by William Boyd
‘Now what exactly are you doing here, Mr Aberdeen? I’m very busy.’
She lit another cigarette and Riley glanced over at him, as she came in with a bottle of whisky.
‘We want to see the portrait, darling. The one Lucian gave you.’
It was always strange being back at Mulholland-Melhuish, Ludo thought. To think I spent almost twenty years of my life here … Nothing had really changed. The discreet entrance off Dover Street and then the huge staircase, the vast emerald green rooms giving off each other – a kind of volumetric subterfuge, a spatial illusion. And below there were storerooms and packing rooms and accountancy services and, above, two floors of cramped offices. And all this produced an auction once or twice a month. How did they survive in the face of all the competition? Sotheby’s, Christie’s, Bonham’s and the others? He’d never really found out. ‘Old money’, was the best explanation he had received. Someone had said that the firm owned half of Derbyshire. Someone else had said the first Mr Mulholland made a fortune in Victorian coal mines. And yet here it was, unchanged, seemingly thriving. He looked at the smart, suited young men and women of Mulholland-Melhuish and he knew how little they earned, their tiny, meagre salaries. That’s what had driven him out, finally, after the divorce with Jessica. He was broke. And so he found independence in the arms of Irmgard and the generous line of credit from old 57 Varieties. Ludo Abernathy Ltd was born. Best deal you’ve ever done, Ross had said, enviously. He’d been sacked by then, anyway.
He wandered around, looking at the art on the walls. Important Modern European Paintings, the catalogue in his hand said. Where was the obligatory Fontana? – ah, yes, there it hung. And the Vasarely. Check. The Yves Klein. Yes. Serge Poliakoff, Valenti, that fraud Blancmain. And the prices! How could there be a market for this stuff? He knew the answer – because of people like you, mate, he said to himself. You and your ilk keep this whole tawdry show on the road.
To distract himself he thought of Riley Spacks and the afternoon they had spent with Lily Daubeny. The Freud had been brought out for his inspection and he knew within five seconds that it was genuine. Genuine early-phase Freud. Flat paint, the mannerism, the immaculate detailing, the careful distortion. A portrait head of a young woman, bare-shouldered, overlarge almond-shaped green eyes, with a pearl necklace, about nine inches square in a flaking white wooden frame. Signed. He had turned it over. There was a scrawl on the brown canvas: ‘Hampstead, June 1950’. He had held it in his hands, thinking. £2 million. Play this one right and I’ll never need to sell another painting again –
‘Ludo, I don’t believe it!’
He turned. It was Suki Goodman. Big and brazen in cherry silk, jewels flashing, a wave of ash-blonde hair. They kissed – les bises – and he smelt the musk of her perfume. Had he kissed Suki? Yes, he had. Two years ago, he thought, he remembered, outside some other vernissage in a shop doorway in Bond Street. They talked platitudes – Irmgard, the impending twins, skiing, New York, more skiing. He picked a glass of champagne off a passing tray and offered it to her. He thought of Riley Spacks and suddenly wanted to kiss her. Suki would have to do.
They went and stood in front of a Tàpies. He let his arm touch hers.
‘You’re looking fabulous, Suki,’ he said, quietly.
‘Thank you, darling. You’re not looking so shabby yourself.’
‘Have I ever told you that I think you’re a stunningly attractive woman?’
She turned her knowing brown eyes on him.
‘You have, actually. Many times.’
‘I’d love to kiss you. Properly, I mean.’
It nearly always worked. It was a simple wish expressed – heartfelt, genuine – and one hard to be offended by. It was a compliment, of sorts, though risqué. Sometimes the women said, ‘Well, thank you, but no thanks.’ Or else, ‘Not here, not now.’ Sometimes they looked at him, smiled, said nothing, and moved away. But, mostly, they were intrigued, and soon, after a while, after some more conversation, they found a way and a location and a time where the kiss could take place.
‘You’ve already kissed me,’ Suki said, sardonically. ‘If I recall.’
‘That’s why I want to kiss you again.’
‘Peter’s picking me up in half an hour.’
‘You see that door …’ Ludo knew it led to a stairway, down to a floor of offices, and a kind of glassed-in counter where payments were made. ‘I’ll go through it. You follow in a minute.’ He smiled. ‘If you want.’
In the semi-darkness downstairs they kissed, for quite a long time, and almost tenderly, holding each other close, her breasts flattening against his chest, Ludo’s lips on her neck, tasting the sourness of her perfume on his tongue, feeling her hands roving his back, squeezing his buttocks. She broke it off, saying that Peter would be looking for her.
As she reapplied her lipstick she said, ‘We have a little flat, you know, in Chelsea. It’s empty most of the time.’
‘Wonderful,’ Ludo said, unexpected tears in his eyes. ‘I’ll call you.’
‘So, what’s your best estimate?’ Riley Spacks said.
‘I think I could get you eight hundred thousand, easily. Possibly eight fifty.’
‘I was thinking a million.’
‘That might be harder.’
‘Someone said that at auction I might get even more.’
‘At auction it’s public. You’re in the public domain. Everybody knows the figures.’
She thought about this.
‘What’s in it for you?’ she asked.
‘Ten per cent.’
‘So you’d do better if I got a million.’
‘That’s true.’
‘What about more than a million?’
‘Then I’d want twenty per cent.’
‘A million,’ she said. ‘Deal?’
Irmgard was playing patience. She loved card games, but he didn’t and so, she would rebuke him teasingly, she was thrown back on patience – some consolation for the solitary card player. The gender of the twins was still a secret, Irmgard had said, having elected not to be told. Healthy babies, happy mother, that’s all I want, Ludo had said, smiling, considerate. All was well.
Ludo thought about his kiss with Suki Goodman and wondered how he could contrive to kiss Riley Spacks. He felt his chest fill with excitement as he sat with his wife and pondered this recent little infidelity and this new, putative one. That was his flaw, he knew. Dalliance. He fooled around, he ‘played away from home’, as they said, because it made life more interesting. He didn’t excuse it or condone it – he was just being honest. Without that current in his life he became bored and the world and its ways lost its allure.
He stood up, went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine. But, whatever the attractions of dalliance, he was going to stay married to Irmgard, come what may. Three wives were more than enough for one man’s lifetime, he reckoned – that’s why he was never going to have an affair again. Never again. All his infidelities would be stolen kisses. When he had made that decision, on marrying Irmgard, he wasn’t sure if it would work, but it had, and here they were, five years on, babies impending, and he hadn’t slept with anyone apart from his wife. He had kissed forty-two women in the past five years, however, according to the running tally that he kept. And, paradoxically, those kisses had kept him faithful, had saved his marriage. In the old days, when he was married to Edith and then to Jessica, he had slept around compulsively, to make himself feel alive – and had duly been caught out and had paid the price, emotionally and financially. No, he was a happier and wiser man now.
He wandered back into the drawing room and sat on the arm of Irmgard’s chair as she studied her cards. He kissed the top of her head and she squeezed his thigh. They were a funny thing, kisses – his kisses – he thought. As intimate, in their way, as lovemaking. An act of oral fornication. The touching of lips against lips, the softness of the contact, mouth to mouth, the penetration of tongues, the conjoining of tongues, the yielding, the
feelings provoked, the messages that were sent in that illicit coming-together … He strolled back into the kitchen and texted Riley Spacks.
They were at the rooftop bar of his club and it was very quiet, half a dozen hardened smokers huddled under the glowing heaters around the wintering pool. They were sat at the bar, their cocktails just placed in front of them, marvelling.
‘Did you ever smoke?’ he asked.
‘No. Did you?’
‘No, funnily enough.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve found your buyer. One million.’
He sensed the relief surge through her. Like an invisible blush. What problems had been solved by this announcement, he wondered? What new doors opened for her now?
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Excellent. Thank you.’
‘Everything is fine with Mrs Daubeny, I trust,’ he added carefully.
‘She’s left the painting to me. In her will. It’s mine.’
‘Good.’ He gave her the necessary instructions. She was to bring the painting to his house at a specific time. While she was there she would be able to verify the money transfer to her stipulated bank account. Then she could leave and he would deliver the painting to its new owner.
‘As simple as that,’ she said. ‘Who’s buying it?’
‘The buyer wishes to remain anonymous.’
Ludo called for another drink. Ross Haverley-Grant had found a buyer prepared to pay £2.2 million. He wouldn’t tell Ludo who it was, but Ludo suspected the buyer was another dealer, known to Ross, the conspiracy multiplying. More profits would be made down the line as the Freud was sold on but they wouldn’t equal his profit. He did the sums quickly: five per cent to Ross; his own ten per cent finder’s ‘commission’ from Riley, and then the hidden extra – his own secret over-£1 million profit. £1,190,000, to be precise.
‘What made you come to me?’ he asked.
‘I did my researches. I was told you were very good, very reliable.’
He felt a little shiver of bad conscience but then he told himself: caveat venditor. Riley had wanted a million and she had it, thanks to him. Whatever understanding, or not, that existed between her and Lily Daubeny was her business. It was a transaction and everyone was entitled to their profit. He’d have to do a little sleight-of-hand accounting himself – pay some tax, certainly – but it was, without doubt, the sale of his dealing life. In fact it might mark the end of his dealing life – that would be a relief. He looked at Riley as she stirred the olive in her martini, thoughtfully. Yes, she was a very beautiful young woman. She raised her glass and they toasted each other.
‘As long as you’re not cheating me,’ she said with a smile, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. ‘Are you?’
‘Nobody’s cheating anybody,’ he said, with maximum sincerity. ‘It’s a simple transaction.’ He changed the subject. ‘So Lily Daubeny is your aunt.’
‘She says she’s my aunt but I think she’s my mother. That’s why she’s leaving me the painting. I think she “gave” me to her sister when I was born. She was in her early forties … I was a bit inconvenient. I’ve no idea who my real father was.’
Ludo felt a little shocked at this revelation, these dark family histories, fleetingly revealed. He didn’t want to know any more about how Lily Daubeny begot the daughter who became Riley Spacks.
‘Do you mind if I say something to you?’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Something personal.’
‘No.’
‘I find you exceptionally attractive. Exceptionally. You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met.’
She didn’t seem perturbed by his statement.
‘Thank you.’
‘I’d very much like to kiss you. May I?’
She looked at him, cocking her head in that way as if she was focussing on him anew.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to kiss you. Not at all.’
It all went smoothly enough. All the arrangements were made. Riley came to the office with the painting, wrapped in brown paper. Ludo called Ross. Ross transferred the £2.2 million to Ludo’s Channel Island account. Once the money had arrived Ludo transferred £900,000 to Riley’s account in Djakarta. Riley called her bank there who confirmed the deposit had been made. Ludo took the Freud, wrapped it in a sheet and locked it in the big safe in the strongroom, then called Ross who said he would come and collect it personally the next day.
They stood outside in the gathering dusk on the gravelled forecourt of his house between the 4x4 and the Bentley and shook hands. She was wearing boots with high heels and he found it odd, her being four inches taller than usual.
‘Are you sure I can’t call you a taxi?’ he asked.
‘No, I’d like to walk for a bit,’ she said. ‘Come to terms with it all. What it all means.’
‘Of course. All the ramifications.’
‘Exactly. All the various ramifications.’
He smiled at her.
‘Great day,’ he said. ‘Congratulations.’
‘I’m staying at the Oberon Hotel in Mayfair,’ she said. ‘Room 231.’
‘Room 231. I know the Oberon.’
‘Would you like to join me there at eight?’ she said. ‘In my room. I think we need a real celebration of some sort.’
Ludo lay in bed, naked, spent, in room 231 at the Oberon Hotel listening to Riley taking a shower. He felt increasingly strange and was aware of an unfamiliar and deep uneasiness building inside him. Of course, he hadn’t slept with another woman in over five years. He’d forgotten what it was like, the feelings and sensations it released … He looked at his watch – nearly midnight. Jesus. He’d been cavorting naked in bed with an equally naked Riley Spacks for almost four hours. He checked his phone. Irmgard had texted: ‘When are you coming home?’ Was he insane? He sat up, rolled out of bed and began to put on his clothes.
Riley came out of the bathroom, in a dressing gown, as he was searching for his tie.
‘Leaving so soon?’ she said.
‘Ha-ha. I was meant to be at a gallery opening,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to think of some elaborate excuse.’
‘I bet you’re good at that.’
He slipped on his jacket and she stood at the door, opening it for him, just an inch or two. He kissed her gently. Their tongues touched.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘See, you got to kiss me. That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?’
‘We’ve done more than kissed, my sweet.’
‘No, but the point is, the thing to remember is, that a kiss isn’t ever enough.’
‘Riley, I wanted to say –’
‘I’m here for another week,’ she said. ‘Before I have to leave. Will you come and see me again?’
He thought for a second. No. Bad idea. He rubbed his eyes. Very bad idea. Breaking all his rules tonight.
‘Of course. When?’
‘I’ll text you.’
‘Good idea. Send me a text.’
She opened the door wider so he could leave.
‘Thank you, Ludo. Be good.’
When Irmgard confronted him with the texts, the dates, the actual hotel, the precise contents of the brief messages he and Riley had exchanged, he didn’t bother to deny anything. Riley Spacks had gone by then, gone by a few days. Back to Bali, she had said. She’d be in touch – he should visit, she’d said. But he knew it was over.
Except it wasn’t over. He apologized to Irmgard and admitted his guilt in full. Then he apologized to her coldly furious father – Heinz. Ludo Abernathy hung his head and accepted the vituperation, the assassination of his character, as the financial consequences of his adultery and the ensuing divorce were made very plain to him by old 57 Varieties. At least he had plenty of money stashed away in Jersey, he thought. At least he had the money from the Freud – at least he could pay for the damage.
The old saw, the old cliché – that the whole thing seemed as if it were happening to somebody else – appeared never more true, never more apt, he felt. One afternoon, returning in a taxi
from his lawyers, in a fiscal daze of figures and demands and counter-demands, iron-clad guarantees and swingeing penalties, he saw they were driving through Pimlico and he recognized the Captain Bligh as they motored past. He told the driver to stop, paid him off and went in. It was early evening and he was glad to see more clients than the last time he had been there. As long as Ross Haverley-Grant doesn’t suddenly appear, he thought, as he ordered a large whisky and water and found a seat as far away from the gaming machines as possible.
He sat there for a while sipping his whisky, indulging in the familiar pub-mood: the inertia, the melancholy – the melancholy tinged with some deserved self-pity, he thought. The whisky was helping as he contemplated the meandering rocky road that was his future. The twins – when would he see them? How would he get to know them properly? There was already talk of Irmgard’s return to Vienna for the parturition … What if she stayed in Austria? … Bloody hell. He was aware of something intruding into his muddled speculations. That song again, the ear-worm, plaintively yodelling through the pub’s ceiling-high speakers. ‘You have to hurt, to understand.’ What was that singer’s name again? A woman, he’d been right about that. Nice voice.
Yes, he was hurting – but did he understand? Some truth was out there, lurking in the darkness, beyond the firelight of his intelligence – but it was too dim for him to see, just too far off for his intellect to grasp it. Something Riley had said to him … ‘A kiss is never enough’. What cryptic message was she sending? Was that it? But there were other things she had said to him, as he thought further about the times they had spent together, that seemed to resonate more significantly now. The idea struck him, and he almost instantly dismissed it, that – possibly, conceivably – it was Riley who had betrayed him to Irmgard … No. Madness! There had been something between them, that night, and those subsequent nights when they met in the Oberon … A closeness, something truly special. But, then, Irmgard had all the dates, the times, testimony of the staff … It was the texts – the texts had done for him. But why had Irmgard looked at his phone, anyway? She never did that … He frowned, thinking of Riley. Riley couldn’t have known, couldn’t have guessed at the secret profit he’d made, could she? He’d been very careful but what was it she’d said to him? … The art world was more corrupt than the Mafia. Why had she said that? And they’d only just met. Was it a warning? She’d said it was a ‘test’. No, fantasy. Paranoia. It was just rotten luck, filthy rotten luck.
