Pandora (19 page)

‘Poor Ray, I mean Mr B., staggered into the gallery like a sleep-walker the following morning.’

‘I thought she’d given up that sort of caper.’ David plunged his knife into his steak with such viciousness that the blood spurted out.

‘She sounds a bit of a b.,’ admitted Anthea. ‘She always calls me Fiona on the phone, and never says please or thank you.’

Back at the gallery, Anthea swayed off to the bog. David rang Rosemary saying he was going to have a drink with Raymond after work.

‘I’ll be home around eight.’ Lowering his voice, he added: ‘Galena trouble.’

‘How lucky he’s got you. Have you had lunch?’

Checking Anthea was still out of earshot, probably throwing up, David said he’d grabbed a sandwich.

‘I’ll cook you something nice. Love you, darling.’

‘Love you too, Rosie.’

As Raymond had confided in David in the past, it was natural after a few drinks for him to confess that he’d fallen for Anthea.

‘She’s such a poppet. Don’t know what the collective noun for collectors is, but it should be an Anthea. They all flock to see her. The artists all want to paint her, Casey and Joan are positively moony. Never makes me feel my age. She’s so sweet and unaffected.’

‘Unaffected?’ said David incredulously.

But Raymond wasn’t listening. ‘She’s just like King Cophetua’s beggar maid,’ he quoted happily.

‘In robe and crown the king stept down

To meet and greet her on her way;

“It is no wonder,” said the lords,

“She is more beautiful than day” . . .

One praised her ankle, one her eyes.’

‘The Beggar Maid was dark,’ protested David, who much preferred Raymond as cuckolded King Arthur than randy King Cophetua.

Aware that David might be a little jealous, Raymond said hastily, ‘So glad you’re back, particularly to help me hang Galena’s pictures.’

‘Rosemary and I,’ said David grandly, ‘would like to lend
The Wild-Flower Meadow
,’ which Mervyn had given them to commemorate the evening they first met, ‘with a red spot on to start the ball rolling, although I’m sure it won’t be necessary.’

Later, brooding on Galena’s lapse at the Tate party, David decided she needed taking down several pegs. Searching for houses around Limesbridge at the weekend, hoping Raymond might rent them the lovely cottage overlooking the river, David and Rosemary dropped in, as promised, on Foxes Court, bringing presents for little Alizarin. Both were appalled by how ill he looked. Refereeing rows between his parents, thought David grimly.

While Rosemary read Alizarin
Just William
, David and Galena wandered round the garden. Deliberately misreading her very real worries about Alizarin and her forthcoming exhibition, David reassured her she mustn’t feel remotely guilty about getting off with the ravishing Khalid, because Raymond was utterly besotted with his new assistant at the gallery.

At the time Galena made absolutely no comment.

Two days before the private view, most of Galena’s pictures had been hung. Having no idea that Khalid was actually Somerford’s latest boyfriend, Raymond had been persuaded over lunch at Wilton’s to let a simmering Somerford have an even earlier view.

Alas, this coincided with a further and totally new picture being carried in by a grinning Eddie.

‘Paint’s not the only fing wot isn’t dry. Mornin’, Somerford.’

David, who’d been glaring at Galena’s charming portrait of Shrimpy, still furious he’d been left out, looked round at the picture and gave a gasp of laughter.

One of the most famous cartoons attributed to Raphael at Windsor Castle is entitled
The Battle of Nude Men
. It shows a crowd of naked warriors, one side with spears, the other with bows and arrows, a few armed with just shields, having a free-for-all.

All the warriors have the same short curls and even shorter penises; Raymond had a version of the drawing up in the Blue Tower. Galena, clearly outraged by news of Raymond’s crush on Anthea, had copied the picture, including instead her lovers.

There were Rupert Campbell-Black, Casey Andrews, Etienne de Montigny, Robens (that must have been a joke) and Somerford’s Khalid, et alia, all splendidly endowed. And, oh God, there was Raymond with the minutest cock, and next to him – David gave a shout of laughter – clutching a large shield with ‘Newton Dry Cleaners’ blazoned across the front, was a very pot-bellied Sir Mervyn. The old goat!

Raymond and Somerford were up the other end of the gallery, examining a moonlit view of the River Fleet, when David aroused their attention.

‘Sorry to interrupt, but I don’t think we can show this.’

Raymond, who went dreadfully pale, agreed they couldn’t – without evoking the wrath of the Director of Public Prosecutions.

‘I’d be terribly grateful if you could pretend you haven’t seen it,’ he begged Somerford, who’d whipped out his magnifying glass.

‘Must go and get some cigarettes,’ muttered David.

In the telephone box round the corner, he rang his father-in-law.

‘Are you alone?’

‘What is it? Nothing’s happened to Rosie?’

David explained about the painting. ‘We’re withdrawing it.’

Mervyn was almost incoherent with rage.

‘Woman’s made the whole thing up.’

‘There’s an appendix scar and a cornplaster.’ David had great difficulty containing his laughter. ‘And a tattoo of Cupid above your belly button,’ which was admittedly almost hidden by rolls of fat. ‘I’d just deny it.’

Mervyn decided to throw himself on David’s mercy, rather than his sword.

‘Bloody hell, what a bitch, just a bit of fun.’

‘Sure, sure, it’s all in hand,’ said David soothingly, which sounded even worse. ‘Raymond will lock the picture away, mortifying for him, of course.’

‘Is he? Am I?’ spluttered Mervyn.

‘Much bigger. In fact you come out of it’ – there he went again – ‘very well indeed. But I thought you’d like to know in advance.’

‘Forewarned is forearmed,’ said Mervyn heartily. ‘How’s the househunting?’

‘Raymond is not going to let us have River Cottage, wants to give it to his sister Lily.’

There was a pause.

‘The Old Rectory next door to Raymond,’ said David idly, ‘has just come onto the market. Lovely property, needs a lot of work, but it’d be a terrific investment. Plenty of rooms for a large family.’

‘Sounds ideal.’ Mervyn suddenly realized he was wringing with sweat. ‘You won’t mention anything to Rosie? Awfully loyal to her mother.’

‘Of course not.’

‘How much do they want for that house?’

‘About twenty thousand, and quite a bit more spent on it.’

‘Let’s drive down and see it at the weekend,’ said Mervyn.

Somerford, who was not so complaisant as Raymond and who had loved his handsome Khalid, put the boot in. On the morning before Galena’s exhibition opened, his review appeared claiming the only reason Galena had a show in Cork Street was because her incredibly tolerant and usually aesthetically foolproof husband owned a gallery. She might have produced good if self-indulgent work in the past, but this new collection was derivative tosh.

‘Galena Borrowoff-absolutely-everyone’, announced the headline.

Unfortunately Somerford had been to a private view at the Fine Arts Society the night before and had lost no time in telling every other influential critic what junk was about to be shown at the Belvedon. He had even produced a proof of what he had written, which pointed out that
The Battle of Nude Men
had been withdrawn.

Like lemmings, the rest of the critics, even those who found they admired the pictures, followed suit. Even worse, their reviews were all accompanied by sexy six-year-old photographs of Galena, which ensured everyone read the copy.

Galena was so devastated by Somerford’s piece she refused to attend the private view. Raymond had just coaxed her round, when Casey rang to report even worse reviews in the London evening papers, which both mentioned
The Battle of Nude Men
. This meant Galena’s legion of admirers, who’d accepted invitations and might have bought paintings, alarmed they might be in the picture, had failed to show up.

Rupert Campbell-Black, who didn’t read reviews and who was in London cleaning up at the Horse of the Year Show, sauntered in, laughed at the nude of himself asleep in the Blue Tower, and bought it for his mother for Christmas. He also bought the watercolour of Shrimpy and, against his better judgement, even chatted up Anthea, delicate as a harebell in mauve frills.

The private view was a total disaster, with only Rupert’s nude, Shrimpy and
The Wild-Flower Meadow
displaying red spots. Galena was suicidal. Utterly unused to rejection, she knew she hadn’t worked hard enough, hadn’t bothered to go sufficiently deeply into her landscapes, or the characters of her sitters, relying on technique rather than the heart. After the private view, Raymond drove straight down to comfort her, but she had merely been offensive.

‘Why didn’t you varn me Khalid was Somerford’s boyfriend?’

‘I had no idea.’

‘If you were
au courant
with art vorld, you would know. I cannot go on here. That vaterfall drive me crazy, those church bells send me crackers.’

Poor Alizarin, who couldn’t bear to hear his mother crying, stumbled between his parents trying to patch things up.

If only Raymond would stand up to me, thought Galena despairingly.

Next morning, Raymond drove back to London without a word. When Galena tried to call him, Anthea refused to put her through. By mid-morning, an already drunk Galena decided to go to London. Desperate for reassurance, she needed to see if her pictures were as awful as Somerford said they were and to check out Raymond’s new assistant, who sounded like Violet Elizabeth Bott on the telephone.

Up in London, Raymond and David had taken Anthea out to a very long lunch at Overton’s to celebrate her nineteenth birthday and thank her for working so hard. Staging an exhibition was a big emotional experience. Galena’s might have started disastrously, but there were still twelve days to go, and in November they might recoup any losses when they showed Joan Bideford.

‘We’ll have to supply Anthea with a chastity belt,’ teased David.

Around four o’clock, Anthea had been dropped tight and giggling back at the gallery while Raymond and David took a Reynolds they’d picked up cheaply at an auction over to the National Portrait Gallery.

Having arranged some pink chrysanthemums which had arrived for her from Casey Andrews, Anthea settled down to stick the latest reviews in the cuttings book.

She didn’t recognize her boss’s wife when she walked in. Galena’s lank hair was more grey than black, her face puffy, her once white skin criss-crossed with red veins. Her famously sexy eyes were hidden by dark glasses.

When her fur coat fell open, Anthea could see her black dress had split under the armpit and was wrinkled over the thick waist. But there was something about the lift of the head, a queenliness about the walk.

‘Vere is Raymond?’ Galena whipped off her dark glasses, revealing protruding bloodshot eyes, which were crudely ringed with black. Anthea nearly dropped the cuttings book.

‘He’s just popped out, Mrs Belvedon. Pleased to meet you, I’m Anthea.’

She was nearly asphyxiated by fumes of wine and bad digestion. Cannoning off the reception desk, Galena looked round disbelievingly at her canvasses.

‘And this is vot Somerford Keynes dismiss as self-indulgent tosh.’

‘I’m so furious with him,’ stormed Anthea, ‘and all the other reviewers.’

‘There are more?’

‘I’m not going to let you see them.’

If she hadn’t been a bit tiddly, reflected Anthea, she would have been quite scared of Galena.

‘I’m sticking them in for the record,’ she added, ‘so we don’t invite the same horrid pigs to our next party for Joan Bideford. Joan always does well. Can I get you a coffee?’