Pandora (85 page)

‘Did he – er – did he – put his thingy inside you?’

‘No, no.’

The last time she was here, Emerald remembered, was when the DNA tests proved she was Raymond’s daughter and could never marry Jonathan. A revelation so terrible, nothing afterwards, not even a pouncing David, could really dent her for long.

Anthea was pacing up and down, her suddenly aged face an ugly contrast to the spring flowers on her cotton dressing gown. Outside large cranes hung over St James’s Park like malignant birds. In the distance, Big Ben reared up like a floodlit sugar-sifter.

‘Now Sir Raymond has passed away,’ muttered Anthea, who was shaking worse than her daughter, ‘there’s something I must tell you. Try not to hate me.’

Oh God, what new evils are going to fly out of Pandora’s Box? wondered Emerald. That was such a sweet photograph of Jonathan going off to prep school in a cap and short trousers, she might try and nick it before she left.

‘When I first went to work at the Belvedon,’ a still pacing Anthea was saying, ‘I worshipped Raymond, he was so caring and such a gentleman. Then David came back from his honeymoon, all tanned and handsome in his lovely sports car. I fell for him laike a log. I simply couldn’t help myself. After Galena made Raymond sack me, I discovered I was pregnant with you . . .’ Automatically Anthea ran a finger over a Dresden shepherdess checking for dust. ‘I was convinced you were David’s baby. David accepted this and paid for everything, hospital bills, accommodation, on condition no-one found out and I gave you up. I thought he’d relent once you were born, but he was so petrified of Rosemary and Raymond finding out, and losing his new wealth and his nice job.

‘When I gave you up the pain was so terrible, I thought it would blot out the agony of David not marryin’ me, but it didn’t.’ Anthea hung her head. ‘I married Raymond because he was so safe.’

‘And you went on having an affaire with David?’

‘Yes, yes,’ whispered Anthea.

‘Poor Raymond, poor Rosemary,’ said Emerald in bewilderment.

‘Rosemary should have made more of herself,’ snapped Anthea. As the green flame of jealousy hissed out of the damp log, Emerald couldn’t help smiling.

‘Raymond wasn’t very exciting in bed,’ confided Anthea, ‘but David was such a wonderful, imaginative lover . . .’ Then, seeing Emerald shudder: ‘Well Ay thought so. He always knew the right buttons.’

Like an ace casting director for
Cinderella
, thought Emerald, fighting hysterical laughter. She was getting as silly as Jonathan.

‘When you rolled up with Zac’ – Anthea was frantically straightening coloured paperweights – ‘I couldn’t bear to be reminded of the terrible unhappiness of giving you up, and I was petrified . . .’

‘David would flip.’

‘Yes. I feel so ashamed. At our silver wedding party I thought only of myself, panicking and fibbing to Raymond that he was your father then biting my nails through the summer. The biggest shock was the DNA result.’

To her amazement, Emerald was smiling.

‘David must have had kittens.’

‘He did. He’ll never forgive me, and you know’ – Anthea looked up in amazement – ‘I suddenly don’t care.’

‘Hurrah!’ cried Emerald. ‘I’d have behaved exactly the same. I only dined with David tonight,’ she confessed, ‘hoping for news of Jonathan. What I could never understand was why you hadn’t told Raymond I was his, but if you were convinced I was David’s, it all falls into place.

‘Poor Anthea.’ She put an arm round her mother’s heaving little shoulders. ‘What a nightmare it’s been for you.’

‘I hated living a lie,’ sniffed Anthea.

‘Can we have a huge proper drink to celebrate?’

‘Do let’s, there’s some brandy and an untouched bottle of crème de menthe Raymond gave me for Christmas.’

Since it was true confession time, Emerald took a deep breath and told Anthea about sculpting the maquette of Galena.

‘I really need your help, now I’ve got into the last four.’

Anthea, to her amazement, was thrilled.

‘There are some of her clothes in the dressing-up box at Foxes Court, so we can get her measurements right, and lots of photos. There might even be some here. She was quite fat, you know.’

After that there was so much to talk about that a pink dawn gatecrashed the party just as the crème de menthe ran out.

‘Let’s have some breakfast.’ Anthea cannoned off a William and Mary winged chair as she tottered towards the kitchen. ‘The moment the Pulborough opens, Ay’m going round to sort out that rotter.’

Anthea found the Pulborough in uproar. Arriving earlier, David had been unable to find his Turner of Shepherd’s Bush and was furiously accusing his son Barney, his assistant Zoe, his cleaner Marlene and the office cat of stealing it.

Most of Cork Street, in order to listen, were rubbing non-existent smears off the insides of their front windows. Jupiter, Tamzin and Eddie the packer were all busily dusting Joan Bideford’s nude.

‘You always complain if the bins aren’t emptied first thing, Mr P.,’ Marlene the cleaner was now protesting.

‘Here comes the US Cavalry,’ murmured Jupiter as Anthea came storming up Cork Street.

‘How dare you try and rape my daughter, you rotten swayne,’ she screamed, rushing into the Pulborough.

Whereupon most of Cork Street decided their outside windows needed cleaning.

‘Ay’ve come to collect her pashmina.’ Anthea snatched it back from a disappointed Zoe. ‘And her new handbag’ – Anthea grabbed that from an even more disappointed Barney – ‘and her scarlet panties, which you tore off her, you scoundrel. How could you abuse a young woman’s trust?’

‘Is this what you’re looking for, Mr P.? Must have fallen into the waste-paper basket,’ interrupted Marlene. From one finger and thumb were suspended Emerald’s red knickers; from the other, marinaded in pot noodles and bilberry yoghurt, hung the Turner of Shepherd’s Bush.

Soon after Raymond’s funeral, a big piece had appeared in the
Evening Standard
saying how delighted Sotheby’s were to be including the Raphael
Pandora
in their Old Masters sale on 6 July. This was not entirely true. Having seen glamorous photographs of Zac all over the papers during the court case, Sotheby’s staff were understandably excited when he asked them to sell his picture.

Alas, they soon discovered Zac was not as other Jewish heirs who sought their help in selling restituted art. These tended to be fragile, a little bewildered and touchingly grateful for any advice, free valuations and help with research. They were only parting with this infinitely precious part of their past because there was no other way they could pay the massive legal bills or because a Monet or a Sisley cannot physically be divided between five grandchildren. These heirs also spoke of their picture with such pride and longing, praying, like a single mother giving up a beautiful baby for adoption, that it would go to a loving, appreciative home.

Zac, by contrast, seemed only interested in making as much money as quickly as possible and showed no affection for the Raphael at all. From the start, he insisted on a terrifyingly high reserve of £15 million and that the picture must go into the sale on 6 July.

Sotheby’s begged him to wait until their next big Old Masters sale in December. This would enable them to put the Raphael on the catalogue cover, produce a CD-Rom and a hardback for promotional purposes and send the picture on a triumphal tour of the art capitals of the world, so all the major players would be in town to view it.

To which Zac had replied that if they didn’t do all these things in the eight weeks before 6 July, he would take Pandora straight round to Christie’s. The contract hammered out between Sotheby’s and Si Greenbridge’s sharp-suited lawyers was an absolute brute. Nor did the Old Master experts, who’d been working on catalogue footnotes eulogizing the Raphael until four o’clock in the morning, enjoy having their exquisite prose torn to shreds by Zac.

The press, meanwhile, egged on by David, who intended to bid for the picture and who wanted to bring the price down, were spreading rumours that
Pandora
might only be a school painting and wasn’t anyway in the best condition.

To refute any rumours, Chris Proudlove, Sotheby’s kind and genial press officer, suggested they call a press conference.

‘Get along the broadsheets, the big art magazines and of course television. Our experts Richard Charlton Jones and Lucian Simmons,’ he went on, ‘will then talk about the picture, its history and its excellent condition. And for you, Mr Ansteig’ – Chris Proudlove smiled at Zac – ‘it will be a unique opportunity to put the record straight. You had a lot of adverse publicity during the court case and since – quite unfairly,’ he added hastily. ‘Now’s your chance on an open stage to give your side of the story.’

‘I have absolutely no desire to justify anything,’ snarled Zac.

‘What a beast,’ sighed a secretary longingly as he stalked out of the building.

Jupiter no longer minded about losing the Raphael. The Constable had sold extremely well. A valuation of the paintings in the Blue Tower had convinced him that flogging a few would sort out death duties and the gallery’s money problems. The General Trading Company, thrilled with Hanna’s flower paintings, had placed a big order. Searston Conservatives, having been assured Jupiter could control his wild family, were poised to adopt him as candidate and little Viridian was making eyes bluer than a Tory rosette at everyone.

Jupiter was also preparing to move into Foxes Court. Empathizing with his father’s beloved Tennyson: ‘That man’s a true Conservative Who lops the mouldered branch away,’ he had coolly informed the family he’d like them out by Christmas. Anthea was already looking for a cottage in the area for herself and the twins with a paddock for Loofah.

All the Belvedons found it horrible at Foxes Court without Raymond to welcome and fuss over them – none more so than Alizarin who finally came home at the end of June. There was no reason why he was still blind, but the American doctors felt they had done all they could.

The moment he arrived, Alizarin asked Sophy to take him to Raymond’s grave, which was still covered in flowers. The limes were in bloom in the churchyard – the scent of his childhood. Seeing tears once more escaping from under his dark glasses, Sophy tried to comfort him, but as usual he shrugged her off.

Wretched pride again. Alizarin couldn’t tell her of his despair that he’d never paint again, nor see the pale yellow lime blossom, nor, saddest of all, her sweet trusting face. She was only twenty-three. What use was a painter without eyes? If only Visitor were still alive to be hugged and confided in. If only he could have retreated to the Lodge to bawl his sightless eyes out, but Jupiter had decided against chucking out the retired bank manager and his wife. They brought in too good a rent.

It was still impossibly hot. As soon as supper was over, Alizarin, lying that he was drooping with jetlag, retired to bed, leaving Sophy and Jonathan, who happened to be the only other member of the family at home, to watch television.

Missing Raymond desperately, Jonathan was huddled in one of his father’s old jerseys and trying not to pump Sophy too much about Emerald. Grenville shuddered at their feet panting and dribbling, knowing a storm was near and there would be no Raymond to comfort him. Diggory sat in his basket under the television set convinced his master and Sophy were looking admiringly at him rather than watching the late-night Wimbledon round-up. John McEnroe, discussing the day’s matches, was being charming, intelligent, reasonable and not slagging off a single player.

He used to be an obnoxious, mouthy brat like me, thought Jonathan. Perhaps I could improve?

‘What the hell are we going to do about Alizarin?’ he asked.

‘I think he’s about to crack,’ sighed Sophy. ‘He’s like one of those stone walls that fills up with rain – or tears – and suddenly collapses.’

They were roused by terrifying screams.

‘Jesus!’ said Jonathan as Diggory leapt out of his basket, barking furiously.

‘It’s Alizarin.’ Sophy had gone very white. ‘He keeps having these nightmares.’

Racing upstairs they found Alizarin sitting up in bed drenched in sweat, his huge frame racked by frenzied sobs, screaming for Galena and shouting, ‘He said I mustn’t tell anyone.’

Gradually, Sophy calmed him. Jonathan paced up and down. Alizarin had been put in the spare room on whose walls Galena had painted the myth of Daphne turning into a laurel tree. Leering satyrs and wild beasts peered out from every tree – none of which Alizarin could see. Perhaps Galena’s ghost had returned to derange him.