by Lucy Lord
‘So which ones do you want?’ I ask.
‘All of them.’ He produces a Coutts chequebook and says, ‘I think I’d better snap them up before anybody else does. I’m assuming a cheque’s OK?’
Ali is rushing around with red stickers, giving me a discreet thumbs-up, when I spot Andy and Alison through the crowds. Alison is looking sickeningly elegant in a short and sleeveless teal silk shirt dress cinched at the waist with a tan leather belt, which makes the most of her slim figure and shows off her thoroughbred legs. Flat tan sandals and an oversized man’s watch add a touch of nonchalant chic to the ensemble, and make me feel like a scruffy schoolgirl in my Shoreditch artist fancy dress.
‘Alison!’ shouts Philip, spotting her and surprising me. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Oh, my bridesmaid owns the gallery,’ she says, proffering her cheek for a kiss. Bitch. ‘And Bella’s our best man’s sister.’ Yup, my exhibition is all about your wedding.
‘Hello Andy,’ Philip nods at him. Andy nods back, and seeing my look of confusion says, ‘Philip is a senior partner at Alison’s firm. Hi Bella.’
‘Oh right. Hi Andy.’
God it’s horrible, standing here giving each other such curt greetings, when all I want is to hurl myself into his arms. The feelings haven’t gone away one bit.
‘And I’ve just bought these sensational drawings,’ says Philip, indicating them. ‘Aren’t they beautiful?’
This is just too excruciating.
‘How’s the wedding planning coming along, Alison?’ I ask, as if I don’t dream every night about fucking her fiancé. She puts a skinny arm around Andy’s waist and smirks.
‘Oh, it’s going to be quite wonderful. We had a few hitches to begin with but now everything’s going like clockwork, isn’t it darling?’ She kisses his cheek and I want to kill her. ‘They might even want to do a spread on it in Harpers.’
To his credit, Andy also looks as if he wants to die.
‘Well, that’s great. I’m really looking forward to the big day,’ I say, wondering if my nose has grown a foot. ‘But do you mind if Philip and I just complete this deal?’
Very coolly done. Pat on the back for me.
Flushed with the success of my first sale, I put Andy and Alison firmly out of my mind (again) and work the room like a pro. Success breeds success, and soon the Arum lilies have been snapped up, while Bernie buys the portrait of my mother.
‘Almost as beautiful as the real thing,’ he says, stroking Mum’s face as if he still can’t quite believe his luck. It’s really rather sweet, this elderly love thing. Mum is endearingly thrilled for me and my nascent achievement. Although she wouldn’t let on in a million years, it’s been painfully obvious to me that since adulthood Max has been the success story of the family, while I’ve stumbled along, having a bloody good time but not really impressing anybody in the process.
The importance of this exhibition – in changing, well, my whole life really – cannot be overemphasized but as yet nobody has wanted to buy any of the views from my window. It suddenly strikes me why: when grouped together like this they are so stunning that individually they don’t quite match up to the sum of their parts, and these days not many people have the cash to shell out for fifteen paintings in one go. For the first time, I start to question Ali’s judgement.
I’m desperate for a pee now so head towards the loo in the private, ‘Staff Only’ bit of the gallery. There are two cubicles, and I selfishly go for the disabled one, as there is more space and a mirror in there. None of the staff is in a wheelchair anyway. Just as I’m pulling my excruciatingly tight jeans back up, I hear a lilting Welsh voice.
‘Poppy, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
‘I’m sorry, but I had to get to talk to you in private.’ Poppy sounds sincere, and a little breathless. ‘This is Bella’s big night, and I don’t want to take any of the attention away from her.’
Awww, bless you Pops, I think.
‘So you drag me into the toilet? If you’re so worried about upstaging Bella, who has been such a wonderful friend to you (which is more than I can say for you), why didn’t you do this another night, then? You know where Simon lives, where I live now. We used to live just around the corner, together, remember?’ His voice drips sarcasm.
Actually, Damian’s right. She didn’t have to do this tonight, fucking little attention-seeker. Grrr.
‘Oh God, Damian, if you only knew how many times I’ve been round to see you in Hoxton and bottled it at the last minute …’
Bottled it? Damian seems to share my scepticism as he says,
‘Come off it, you’ve never bottled anything in your life.’
‘I’ve never hated myself in my life before now,’ she says simply. ‘There was no reason to bottle anything. But every time I got to Si’s place, everything I’d planned to say to you sounded so empty and hollow in my head. I’ve been such a bitch, and hurt my two favourite people so badly …’
‘Bella seems to be forgiving you.’ Damian’s voice is softening slightly.
‘Bella’s a saint.’
Yay. I’m starting to enjoy this, utterly transfixed, even though I know I shouldn’t be eavesdropping. But I can hardly walk out and reveal myself now.
‘Yeah she is,’ says Damian. ‘So what do you want?’ His voice is harsh again.
‘I just want to tell you how sorry I am, and I wondered …’ Her voice breaks. ‘No, I’m being stupid. I’m a contemptible cunt …’
Get some new vocab, Poppy.
‘You wondered what?’
‘I wondered if there was any way you might consider us trying to make a go of it again?’
Damian laughs bitterly. ‘I don’t think you quite understand what you put me through. What was it about Ben? Was he a better fuck than me? I know he’s got a bigger cock than me, I remember from the showers at school.’
‘Oh babe, no no no, none of that,’ she says, her voice breaking again. ‘Nobody’s ever been better than you.’
Carly Simon singing ‘Nobody Does It Better’ comes into my head and I bite my lip to stop myself giggling. Or worse, singing it out loud. That would surprise them both.
‘SO WHY THE FUCK DID YOU LEAVE ME FOR HIM?’
‘Well, our hands were kind of forced. I don’t know what would have happened if Bella hadn’t walked in on us …’ she starts. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I was off my fucking tits, Damian, out of my mind with grief. With Alzheimer’s the grief starts a long time before the person you love actually dies, you know that. But you and I were together for five years – FIVE YEARS, my love. Once I was living with Ben I realized what a horrific mistake I’d made. He’s such a selfish, arrogant fucker. He never came with me to see Dad, and you were always so supportive, you couldn’t have been kinder. Ben couldn’t even be arsed to shag me, once I was just another conquest.’
I suspect that this will sway Damian, as his hurt male pride was the only thing really getting in the way of any reconciliation. Sure enough, he says softly,
‘But how can I ever trust you again?’
‘Because I would never do anything to risk losing you again. You’re the only man I’ve ever loved.’ Damian is silent, and Poppy adds, ‘I could ask you to marry me.’
What? OK Poppy, now you are stealing my fucking thunder.
‘And I could say no … Jesus, Pops, what are you doing?’ Damian starts laughing, and then says, ‘I did think that looked like a flasher’s mac.’
She’s clearly got nothing on underneath. Now they stop talking and there are muffled giggles, moans and sounds of snogging. The door of the other cubicle slams shut and I wait until the coast is definitely clear before emerging stealthily from mine.
As theirs isn’t a disabled loo, there is a gap between the bottom of the door and the floor, and I can see Poppy’s raincoat lying by their feet next to the loo as I try to ignore their sex noises.
All of a sudden I am tempted to put my hand under and pinch the raincoa
t, just as the dwarf in Ibiza did with my dress. I’m slightly ashamed to admit that the only thing stopping me is the fact that, if I did, Poppy coming out into the gallery naked would definitely steal my thunder.
Good God. Randy and the dwarf in Ibiza. Is it really still the same summer? So much has happened since then, it seems several lifetimes ago. I tiptoe towards the mirror and shake my head upside down to muss my hair up, looking myself in the eye as I come up again. Now is not the time for reflection, Belles. It’s your big night. I am actually extremely pleased about Poppy and Damian but now I need to go back and face my public.
Back in the gallery, I make my way towards Mum and Bernie. Somebody is making an entrance. The excited hubbub of chatter is hushed and people are turning to stare in the direction of a statuesque blonde.
‘Blimey, that’s Natalia Evanovitch,’ says Bernie. He whispers in my ear, ‘I knew her when she was a very expensive hooker, but don’t tell your mother that.’ He must be pissed out of his mind to offer such juicy info.
Natalia Evanovitch is certainly striking. Her white-blonde hair is pulled back into the kind of high ponytail that only those with impeccable Slavic bone structure can carry off. The very bone structure I envisaged Ben’s ballerinas having. You could slice cheese on those cheekbones. Her slanty grey eyes survey the room coolly. She snaps her fingers and one of her minions appears at her side with a glass of champagne.
Part of the reason we are all gawping is that much of the Ukrainian goddess’s six foot plus is swathed in a halterneck Pucci catsuit in eye-searing swirls of pink, purple and orange. She turns around to reveal a swooping low back with just a hint of buttock cleavage. She is dripping in what I assume are diamonds.
‘So what does she do now?’ I whisper back to Bernie.
‘She invested her hooking money in property overseas and is now worth billions. Good on the girl, I say. She always did have plenty of spirit.’ I rather wish he’d kept this to himself.
‘Fere is artiste? I font to see artiste,’ Natalia demands imperiously. I hurry over, aware of two hundred pairs of eyes watching.
‘Hello, I’m Bella. Is everything OK?’
‘OK? It is MAGNIFICENT! Dat fall! Dat fall dere …’ She is pointing at the wall with the views from my balcony. ‘Colors. I font!’ I look at her catsuit again and twig. Clever Alison.
Once we’re nearer the wall, she says quietly, in a slightly Americanized accent, ‘Sorry for the dramatics. I find they help keep the reputation mystique. And I DO lof the paintings. All of them. Color is my thing, you see.’ Clever, clever Alison.
‘Well, thank you.’ Again I don’t know what else to say. ‘Ummm … we could probably give you a discount if you want all of them …’
‘Do not be ridiculous. I haf money and I font to pay. Never undersell yourself. I learnt that from ferry young age.’
‘OK,’ I grin. ‘You mean you … really … want to buy all the paintings on this wall?’ It hadn’t occurred to me that anyone would buy the whole bloody lot, so I quickly do the sums. Put it this way, I won’t be going back to desktop publishing any time soon. Looks as if Alison was right, too, about pricing high.
‘That’s fot I mean, girl. I haf recently acquired small villa in Ibiza. I can see them there …’ She waves her hands in the air. ‘In my rainbow chill-out room.’ It sounds pretty ghastly actually, but what do I know? I’m only the artist.
Alison appears at my elbow, all smiles, proffering her hand.
‘Hi Natalia. I’m Alison, I own the gallery. I was on the phone to your people earlier in the week …’
‘Ah Alison!’ Natalia swoops on her like a long-lost friend, air-kissing manically to keep the patent lip gloss intact. ‘Congratulations! You haf made big sale!’
Alison raises her eyebrows at me over Natalia’s shoulder. She wants all of them, I mouth back. A huge smile crosses Alison’s sweet round face. She composes herself and says to Natalia,
‘Well, that’s fantastic news. Of course, we’ll have to keep them up for the duration of the exhibition – it wouldn’t be much of an exhibition without them, after all …’ Only the increasing pinkness in her cheeks betrays her excitement.
‘Off course!’ Natalia waves her hand in the air dismissively. ‘And then maybe I commission more! I like idea off own personal artiste, like European Royal Court …’ Seeing the shock on my and Alison’s faces she lets out peals of throaty laughter. ‘Or maybe I joke!’
‘Ahhh ha ha ha ha ha! Well, I think we can complete this transaction in the back office, don’t you? Why don’t you take Natalia through, Bella, and I’ll get a bottle of champagne?’
I am about to do as I’m told, when Natalia lets out a low whistle and breathes, ‘Who is that beeeoootiful man?’ I follow her gaze and cannot believe my eyes. It’s Ben, looking quite the dandy artist in a purple velvet suit and floral shirt. The sheer, unbridled nerve of the man. What’s more, he appears to be chatting up Sammi-Jo, who for some reason Mark has left on her own for a minute. Ooooh, I’m looking forward to this.
It all happens in slow motion. Mark gives a great roar as he lumbers across the crowded gallery, clenching his fist, and drawing back his arm to— Too late. Someone has beaten him to it.
‘Sorry mate,’ says Damian to Mark, dusting his hands down on his trousers. ‘But I think I had first dabs on the cunt. Feel free to give him a good kicking while he’s down, though.’ He looks down at his former best mate with absolute contempt.
‘And that’s better than you deserve. Go on, get up and get out. I can’t imagine Bella welcomes you here.’ Oh this really is too good to be true. ‘And Poppy nearly died because of you, you snivelling little shit.’ All the journos are scribbling furiously and I wonder if that wasn’t a little too much information.
Ben staggers to his feet. His nose is bleeding all over his flowery shirt and he puts up his hands in surrender, like the miserable coward he is. As he backs towards the exit, the tanked-up crowd boos and jeers. One hundred and eighty.
The pool room at Divine Comedy is done up like a highly camp Roman baths, complete with fountains, statues, marble pillars. Twin mosaics of Bacchus and Priapus grin up at us from the bottom of the pool with heavy-handed symbolism. Max’s 2:1 in Classics had to come in useful one day. A jungle of hothouse plants leads to the bar at the far end, which, in a contrast to the Roman theme, is what you might call Waikiki-chic, with sand underfoot, a bamboo bar, cocktails served in coconut shells and high stools upholstered in bright pink, turquoise and orange. The whole Caligula does Honolulu effect is so kitsch, with so little effort towards any semblance of good taste, that it somehow works.
The basement is packed with my friends, family and a whole raft of minor and not-so-minor celebrities. Much shrieking and splashing is coming from the pool, where, eager to show off their young bodies, a load of pissed-up rock progeny have stripped down to their underwear. The Health & Safety implications must be horrendous, which is probably why Max only opens his magnificent folly when it suits him.
The noisiest group is sharing a Jacuzzi in the far corner. My father, Jilly Templeton, Poppy, Damian and Natalia seem to be getting on like dachas on fire. I make my way over.
‘Congratulations, darling!’ shouts Jilly, raising her lurid green cocktail to me. It looks as if they’re all starkers underneath the water. ‘Didn’t I tell you to get off your arse and stop moping? You should listen to your aunt Jill more often.’
‘Hasn’t my girl done well?’ says my father. ‘I couldn’t be a prouder old dad.’ I crouch down and kiss the top of his grey head. I’m still feeling awfully protective over him after Kimberly’s horrible words.
‘Well, that’s all thanks to Natalia.’ I raise my glass to her.
‘Nonsense! That is all thanks to you and your colors.’ She raises her glass back at me, smiling her feline smile.
‘Anyway the highlight of the night was when Damian punched Ben. In fact, it might have been the highlight of my life.’
I sit down on the edge
of the Jacuzzi and dangle my feet in beside Poppy.
‘And a little bird told me you and Damian have got some big news,’ I say teasingly.
‘Wha …? But how …? I wasn’t going to tell you until after your exhibition … You don’t mind, do you, Belles?’ Poppy’s pretty brow is knotted with anxiety.
‘Actually, I think it’s fab news. Congratulations, both of you.’
‘Well, it makes perfect sense,’ says Damian, who is wearing Poppy’s Inspector Clouseau rain hat and has one arm around her shoulders. ‘If she doesn’t mend her wicked ways I’ll be entitled to half her earnings.’
Poppy sticks her tongue out at him. ‘Poo to you.’
‘What are you, eight?’
‘I’ve learnt my lesson. There’s only one man for me.’ She gives him a big soppy kiss.
‘I’d better go and mingle a bit more,’ I say with a touch of regret. ‘Congrats again.’
En route to the bar, I pass Sammi-Jo on a lounger, wringing her hair out. As she wasn’t wearing any underwear, she leapt into the pool in her shorts and crop top, which is now completely transparent. Mascara is running down her face.
‘I must look a right state,’ she laughs up at me.
‘Alice Cooper springs to mind.’ I sit down next to her. ‘But I happen to know that Max caters for such eventualities.’ I reach into the drawer of the marble-topped table next to the lounger and produce a pack of eye-make-up-remover wipes. It’s this kind of attention to detail that has made my brother so successful.
‘That’s just so cool. Thanks,’ she says in her husky voice. ‘You must be so pleased with how everything went tonight.’ There’s something appealingly open and positive about Mark’s new squeeze and I feel a sudden surge of affection for them both.
‘That’s putting it mildly.’ We both look over at the pool, where Mark is showing off, flexing his muscles as he prepares to dive in.
