Venus Envy (38 page)

I used to counter this by hovering in the vicinity of the door and hefting my bag backwards and forwards in a deliberate manner, but this only tipped her off to my impatience and made her purposely take longer. What you should do is take up Vogue and read it in a bored, laconic manner,, at which point she will start rushing and get all annoyed and tell you to shift it.

Bronwen is ready to go in thirty seconds flat. She makes up for that by always forgetting something by the time we are four streets away, so we have to go back and sometimes trip the burglar alarm because we are stressed.

Anyway they are both better than Justin, who used to leave restaurants if I was over fifteen minutes late, and then say ‘Punctuality is the politeness of princes’ if I complained.

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The cab screeched into Piccadilly and down towards the gallery. I hugged myself and thought of how brilliant it was going to be. I had a gold and silver theme worked out, with gold and silver thin ribbons to drape everywhere, glitter for the tablecloths, and gold and silver sugared almonds to be scattered in an opulent-looking but actually very cheap manner. People pay such ridiculous amounts for parties, I don’t know. I had splashed out on a few white and yellow chrysanths; the florist had shown me great huge balls of petals, they would look marvellous and complement the theme, plus they were discounted because the ones ” he was sending were ‘not the freshest’. Fine with me, I only needed them for one day.

I got out and haggled with the cabby over the fare; maybe he thought I was a rich girl in swanky white dress, because he tried to rip me off. I only gave him five pounds and he called my mother a leprous whore and said he would insult my father if I could tell him which of my mother’s customers my father had been.

.’Is he being rude, Alex?’ Gdrdon asked stoutly, coming out to defend me. ‘We could call the dole people,’ at which point the cab roared off in a choking belch of exhaust smoke.

‘Darling, you look wonderful.’

‘Do I?’

‘Mmm, like an angel,’ Gordon said, ‘the zit doesn’t show at. all. Anyway,’ ignoring my crestfallen face, ‘you’d better get into these coveralls to go down to the cellar.’

‘You want me to get out the paintings?’ I asked horrified.

‘Well, you can’t expect me to do it,’ said Gordon reasonably, ‘I’ve just had a manicure. I’ll call the florist and organise the ribbons.’

I pulled on the coveralls and stomped downstairs to the cellar. The de Kooning was no problem, .if you

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don’t count the hernia and heinous back injury I must have done myself as I staggered upstairs - ‘Good-oh, Alex, keep going!’ Gordon yelled as he delicately laid out our miniatures on their black velvet. The Jackson Pollock was another matter. When I pulled off the bubble wrap three dead spiders fell out on me. Gordon rushed downstairs at the sound of the screaming and

then yelled at me for raising his hypertension. ‘They’re perfectly harmless, child!’

‘Aaaaargbt.’ I shrieked. I hate spiders more than anything, even Justin. Gail once dropped one down the back of my neck in the car, on the way to Alton Towers. I screamed inconsolably and Dad nearly spun the wheel into oncoming traffic, and they gated me for a week, the bastards.

‘Bring that painting up here,’ thundered Gordon, ‘and it’s rriore than your life is worth if it so much as brushes against the walls.’

Once I had staggered upstairs with the Pollock, and stacked it against one wall, I surveyed the room. The gold and silver ribbons didn’t look quite as impressive as they had on the packet photo. They looked a bit like our dining-room table after the cheap Christmas crackers had been pulled. The sugared almonds were great, but there weren’t really enough of them to make an impact. Gordon was playing with them earnestly, balancing one in the lap of a porcelain shepherdess, another on the lock of a writing cabinet,
etc.

‘Where are the flowers?’ I asked plaintively.

‘Here.’ Gordon pointed to some wilting blossoms in a white jug.

‘That’s it?’ I gasped. ‘Where’s the job lot I ordered?’

‘Oh, he said he didn’t have enough. But these are complimentary.’

They looked rather insulting to me, with their limp heads and limper leaves. And they weren’t white and yellow. More orange and neon pink.

‘Not if you’ve got the food and wine right,’ Gordon reassured me, ‘and you look wonderful, apart from the zit and the hair. And the eyeliner.’ He went out to the back and got out six of my latest sculptures, including the little statue of Gail, then arranged them around the de Kooning.

‘They’re modern,’ he said dubiously, ‘maybe they’ll set it off.’

The doorbell rang. Gordon and I both jumped out of our skins to see Mrs Ponsonby, with three old dears in huge purple knitted hats, come imperiously through the door.

‘Am I early?’ she said. ‘Good God, child,, what are you wearing?’

There was a sound of screeching tyres and I heard Keisha’s voice yelling, ‘And you can fuck off too, you fat blind bastard.’

She staggered inside carrying a hefty tray of food. It looked very nice, all laid out on little sticks like something from Marks & Sparks, but Mrs Ponsonby was staring horrified at Keisha and the gold stud in Bronwen’s nostril.

‘God, some people just don’t know they’re born,’ Keisha said. ‘Fucking assholes. Where shall I put it down?’

Twenty minutes later the private view was in full swing. I had pulled off my coveralls and now was floating round ethereally like some kind of angel or spirit. That was the best thing that could be said for the evening.

It was jam-packed. The special printed invitations

had done their work - a bit too well.

‘Get off me!’

‘Get your elbow out of my ribs!’

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‘I beg your pardon, my elbow was nowhere near you!’

‘Air!’ gasped Lady de Winter. ‘I need air! Open the windows, Alexandra!’

I hastily clambered on top of an antique bookcase to open the window, getting dust all over my knees and a death stare from Gordon, who was trying to chat up one of Bronwen’s colleagues in a corner.

‘Young woman, do you mind getting your arse out of my face?’ demanded Miss Featherington. My bum was indeed brushing against the white whiskers that sprouted from her warts, but there was no other way up there.

‘Just a second,’ I gasped.

‘Y’all leave her alone, ahm enjoying the view,’ said a thick Georgian accent, ‘ah lahk a girl who enjoys her food!’

With horror I glanced down to see Dwight S. Limo placing his orange-rimmed glasses next to my knicker less bum, protected only by the thin white rayon of my dress.

‘Nothing lahk a bit of rump stake,’ he continued, giving a loud laugh and patting my bum in a manner likely to cause an international incident. ‘Y’all keep lookin’ after those curves.’

I flung open the window and scrambled down, my hair messed and my face beetroot. Dwight gave.me a lascivious wink.

‘No panties,’ he drooled in a-stage whisper. ‘Ah lahk a girl that knows how to dress.’

‘Ha ha,’ I stammered, edging away as fast as I could.

.’Close that blasted window!’ shrieked Mrs Ponsonby. ‘Do you want us all to die of hypothermia?’

I panicked and pretended not to hear her. Keisha rescued me by sticking glasses of our cheap red wine in everybody’s hand.

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‘How disgusting,’ said Lady de Winter, ‘and the cheese is all hard and brown.’

‘Roasted cheese and sausage, traditionally burnt,’

said Bronwen, ‘it’s an old Welsh recipe.’

‘Try some brandy instead,’ Keisha offered, splashing

some into her wine glass.

‘Brandy and red wine?’ Lady de Winter squealed. ‘It’s a new South African cocktail, it’s very chic,’ Keisha said without turning a hair. ‘Oh look, what a pretty oil painting, I expect you can’t afford it.’

‘Excuse me? I could buy everything in this gallery!’

Lady de Winter said, drawing herself up to her full height, which was only five five. Keisha, to my horror,

blew a thin line of smoke down into her face. ‘That’s what they all say,’ Keisha told her. ‘Mmm, Keisha can I have a word?’ I hissed. ‘Don’t talk to the customers like that!’

‘Well, I don’t mean to be funny, AI,’ Keisha said,

‘but the old bag was getting on my tits. Anyway, she

loves it.’

.’What are these ugly clay figurines?’ someone said loudly, holding up one of my sculptures. ‘My four year-old can do better than that!’

‘Oh, let me see,’ said Jack Herman eagerly.

My heart sank a bit lower, through my shoes and

into the floor. Jack Herman was the art critic of the Evening Standard, probably the foremost expert in England on modern sculpture. I wanted to scream, ‘No! Not that one! Let me make a better one!’

‘Look, Jack, aren’t they ridiculous?’ the woman was snorting.

Outside the window I could see a chauffeur-driven Mercedes pulling up. A uniformed driver got out and opened the door, helping out first my mother, swathed in an electric-blue coat with a peacock motif in orange sequins, Tom Drummond in beautifully cut black tie, and my sister Gail, in a platinum chainmail min.i dress

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that looked like a T-shirt with pretensions. Her hair had been cut and lightened since I saw her last, and now it swung in a choppy, sexy curtain around her cheekbones - she’d done a bit of dieting too, by the looks of it. Those cheekbones were sharp enough to chop out cocaine. Gail’s long, silky smooth legs teetered up from strappy silver sandals, and she had a tiny Prada bag swinging from one shoulder.

She looked at the heaving mass inside with amazed disdain.

‘Come along, darling,’ Mum said loudly. ‘Maybe you and Tom can get something for the house.’

I backed away into a corner. I just didn’t want to deal with the Little Mermaid and Prince Charming right now.

Gordon saluted me over a glass of brandy. He had one arm” draped over the blond chap. At least he wasn’t noticing quite what a disaster it was turning out to be.

‘This fruit salad is freezingt’ said an old biddy loudly.

‘Owl’ I turned to see old Dr Kettle, one of our big spenders, glaring balefully at me. He had his gums clenched tightly shut.

‘What’s the matter, Doctor?’ I asked tremulously.

‘Somebody shut that. bugger of a window!’ roared Mrs Pons0nby.

I turned a fraction just in time to see a glass of red wine tip slowly over an eighteenth-century miniature. Oh man!

‘My fors teef have stuck in your lugging banana,’ Dr Kettle mumbled, and as I looked down I saw something pink and white locked into a yellow mush. ‘Ish bloody freezin’ in the middle! Lucky if I don’ sue you!’

‘Having fun, Alex?’ came a soft voice at my elbow. It was Tom; he’d edged through the room to find me

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and now he was standing right in front of me. The crowd packed around us, pushing us closer together.

In my misery, I suddenly felt a hot wave of lust wash

right across me. I was close enough to see all the muscle under his shirt.

‘What a great turnout.’

I looked at him suspiciously, but he seemed to mean

it.

‘Your sculptures are out too, I didn’t know you were

so talented.’

‘Really?’ I asked.

‘Really. You have such a gift. I’d actually like to buy

one.’

‘You don’t have to do that to make me feel good,’ I muttered.

‘I’m not. I’m doing it because I want to. And also as

an investment - they’ll be worth much more one day.’

This was a bit of a racer, as I hadn’t expected actually to sell any sculptures, I had never thought of putting a price on them. Another wave of pleasure surged right down to my toes. Tom truly thought I had some talent, then …

I felt my nipples involuntarily erecting through the

thin fabric of my gown, and foolishly looked down, to

see Tom staring at the same thing.

I blushed richly. ‘Isn’t it cold in here?’

‘No,’ said Tom.

His eyes locked on mine.

‘Er … which sculpture did you have in mind?’ I

asked quickly.

He reached his long arm over the heads of the quarrelling women behind him and pulled out - the statue of Gail.

My heart did a sick little flip in my chest. Tom palmed it one way and another, cradling it like it was an eggshell. I looked at her there in the clay, alive with life and movement.

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‘It’s incredible, it’s so like her,’ Tom remarked. ‘You’ve captured her perfectly.’

I wanted to capture my sister with a big-game net and drop her into a piranha swarm in the Congo. Tom was gazing at the statue with perfect admiration. I felt all the small tendrils of hope I’d had growing in my

heart wither and die like Morning Glory at sunset. ‘She was easy to sculpt,’ I muttered.

‘I’ll give you two for it, if that’s acceptable,’ Tom went on.

I tried to look happy. Two hundred pounds. Maybe I could buy some nice make-up … if there were anyone worth making up for.

‘Alexandra,’ cried my mother, squeezing her ample bulk next to me in defiance of the basic laws of physics, ‘the food is utterly inedible, what are these wretched’sweets everyone’s grinding into the carpet, and nobody can see anything to bid on it.’

‘Thank you for pointing that out, Mummy,’ I grunted.

‘Get out of my wayt’ roared Mrs Ponsonby at Jack Herman.

‘You fat old bitch, you’ve made me drop my cigarette,’ snarled Herman.

Gail came pitching up, like a siren swimming in the wake of a battleship.. ‘Hello, Alex, it’s not going awfully well, is it? I think the crowd are damaging the antiques, although they mostly look like replicas to me.’

‘You’re an expert now?’ I replied feebly.

Gail shook her sleek golden mane. ‘Don’t be bitter,

Alex, it’s so unattractive - oh Tommy, what’s that?’ She peered at herself.

‘It’s me! Who did a statue of me? Alex? Gosh, that’s not too bad…’ She looked up at Tom in the manner of a startled doe, or Nancy Reagan gazing adoringly af