Groat?’ said the PM, mystified.

  ‘The French word for boat is bateau,’ Damson pointed out. He pronounced the word in a perfect French accent, ‘V-A-T-T-E-A-U.’

  ‘Vat – what?’

  ‘Think of “What Ho”,’ Damson suggested.

  ‘What Ho! He must have been Bertie Wooster’s kind of painter,’ said the PM.

  ‘Hilarious. What a good joke, sir,’ Damson said, thinking about his promotion.

  ‘So what’s the subject matter?’

  ‘Two lovers in a woody glade.’

  ‘Is it pornographic?’ the PM asked nervously.

  ‘Not at all. I have a reproduction in my pocket.’ Damson took a folded piece of A4 out of his pocket.

  ‘Art is a minefield, isn’t it?’ the PM said.

  Damson nodded and laid the picture out on the desk. ‘You see, it’s not rude – just a man looking at a beautiful woman.’

  The PM looked at the picture closely. ‘Not much to write home about, is it? Kind of thing Great-Aunt Maude would have liked.’

  ‘It has integrity and beauty,’ Damson said.

  ‘I never liked art much,’ said the PM.

  ‘Really?’

  The PM got up and walked around his office. Looking out of his window he saw four distinct groups of protestors shouting about the price of bread, the failure of education, foreign policy in the Middle East and the collapse of the National Health Service. They looked insignificant on the grass rectangle, dwarfed by government buildings on two sides, the Supreme Court opposite and Westminster Abbey behind, but the PM knew that together they encapsulated the mood of the country: there were less than twelve months till the next election and his ratings had collapsed.

  ‘I need a patriotic story. Can this picture deliver a positive message?’ he said, striding around his office. ‘Plucky little Britain snatches the work from under the noses of foreigners. Your government has saved a great masterpiece for the nation.’ The PM had gone quite pink around the gills. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘That is a brilliant idea.’

  ‘Thank you, Plum.’

  ‘It’s Damson actually,’ Damson said quietly.

  ‘What is this thing worth?’ the PM asked.

  ‘It’s worth what someone is willing to pay for it. There is a market consensus that gives us a kind of guide figure.’ Damson thought the moment had come to educate his Prime Minister a little bit.

  ‘For God’s sake stop talking in riddles,’ said the PM. ‘How much?’

  ‘The low estimate is one hundred and eighty million.’

  The PM put a hand to his chest. ‘One hundred and eighty million pounds? Is it painted on gold?’

  ‘No, just plain old canvas,’ said Damson.

  ‘I could buy a warhead for that. A bit of a warhead, anyway.’

  ‘It is a lot,’ Damson agreed. ‘The French are determined to buy it. I have heard they are prepared to spend up to three hundred million pounds.’

  ‘Three hundred million!’ The PM jumped to his feet. ‘That is exactly the amount of money they received to bail out another collapsing bank. Over my dead body are those frogs getting my painting.’

  ‘It is a French painting,’ Damson pointed out.

  ‘It’s on our bloody soil now: that makes it a British painting.’

  ‘Do we have the money?’ Damson asked.

  ‘Not exactly; well, not at all, actually. What else can we do?’

  ‘We can refus
e an export licence and hope to find a white knight willing to buy it and donate it to the country.’

  ‘Who the hell would do that?’ the PM asked.

  ‘Someone who might want an honour.’

  ‘Can we get away with an OBE?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Knighthood?’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘I can’t give away peerages these days without every bloody select committee and newspaper going after me.’

  ‘The problem, sir, as you know,’ said Damson, ‘is that art, rather like gold, has become another kind of currency. With the euro gone to pot and the yen in free fall, many see art as a safe investment.’

  The PM strode around the office. He had the disconcerting habit of clicking his fingers loudly and every so often an alarmingly loud crack of knuckle broke the silence.

  Damson looked out of the window at the demonstrators who, catching sight of a figure in the window, waved their placards with gusto.

  ‘I’ve made a decision,’ the PM said decisively. ‘I had better get on to MI6 – tell them to sort it out.’

  ‘They can’t exactly storm an auction house; we’re not the Congo,’ Damson said nervously.

  ‘It’s highly unlikely the Congo has an auction house. Our Foreign Office, however, has a secret service.’

  ‘James Bond to the rescue!’ Damson said, doing his rather fine Sean Connery impersonation.

  The PM looked furious.

  ‘That was a joke,’ Damson said quickly. ‘No idiot would think of sending in James Bond.’

  The PM raised his eyebrows. ‘Wouldn’t they?’ he said coldly. ‘Actually, that was exactly what I was thinking. Only these days James Bond is called Darren Lu – second-generation Chinese – deadly, I am told.’ The PM looked at his watch and sighed.