Pandora (70 page)

‘Oh no you don’t.’ A nurse who’d been redressing the eye of a patient opposite grabbed the bottle. ‘Alizarin’s on extremely strong medication at the moment. Time you pushed off anyway. We’re about to turn out the lights.’

They were already turned out for Alizarin.

By nine o’clock on the morning of Alizarin’s private view, a large sign saying: ‘Winner and runner-up of the British Portrait Award 2000’ had been plastered across the front window of the Belvedon. At midday, Raymond’s assistant, Tamzin the dimbo, who could sniff out a party all the way from Gstaad, returned from her six-week sabbatical with a Mars-brown tan. Having arranged white daffodils still tightly in bud in large glass vases round the gallery, she proceeded to drive Jupiter crackers ringing her friends and describing the sexual prowess of Heinz her ski instructor.

‘It didn’t matter one bit that there was hardly any snow.’

Later, as Sophy charged round polishing parquet, buffing frames with black boot polish, touching up the walls with white paint, Tamzin painted her nails.

‘I wanted to go to art school, Sophy, but Mummy and Daddy thought I’d get into drugs so they made me take a sekky course.’

‘Not so’s you’d notice,’ muttered Jupiter, who’d just bought six more light bulbs and was busy adjusting their beam onto different pictures. ‘For Christ’s sake, start ringing round the press, Tamzin.’

‘Just nipping out for a sandwich. D’you want anything, Sophy?’

Sophy shook her head, for once too nervous to eat.

An increasingly edgy Jupiter had brought in a ghetto blaster and was playing tapes of battle sounds to create atmosphere. Guns booming and shells exploding seemed to sum up his mood and that of Alizarin’s thundery dark pictures, which, properly lit for the first time, looked spectacular. Pride of place on the ground floor had been given to
Upside-Down Camels
, which glowed like amber and citrine.
Heatwave
, loaned by Dicky Belvedon, said the description.

‘It all looks wonderful,’ Sophy told Jupiter soothingly.

But outside a vicious north wind whipped down Cork Street, and the sky had turned a sickly yellow presaging the snow which Tamzin had been denied in Gstaad. Bad forecasts would certainly deter the country punters, thought Sophy in anguish as she set off in a taxi to collect two crates each of red and white, and a huge chunk of mature Cheddar from which guests would hack pieces.

When she returned, Tamzin was waving the
Standard
.

‘You’re in the paper.’

‘“My brother painted my winning portrait,” admits YBA’s bad boy’, said a large headline.

Oh Christ! Sophy winced at her even larger naked body sprawled across the centre pages, with a caption: ‘Sophy’s extremely choice’.

If she didn’t get sacked for bunking off, the head would boot her out for this. No wonder education was in a parlous state in England.

‘At least they’ve plugged the private view,’ said Tamzin, waving a sponge bag. ‘It’s nearly five-thirty, I’m off to change.’

Outside the icy pavements glittered under the street lamps. Jupiter had just returned from righting a blown-over bay tree when Anthea rang in. She and Raymond had reached the London flat, but Raymond had developed a raging temperature, was clearly going down with flu and wouldn’t be able to make it.

‘I really can’t leave the old boy.’ Anthea lowered her voice: ‘Ay’m so disappointed.’

‘Bloody liar,’ said Jupiter as he hung up. ‘But it’ll be easier without Dad, he gets more uptight than the artists.’

Thank God Alizarin wasn’t here either: he was always so rude to the press. Nor would he have been happy, if he weren’t blind, to see how much of his earlier, carefree work, before he lost Hanna, was on display. Oh Hanna, sighed Jupiter.

Seeing he was shivering worse than Grenville at the prospect of fireworks, Sophy made him have a hot shower upstairs. Inside she was even more apprehensive than Jupiter. If they didn’t sell pictures tonight, Alizarin would be condemned to an eternity of darkness. But she killed her nerves by keeping busy, opening bottles, putting out blue glass ashtrays and polishing Jupiter’s shoes. When he came down with his hair slicked back, she gave him a good-luck tie: red silk covered with black cats.

‘That is fabulous.’ Jupiter put it on. ‘God, we’re going to need it.’

David Pulborough was absolutely furious. He and Geraldine had been made to look complete idiots at the awards last night. They both detested Alizarin, and now he’d been proved the winning artist, David wouldn’t be owed a fat cut any more.

In revenge, he had decided to hold a spoiler party across the road at the Pulborough and give selected press a preview of one or two of Casey Andrews’s latest pictures, before his exhibition opened next week. By six-thirty, therefore, David, Geraldine, Casey and Somerford Keynes were peering out like a witches’ coven, furious to see despite the falling snow so many people going into the Belvedon.

‘Jupiter and Raymond’s faces will be alizarin crimson by the end of this evening,’ bitched Somerford. ‘They will not sell a single picture. Talk about the flop of the Millennium.’

David kept popping out into the street, diverting critics and diary writers he knew.

Bastard, thought Jupiter.

All three floors of the Belvedon were soon packed with clients, artists, other dealers, press and beautiful people, looking at each other rather than the pictures. Abdul Karamagi was among the first arrivals, ecstatic at the publicity.
Sophy’s Bush
, he kept telling everyone, would shortly be as famous as the Botticelli Venus.

Sophy herself, now falling out of the black lace dress which Emerald had vetoed for the twenty-sixth birthday party, was to her embarrassment much photographed. Jonathan, who had turned up merely to support Alizarin, received his usual share of hysterical media attention, particularly after last night’s misunderstanding.

‘When did Alizarin paint that portrait?’ ‘Where is he?’ ‘Where’s Raymond, and what’s happening about
Pandora
?’ clamoured the journalists.

‘The civil case, which we will win,’ said Jonathan firmly, ‘is scheduled for late April. Sienna’s case – she’ll be totally exonerated too – comes up at the beginning of March.’

‘I told you not to distract the press,’ hissed Jupiter.

‘Why does everyone keep murmuring “Interesting”?’ Sophy whispered to Jonathan.

‘Because,’ he whispered back, ‘if you slag a picture off, you’re bound to be talking to the artist’s mother, who’ll thump you. If you say it’s wonderful, you’re bound to be talking to the artist’s best friend, who’ll be so jealous, he’ll thump you even harder. Much easier to be neutral and murmur: “Interesting.”’

‘Interesting,’ murmured Sophy.

‘How’s Emerald?’ asked Jonathan ultra casually.

‘Trying to work.’

‘Why wasn’t she at the awards yesterday?’

‘I think she was jealous you’d painted me, not her.’

Jonathan felt the faintest lift of the heart. He could just handle things if Emerald still loved him.

Many of the major players had now arrived: Lord Coley, very pleased with himself: ‘We chose the artist last night, Al Belvedon’s going places’; Minsky Kraskov, the terrifying Mafia thug alleged to like paintings of tortures. There was a rumble of excitement as Si Greenbridge walked in, watchful as ever, flanked by guards so he needn’t make small talk.

Jupiter was in a quandary. He’d learnt from Sienna that she’d seen Si and Zac plotting in New York. He was tempted to show Si the door, but he needed him to buy a picture to egg on the other rich apes, so with gritted smile he moved forward to welcome him.

‘I’ll ask if I need help,’ snapped Si. He seemed tired and distracted.

It was also sadly obvious that both collectors and press had turned up expecting more voluptuous nudes, with or without a bikini line, like
Sophy of Shepherd’s Bush
. People were yakking at the top of their voices to be heard over the booming guns and the explosions, but no-one was buying. The gallery’s reputation had been more damaged than even Jupiter had thought.

Everyone nudged as Somerford and his claque of queens could be seen mincing through the snow from the Pulborough, careful not to slip, pens poised to annihilate Alizarin. On the way in, Somerford met Judy Collins, head of Twentieth-Century Acquisitions at the Tate.

‘You won’t find anything in here,’ he told her bitchily, ‘I’d pop across to the Pulborough and look at a real artist.’

‘I like that,’ said Judy Collins, walking over to examine
Upside-Down Camels
.

A diversion was created by a group of Alizarin’s students, who had raised £2,000, and wanted to buy a picture for their common room to go towards Alizarin’s air fare. They were clearly devastated he wasn’t at the party.

‘What a photo opportunity missed,’ sighed Tamzin.

This show is going to bomb more spectacularly than anything we’ve ever done, thought Jupiter, but that isn’t enough to distract me from the agony of Hanna not being here, to hold my hand, to laugh it off with me over supper later, to soothe my wounds in bed.

Lady Coley, who looked like a Windsor violet barrel this evening, had been admiring the charming watercolour entitled
Dog Stars
, which showed Visitor gazing up at a night sky dominated by Canis Major, and which Sophy had retrieved from Jonathan’s waste-paper basket the night she met Alizarin.

‘Tracey’s thirty next month,’ Lady Coley reminded her husband, who promptly asked the price.

‘I’m afraid it’s sold,’ gasped Sophy, hastily sticking a red spot on the description. Although Jupiter would murder her, she couldn’t bear the Coleys to have Visitor.

Jupiter, however, had been distracted by the arrival of a tall blonde. Tears spilled down her anguished features, like a waterfall over grey rocks. Snow had whitened her hair; she had lost so much weight around the face, she looked like a Victorian waif seeking refuge from a storm. Jupiter, jaw gritted to stop himself breaking down, fought his way through the crowd, seized the blonde’s hand, pulling her into the back office and locking the door.

‘I was worried no-one would turn up,’ sobbed Hanna.

‘For Alizarin?’ asked Jupiter bitterly.

‘No, for you. It was so brave of you to give him this show.’ Then, as he gazed down at the bulge: ‘I’m nearly seven months pregnant, and it’s yours, you idiot.’

‘Oh my darling.’ Jupiter’s hand went down, his trembling fingers splayed out over her tummy, then travelled slowly up over her left breast, curling itself round the back of her neck, drawing her lips towards his.

‘You can’t leave people in the middle of a private view.’

‘Wanna bet? I have so much apologizing to do,’ muttered Jupiter.

Tamzin had disappeared upstairs with Abdul. Jonathan, hackles up, teeth bared like an angry cur, was pursuing Somerford. Sophy was left as chief salesman. To whom?

Si had been poised to buy one of the big oils of Macedonia, and all the other major players, spurred on, were reaching for their cheque books, when he had suddenly glanced across the street and clocked David and Geraldine through the window of the Pulborough. Next moment he had shot out of the gallery, with his guards pelting after him, and disappeared into his limo and the night. All the other major players promptly put back their cheque books and the party began to disperse.

The battalions of red and white had been depleted by the onslaught, the chunk of mature Cheddar looked like a desert ant heap. Beautiful people were on their mobiles checking the whereabouts of the next party and ringing for cabs. The press were packing up their cameras and putting away their notebooks. Nothing had sold, an empty spike waited wistfully for yellow invoices. Somerford was still badmouthing Alizarin, Jonathan was moving in to thump him, when Sophy hissed in excitement: ‘Look at that!’

For a tall man in a dinner jacket, oblivious of the cold, was loping down Cork Street, his gold hair silver in the moonlight. The gallery fell silent as Rupert Campbell-Black stalked in. All the things Sophy had ever heard about his utter self-confidence and dazzling, unnerving beauty were true, but she loved him already because he had two children he adored who were adopted like she was.