Pandora (71 page)

Ignoring the visitors’ book, refusing a drink, Rupert picked up a catalogue. The crowd divided, still in silence, as he circled the rooms, looking quickly and intently at each picture as though he were examining yearlings at a spring sale. Just in time, Sophy managed to peel the red spot off Visitor’s portrait.

Pausing in front of it, Rupert smiled slightly.

‘How much is that?’

Sophy took a deep breath.

‘Five thousand pounds,’ she gasped. Jupiter, who’d priced it at £500, would murder her a second time.

‘OK.’ Rupert moved on.

I’ve blown it, thought Sophy wretchedly.

As Rupert went round the rooms again, the chat began to soar. This time he put crosses in his catalogue against a few landscapes and the worst torture paintings, but sadly not beside Visitor.

‘I said those were the most challenging,’ said a man in a beetle cap, who’d been slagging the torture paintings off as grotesque earlier.

Rupert handed the marked catalogue to Sophy.

‘Thanks.’

He’s going, thought Sophy in despair.

‘Oh, please buy something just to encourage the others,’ she pleaded.

For a second, Rupert’s face betrayed no emotion, then he said: ‘I’ve marked the ones I don’t want, I’ll take the rest,’ and, seeing Sophy’s look of joyful incredulity, he smiled.

‘Are you s-s-sure?’

‘Quite,’ said Rupert, who’d had a tip-off from his brother Adrian, who was going to take most of the pictures for his New York gallery.

‘D’you think Jupiter’ll give me something on them?’ he asked.

‘I can give you ten per cent,’ said Sophy grandly.

‘Fifteen,’ suggested Rupert.

‘Twelve and a half,’ said Sophy. Heavens, she’d soon be haggling away like a carpet salesman.

‘Done.’ Rupert got out his cheque book. ‘I’ll give you a deposit and pay for
Dog Star
. I’d like to take that with me now to show my son Xav, who’s got a black Lab. I’ll get the rest collected at the end of the exhibition.’

Pandemonium followed, red spots going up like an attack of scarlet fever, yellow invoices falling on the spike like Roman soldiers at Philippi. Lord Coley, who’d had a vicious run-in with Rupert years ago, when he’d had an affaire with the wife of Rupert’s best friend, still admired him as a businessman, and immediately bought three landscapes. Abdul bought two. Minsky Kraskov snapped up the torture paintings, leaving nothing for the head of Twentieth-Century Acquisitions at the Tate.

Tamzin came belting downstairs.

‘I’ve just been chatted up by the Chapman brothers – where’s Rupert Campbell-Black? Oh look, the daffodils have all come out.’

Hanna and Jupiter, who’d just emerged dazed but starry-eyed from the back room to learn the incredible news, were soon pulling Alizarin’s other paintings out of the stock room. They all went. Even the mature Cheddar in its sculptured form was sold for £800.

Sophy started giggling and found she couldn’t stop. Somerford, who’d harboured an unrequited crush on Rupert since the days of Galena, decided to give Alizarin a rave review.

‘Alizarin Belvedon’s work appears gloomy and harsh, but the more one looks, the more visual and emotional strength one finds,’ he wrote on the back of his cheque book.

Suddenly everyone was talking about the dynamic use of colour, the unique complexity, originality and energy of the paintings.

Judy Collins put a reserve on
Upside-Down Camels
.

‘Could you ask Dicky Belvedon if he’d be prepared to sell? The colour is wonderful.’

‘Dicky’ll be able to pay back the fête committee ten times over and buy an Aston Martin,’ said Jonathan gleefully. ‘And General Anaesthetic’s going to be furious.’

Crossing the room, he thanked Rupert for buying Alizarin’s paintings.

‘I’ve got a lot of your mother’s stuff at home,’ admitted Rupert.

‘You’re not Alizarin’s father, by any chance?’ murmured Jonathan.

Rupert shook his sleek golden head.

‘Alizarin was born long before I – er – knew your mother. My money would be on Etienne de Montigny.’

‘Look,’ Jonathan blushed, ‘your brother Adrian’s been fantastically kind to my sister Sienna. She’s the one who nicked the Raphael. Could I ask you a colossal favour?’

‘Almost certainly not,’ said Rupert, looking wary.

‘Sienna never knew our mother,’ pleaded Jonathan, ‘I was only two when she died. Alizarin is so traumatized, he can’t talk about her at all. Jupiter never liked her much. Dad’s blocked her out and won’t speak about her in case he upsets Anthea. Aunt Lily and Rosemary only knew her socially. Sienna’s so desperate for info.’

‘Not sure my recollections would be entirely suitable.’

‘Perhaps not, but there must have been inter-intercourse bits. With the court case coming up, she’s terribly low.’

And you too, my poor boy, thought Rupert, looking at Jonathan’s gaunt, shadowed face and big haunted eyes.

‘I’ll try and take her out to lunch, next time I’m in America,’ he conceded. ‘But I don’t promise anything.’

Everyone was dying to talk to Rupert but he had Zac’s ability to freeze people out, thought Sophy as she handed him the wrapped-up
Dog Star
.

‘Thank you,’ said Rupert gravely. ‘You’re much prettier than your gatefold, and those are sensational tits.’

‘There’s that bastard Campbell-Black,’ stormed Casey Andrews, buckling his big red bulbous nose against the Pulborough front window. ‘Little shit was always hanging round Galena in the old days.’

Highly unamused to see such evidence of transaction, David drew Casey and Geraldine into the back room for another bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Now that Somerford had waddled over to the Belvedon, they could discuss the real purpose of the evening: the erection of a Borochova Memorial in Limesbridge.

Anthea was still stalling, explained David. She’d always had such a hang-up about Galena, but public feeling was so strong, she’d be overruled. Sucking up to his new gallery artist, he then said that he and Geraldine felt Casey was the ideal artist to do the memorial.

‘You knew Galena intimately. Like Picasso, you’re as mighty a sculptor as a painter.’

Casey stopped smirking over his entry in
Who’s Who in Art
, which was almost as long as his beard.

‘Of course I’ll do the memorial. Better order in some Portland stone, there’s been a run on it recently. As you know’ – he flashed green teeth at Geraldine – ‘I’m at work on my memoirs, which will be, I may add, sensational.’ Then, pursing his lips pompously: ‘The world should know I was the great love of Galena’s life.’

‘Hardly surprising. You’re so dynamic,’ murmured Geraldine.

‘Were you the only one?’ asked David innocently.

Casey held out his glass for a refill.

‘The only serious one – Raymond of course is a pansy.’

‘You’re not worried about upsetting the family?’ queried Geraldine.

‘Not in the least,’ boomed Casey, ‘Raymond’s lost his marbles, and I don’t owe anything to those malevolent scallywags.’ Wandering out into the main gallery, he caught sight of Rupert laughing with the scallywag who had told Casey to bugger off the night of Emerald’s birthday party. ‘The Belvedons deserve everything coming to them. When are you proposing unveiling this memorial?’

‘Early 2002,’ said Geraldine, which would give her plenty of time to work on the Arts Council and the Lottery Committee and ensure a huge fee for Casey and a nice cut for David and herself.

‘But as a formality,’ went on David smoothly, ‘to placate the committee and the people of Limesbridge and Larkshire, who will put up half the money, we’d better throw the competition open.’

‘People love competitions,’ urged Geraldine, seeing Casey’s look of disapproval.

‘I’m sure the
Western Daily Press
will run a piece,’ added David soothingly, ‘and Nigel Reynolds might put something in his
Telegraph
diary, so we can say we’ve given people a chance to enter. Your ex-wife would probably like a crack. Christ, she was a pest at the British Portrait Awards. The best twenty can bring in their portfolios. We’ll pick out the three best of those besides you to provide maquettes. Then in July we’ll announce the winner, which of course will be you.

‘Better if we go through the formalities.’ He filled up Casey’s glass. ‘Show you’ve despatched the competition, give you splendid publicity as a multi-faceted artist.’

Anything to distract Casey from the pandemonium across the road as the press slid all over the ice to photograph a departing Rupert.

‘Mind you, the Belvedons will be dead in the water after the court case in April.’ Geraldine picked up her bag. ‘Just going to spend a penny, then shall we go and dine?’

As soon as she’d disappeared, David let slip he was going to become High Sheriff in April: ‘Total surprise, must have been lobbied by my friends. Just wondering if I could ask you to paint me in my regalia outside the Old Rectory?’

‘Only if you arrange for me to do that nude of Emerald Belvedon,’ said Casey roguishly.

With the return of his beloved wife, a baby on the way, and a colossally successful private view under his belt, Jupiter was ashamed that he still had time to be secretly miffed that Alizarin wasn’t more grateful.

‘A sodding great cheque will be shortly on its way to pay for his operation in America,’ he grumbled to Sophy as they washed up glasses the following morning. ‘But Al will hardly acknowledge it. I’ve run a gallery for fifteen years. I’ve sold art all over the world, worked from dawn to dusk. The only words I’ve never heard are “Thank you”.’

‘Thank you,’ said Sophy, kissing him on the cheek. ‘It was a gorgeous party, and thank you for giving Alizarin the chance to see again and for my lovely bottle of Joy. It smells like a garden in June.’

Alizarin had, meanwhile, prevailed upon his favourite nurse, Molly Malone, to collect his sickness benefit. Jupiter was therefore staggered the following morning to receive a large jar of his favourite caviare and a startlingly colourful ‘thank you’ card chosen by Molly.

When Sophy, drenched in Joy, with her hands smothered in hand cream in case Alizarin wanted to hold one of them, went to see him the following week after school, she found him very cantankerous. Perhaps he was sad about Hanna going back to Jupiter.

His post, he grumbled, contained nothing but requests for money from impoverished artists and charities.

‘I’ve even had a begging letter from Limesbridge Conservatives.’

When Sophy read him his press cuttings, he said nothing, even when Somerford Keynes wrote: ‘I once described Alizarin Belvedon as a rotten painter. I was wrong. I retract every word. It was the tenderness of his latest exhibition that moved me, as though even in the most horrific war scenes, he’d dipped his brush in the milk of human kindness.’

Glancing up, Sophy saw tears trickling out from Alizarin’s poor blind eyes and seized his hands.

‘They’re wonderful reviews.’

‘I know. A successful exhibition fires you up to start again but I can’t . . .’ His voice broke. ‘. . . do that now.’

‘You will again, after the operation.’

‘There’s only a ten per cent chance of success.’

‘I’m coming with you.’

‘You’ve got a job. You can’t let those children down.’

‘I can. They’ll understand. You’re what matters to me.’

‘I’m fine on my own,’ snapped Alizarin. ‘Adrian Campbell-Black’s promised to find me a minder in New York. Sienna’s coming to the airport to meet me.’

‘I’d still like to come,’ pleaded Sophy, but she let go of his hands.

‘You can’t. Just bugger off,’ said Alizarin roughly. ‘Thanks for everything, but I’m leaving tomorrow, and I’ve got masses to organize.’

Sophy managed not to cry until the door to the ward shut behind her. Then she howled. Sweet Molly Malone, however, came racing after her, waving the most hideous bunch of mauve, yellow and red asters.

‘They’re from Alizarin,’ she said. ‘He made me take him down to the hospital shop, he was determined to choose them himself.’