Pandora (82 page)

More cases, more statements, more incomprehensible jargon.

‘The law is a foreign country,’ Jonathan whispered to Hanna, ‘they say things differently there.’

The clock had moved round to ten-forty.

It was getting darker. Outside the rain was hissing on the little green parasols of the horse chestnuts, spattering reporters’ notebooks. Photographers were putting their coats over their cameras. Willoughby Evans was now paying tribute to the skill and industry of all counsel involved, ably supported by their respective teams.

‘Oh, get on,’ groaned Jupiter. ‘It was much more exciting on the other days,’ he whispered apologetically to Hanna. ‘I really love you,’ he added.

Like audiences at boring concerts, everyone was craning to see how many pages Willoughby Evans had left to read. Only two now. Sienna took Raymond’s hand. Please God make it OK.

‘For these reasons I have given, I conclude . . .’

‘Here we go,’ muttered Sampson, who was playing with his pink brief ribbon. Peregrine parked his chewing gum and stopped playing Solitaire.

‘The painting was taken from Benjamin Abelman in 1938,’ intoned Willoughby Evans, ‘but the Nazis who stole it did not become full owners. None of the subsequent transfers established title. Who knows to which son Benjamin would have left his picture, but in the law of this country, the elder son inherits.’

The pink ribbon snapped in Sampson’s hand. Feeling the blood drumming in his head, Jupiter closed his eyes. They’d lost it. Involuntarily rising out of her seat, Sienna could see a jubilant Naomi’s hand on Zac’s arm. Her pencil broke as she turned Willoughby Evans back into a vicious rat.

‘Although Benjamin’s younger son, Jacob Abelman, recovered the Raphael and sold it to Colonel Feldstrasse,’ he was saying sternly, ‘it was not in fact his to sell. Benjamin’s elder son already had a daughter, whose son Zachary Ansteig is the direct heir.’

As the ecstasy on the faces of the Jewish supporters was illuminated by a biblical flash of lightning, Willoughby Evans’s voice rang out like a chapel bell.

‘I will therefore recognize Zachary Ansteig’s title to the painting, as derived from the law of the twelfth of April 1931.’ Then, as a cannonade of thunder rocked the building: ‘Sir Raymond never obtained good title to this painting.’

Utter pandemonium followed. Everyone was yelling their heads off, except the Belvedons.

‘Oh no, no, no, no,’ whispered Raymond.

We’re going to need that Veuve Clicquot for a wake, thought Jonathan numbly.

‘Never – hic – trust a Welshman,’ muttered Lily.

How dare conniving beastly little Willoughby Evans crinkle his eyes at me all week, thought Anthea furiously, then take away our lovely Raphael?

‘We must appeal,’ she cried.

‘There isn’t any fucking money,’ snarled Jupiter. ‘We’ll have to pay costs now. With all Si’s dirt-gathering trips in his jets, they’ll be massive.’

There was no time for tears. Naomi and Sampson were already up at the bench, arguing terms. Naomi haughtily demanded costs and Sampson, wondering if the Belvedons would ever be able to pay him, complained this was far too high and he’d like a more detailed assessment.

‘It seems reasonable to me, Mr Brunning. Costs follow the event, do they not?’ said Willoughby Evans, trying and failing to make himself heard over the uproar.

Sienna sat utterly stunned. Her longing for Zac had fooled her into thinking she didn’t mind so much about the Raphael. Now its loss hit her like an overhanging branch.

Equally stony-faced, having secured a Pyrrhic victory, idol in smithereens, proud heritage a mockery, Zac stalked out into the downpour. Such was his suppressed fury, he had no need of guards to fend off the press, who split open like the ground in an earthquake as he disappeared through them into Si’s Mercedes.

Deprived of their interviews with Zac, the maddened media stampeded the Belvedons, knocking Raymond’s Canary Bird out of his buttonhole, trampling it in the mud.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Raymond mumbled in bewilderment as the storm flashed and crashed overhead, ‘I must get back to Grenville, he’s terrified of thunder.’

Desperate to get a shot of Pandora before she was packed away, photographers raced back into the court.

How could Hope still be smiling? wondered Sienna.

‘You lying bitch,’ she said slowly.

Jonathan was relieved not to go back to Foxes Court. He couldn’t face Anthea’s martyrdom, Raymond’s anguish, Jupiter’s cold rage, Sienna’s despair. Le Brun had been coming home for a celebration, but felt now he should return to Paris. Jonathan insisted on accompanying him. As Rupert had repossessed his helicopter, they caught a late afternoon flight and dined at Chez André where Jonathan sunk into deeper and deeper gloom. At least hunting for evidence had distracted him a little from Emerald. Now, alive in his dark coffin without any bell, the bleakness of a future without her terrified him.

‘Don’t try to eat,’ said Le Brun, who’d been watching the poor boy pushing exquisite langoustine round his plate. ‘You’re exhausted, which is ninety per cent of depression.’

‘I wish,’ sighed Jonathan. If only a decent night’s sleep could get him over Emerald. Then, pulling himself together, he apologized for dragging Le Brun over to England and forcing him to admit such painful things.

‘And thank you for trying to salvage Dad’s reputation.’

‘You’re not just sad because of the Raphael,’ observed Le Brun.

‘I’m pissed off that shit Zac has finally got it.’ Then Jonathan told Le Brun about Emerald.

‘Everyone bangs on about the benefits of finding one’s birth mother,’ he said finally. ‘No-one warns you of the hell of falling in love with your real brother.’

Despite a very long day, Le Brun insisted on coming back to Jonathan’s dusty little room to look at his pictures, which were all of Emerald. Le Brun refused a drink and said nothing because the suffering they conjured up was so excruciating, it reminded him of losing Georgette.

Oh well, thought Jonathan.

‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a bore,’ he muttered. ‘Do you think the pain ever goes away?’

‘
Non
,’ said Le Brun tersely.

‘Right.’ Jonathan took it on the chin. ‘I’ll get you a taxi.’

‘It will never go away, because you have immortalized this girl and your unhappiness.’ Le Brun put a consoling hand on Jonathan’s arm. ‘People’s hearts break all the time, but only a handful have the genius to portray this suffering: Catullus, Sappho, Housman, Yeats, Mahler, Munch, now these . . .’ Le Brun waved the other hand round at the pictures. ‘They are also extraordinarily beautiful.’

‘Thank you.’ Jonathan fought back the tears. ‘That does help – a lot. But I’d still trade Emerald for any immortality.’

‘That’s because you are young. I am old and tired.’ Le Brun sat very suddenly down on the bed. ‘We will talk more tomorrow. Now get me that taxi.’

Switching on his mobile, Jonathan found a text message from Jupiter.

‘Dad’s had a massive stroke,’ he told Le Brun shakily, ‘he’s unlikely to last the night. Can I drop you off on the way to the airport?’

The first British Airways flight left Charles de Gaulle at a quarter to seven in the morning. Trafford, who met Jonathan at Heathrow, was somewhat the worse for wear after an all-night preview party celebrating the opening of Tate Modern.

Some prudes, he announced proudly, had dismantled
Shagpile
and knocked off all the cocks.

‘Bloody good publicity. Thinking of replacing the cocks with Brillo pads and renaming it
Hagpile
,’ then, just sober enough to take in Jonathan’s reddened eyes and corpse-like pallor, he added, ‘Sorry about your dad.’

‘Thanks. Sorry to drag you out here, but I wanted to repossess my dog.’

Perhaps it was desire to escape from a petrol-stinking car park, but any worries that Diggory might have forgotten him were dispelled when an orange-and-white bullet exploded out of Trafford’s filthy jeep, screaming, wriggling, covering his master’s salty face with kisses.

‘Don’t be too nice to me,’ mumbled Jonathan.

Diggory reeked of hash, cigarette smoke and various scents. He had clearly been partying as full-bloodedly as Trafford, who, reflecting that both Sienna and Emerald would probably be
in situ
and in need of comfort, suggested he accompany Jonathan to Foxes Court.

Jonathan shook his head.

‘I’ll drive myself. Need time to adjust to being an orphan.’

‘Nice bloke, your dad. Let’s have a drink.’

‘Have one on me.’ Jonathan shoved a bottle of Bell’s into Trafford’s shaking hand.

‘Sure you’re OK?’

‘Fine.’

All the same it took Jonathan three-quarters of an hour to remember on what floor he’d parked his car.

What would Van Gogh have made of rape fields? wondered Jonathan, putting on dark glasses to fend off glaring lakes of yellow beneath a white hot sky. As he stormed into Limesbridge, scattering the pink and white petals in the gutter, crossing the fingers of both hands on the steering wheel, he prayed that his father would stay alive long enough for him to say goodbye.

It was therefore an anti-climax to be greeted by a grey-faced, exasperated Sienna: Raymond hadn’t had a stroke at all.

‘It’s something much milder called a T.I.A.’

‘Sounds like one of those things one should buy before the fourth of April to avoid tax.’

‘It stands for Transient Ischaemic Attack and evidently simulates the symptoms of a stroke.’

‘Is he OK?’

‘He’s got to keep quiet for a few days, then they’ll do some tests. D’you want some breakfast?’

‘I’d like a drink.’ Wandering into the kitchen, Jonathan poured them both duty-free brandies. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Jupiter’s belted back to London to sweeten the bank manager. Anthea’s sobbing on her bed, rehearsing her role as unmerry widow. In reality she’s hopping because she overheard Robbie and Lily discussing how pleased Dad would be to see Mum in heaven.’

‘I’ll go and see him.’

‘He might not recognize you. He keeps calling me Galena and Grenville Maud. Such an insult, no wonder poor Grenville’s refusing to eat. Dad thought Limesbridge had been taken over by the Russians last night and that Neville-on-Sunday was Boris Yeltsin and offered him a huge vodka.’

Jonathan grinned. Out of the window he could see little Diggory hurtling round the garden in search of Grenville and Visitor.

‘Where’s Alizarin?’

‘He rang, he’s in the middle of another op, and can’t fly back at best till later in the month.’

‘Poor darling.’ Jonathan put an arm round Sienna’s shoulders. ‘It’s all fallen on you.’

Sienna battled not to cry. It was so shaming that even when she was convinced her father was dying, she could only long for Zac’s arms round her.

Raymond had retreated to his dressing room. On his way up there, Jonathan bumped into Anthea, who expressed horror at his brandy bottle and the two hundred Gauloises.

‘You mustn’t drink and blow smoke all over your father. He’s been dreadfully ill. He won’t recognize you. He asked Lily to bowl to him this morning.’

Being nice, Jonathan decided, was the easiest way to get rid of her.

‘Poor Anthea, you look whacked.’

‘I haven’t slept for weeks, months actually, what with the trial.’

‘I’m sure. Go and lie down, I’ll sit with him.’

One of Anthea’s eyelids was turquoise, the other violet, he noticed; perhaps in her way she did love his father.

Raymond, elegant as always in Turnbull & Asser blue-and-white-striped pyjamas, was lying diagonally across the bed to accommodate the long legs of Grenville, who languidly waved his tail, before jumping down to greet Diggory.

Raymond’s face lit up.

‘“This is my son,”’ he quoted in wonder, ‘“mine own Telemachus.”’

‘I told you he wouldn’t recognize you,’ said Anthea smugly.

‘Hi, Dad,’ said Jonathan, shutting the door firmly in her face.

As he stooped to kiss his father, he was shocked to be grazed by stubble. Raymond had never not shaved.