What a Carve Up! (21 page)

‘He was a creep,’ Phoebe told her flatmate, Kim, over a disconsolate cup of coffee in their kitchen that evening.

‘Aren’t they all,’ said Kim. ‘The question is, was he a good-looking creep?’

‘That’s hardly relevant,’ said Phoebe. (To her own annoyance, she had found him rather handsome, although much too aware of it for his own good.)

She thought no more about Roddy until the weekend, when there was an excited phone call from her father, who asked if she’d seen Saturday’s
Times.
Phoebe went out and bought it, and found that she was mentioned as one of a handful of young painters whose careers looked likely to blossom in the coming decade.

‘I’m very wary of making prophecies: history can so easily prove you wrong,’ says top London dealer Roderick Winshaw, ‘but of all the new artists I’ve seen recently, I’ve been most impressed by Phoebe Barton, a young woman from Leeds who promises great things for the future.’

Kim thought that she should telephone Roddy and thank him, but Phoebe, who was trying hard to conceal her pleasure, didn’t bother, even though the first thing she said to him when he phoned a few nights later was, ‘I saw what you said in the paper. It was very nice of you.’

‘Oh, that thing,’ said Roddy dismissively. ‘I wouldn’t set too much store by that. I’ve had a few inquiries about you since it came out, but it’s early days yet.’

Phoebe’s heart was racing. ‘Inquiries?’ she said.

‘The reason I was phoning,’ said Roddy, ‘was to find out if you were doing anything this weekend. I’m going up to the old family seat and I wondered if you might care to join me: then we could have a good look at your work. I thought I might pick you up in Leeds on the Saturday afternoon, and we’d drive up from there.’

Phoebe thought about this. A whole weekend alone with Roderick Winshaw? Just having lunch with him had been bad enough. It was a terrible idea.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘That would be lovely.’

2

Roddy took one look at the council estate and decided there was no way he was going to park the Mercedes Sports on it. He didn’t much like leaving it parked on the hillside, either, outside what seemed to be some sort of school or community centre: the two young thugs who watched him getting out and locking the doors looked as though they’d cheerfully smash the windows or let the tyres down the minute his back was turned. He hoped Phoebe would be ready and he wouldn’t have to hang around in this godforsaken spot a minute longer than necessary.

Outside the front door of her tower block he pressed a button and announced himself over the intercom system. There was no reply, only the abrupt sound of the door buzzing open. Roddy took a last look at the estate – kids playing noisily in a sunbaked recreation area, young mothers pushing prams up the hill from the centre of town, weighed down by bags of shopping – and then stepped into the hallway. It was damp and evil-smelling, and the lift looked especially gruesome; but walking all the way up to the eleventh floor would have meant arriving bedraggled and out of breath, and he was determined to make the best possible impression. So he gritted his teeth, blocked his nose and was relieved to find the ride relatively quick and painless. Next he had to negotiate a gloomy corridor, lit only by a series of feeble 40-watt bulbs which gave no hint of the brilliant Saturday afternoon sunshine he had left behind; but just as he was on the point of getting lost, the door to one of the flats opened and Phoebe herself appeared, beckoning. At once his spirits rose: against these surroundings she looked more ravishing than ever, and the doubts he had been entertaining all day on the drive up from London evaporated in a haze of desire.

‘Come on in,’ she said. ‘I’m almost ready. Kim’s just made a pot of tea.’

Roddy followed her inside and was surprised to find himself being led into a light and spacious sitting room. A young man in T-shirt and frayed jeans was slumped on the sofa watching television, flicking channels between
Grandstand
and a black-and-white comedy film on BBC2. He didn’t look up.

‘This is Darren,’ said Phoebe. ‘Darren, this is Roderick Winshaw.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Roddy.

Darren grunted.

‘He’s driven all the way up from London,’ said Phoebe, reaching for the off button on the television. ‘I’m sure he’d like to relax.’

‘Oy, I’m watching that!’

The television stayed on, and Phoebe retreated to her room to finish packing. Roddy drifted into the kitchen, where a tidy, sandy-haired woman was pouring out four cups of tea.

‘You must be Roddy,’ she said, and handed him a cup. ‘I’m Kim. Phoebe and I share this flat together. For our sins.’ She giggled. ‘Do you take sugar?’

Roddy shook his head.

‘We’re all so excited that she’s finally got someone important on her side,’ said Kim, helping herself to three spoonfuls. ‘It’s just the break she needs.’

‘Well, I certainly intend to … do whatever I can,’ said Roddy, thrown off balance.

Phoebe reappeared from her bedroom, carrying a large folio under her arm. ‘Will there be room for this in the car?’

Roddy drew in his breath. ‘Might be a bit of a squash.’

‘Well …’ Phoebe looked doubtful. ‘You did say you wanted to see them. That’s why you came, isn’t it?’

‘I thought they were all on slides.’

‘Not all of them.’ She brightened. ‘We could look at them now, if you like. It would only take an hour or two.’

This, of course, was the last thing he wanted.

‘Actually I’m sure it’ll fit in. We’ll just have to put the seats forward a bit.’

‘Thanks.’ Phoebe flashed him a smile. ‘I’ll get my bag.’

Darren shuffled in from the sitting room. ‘Where’s my tea?’

‘I thought you were going to Sainsbury’s,’ said Kim, spooning sugar into his cup.

‘It doesn’t close till six.’

‘Yes, but there won’t be any stuff left by then.’

‘The rugby starts in a minute.’

‘Darren, what are your weights doing in my room?’ Phoebe was standing in the hallway, ready to leave.

‘There’s more space for them there. Why, are they in the way?’

‘Of course they’re in the bloody way. I want them
out
when I get back, OK?’

‘Fine, if you want to make a big deal out of it.’

‘Well, thanks for the tea,’ said Roddy, who hadn’t drunk any. ‘We seem to be off.’

‘Nice jacket,’ said Darren, as Roddy brushed past him in the kitchen doorway. ‘Looks like it’s from Next or somewhere, is it?’

The jacket in question, a sporty, cream linen number, had been tailor-made and had cost more than five hundred pounds.

‘It’s from Charles of Jermyn Street,’ said Roddy.

‘Oh. Yes, I thought so. I thought it was probably one of those places.’

Phoebe blew him a contemptuous kiss, and said: ‘Goodbye, Kim. I’ll give you a call when I’m coming back.’

‘All right, take care. Have a good time, and don’t do anything … don’t do anything you’ll regret.’

Roddy, fortunately, was out of earshot.

∗

‘He’s an idiot, that guy,’ said Phoebe, as they drove up the A1 towards Thirsk. ‘And he’s round at the flat all the time nowadays. It’s really beginning to depress me.’

‘Your flatmate seemed very nice.’

‘Don’t you think it’s upsetting, though, when your friends choose totally unsuitable partners?’

Roddy accelerated to within ten feet of the car in front and flashed his headlights impatiently. So far he had been averaging about ninety-five miles an hour.

‘I know what you mean, actually,’ he said. ‘Take this friend of mine. He was engaged to this woman for two years – cousin of the Duchess of ——, as it happens. Not much of a looker but she had the most fabulous contacts. He was hoping to get into opera, you see. Anyway, suddenly, without a word of warning, he breaks the whole thing off and shacks up with this complete stranger: a primary school teacher, if you please. Nobody, but
nobody
had ever heard of her. Next thing you know, they’re married. Come to think of it they seem very happy, but I still think he should have bitten the bullet and stuck with Mariella. Probably be running the ENO by now. D’you get my point?’

‘I don’t think we’re talking about quite the same thing,’ said Phoebe.

They drove in silence for several minutes.

‘Seems pretty similar to me,’ said Roddy.

∗

It was getting on for six o’clock when they drove through Helmsley and then struck out in the direction of the North York Moors. The sunshine was still bright and Phoebe found that the moors themselves, which she had visited many times before and had always considered overpoweringly bleak, today seemed cheery and welcoming.

‘You’re so lucky,’ she said, ‘having a home out here. It must have been a wonderful place to grow up.’

‘Oh, I didn’t spend much time here when I was a kid. Thank God. This is the dreariest place on earth, if you ask me. Never come here now if I can avoid it.’

‘So who lives in the house at the moment?’

‘No one, really. There’s a minimal staff – a couple of cooks and gardeners, and this old butler who’s been with the family for about five hundred years, and that’s about it. So the place is pretty much empty.’ He took out another cigarette for himself and gave it Phoebe to light. ‘Oh, apart from my father, of course.’

‘I didn’t realize he was still alive.’

Roddy smiled. ‘Well, as far as anyone can tell.’

Not knowing quite what to make of this, Phoebe said: ‘Do you know that John Bellany portrait of his father? I love that painting: it’s so rich and detailed – it tells you so much about the man, and at the same time it’s done with such warmth and affection. It positively glows.’

‘I know his work, yes. I’m not sure I’d recommend it to anyone as an investment these days. Look,’ he said, fixing Phoebe with a half-humorous, half-admonitory stare, ‘I hope you’re not going to want to talk about painting all weekend. I get enough of that down in London.’

‘What else are we here to talk about?’

‘Anything.’

‘ “I live and breathe art”,’ said Phoebe. ‘ “What other people refer to as ‘the real world’ has always seemed pale and insipid by comparison”.’

‘Well, that’s as may be. Personally I find that sort of attitude rather affected.’

‘Yes, but I didn’t say it: you did.
Observer
magazine, April 1987.’

‘Ah. Well, that’s the sort of thing you’re expected to say to journalists, in my line of business. You’re supposed to take it with a pinch of salt.’ Still puffing away on his cigarette, an edgier, more dangerous tone entering his voice, he said: ‘Do you know what I’d planned to be doing this evening? I’d been invited to dinner with the Marquis of ——, at his flat in Knightsbridge. Also on the guest list were one of the most powerful theatrical producers in London, a member of the royal family, and an incredibly beautiful American actress, currently starring in a film being screened all over the country, who was flying over from Hollywood especially for the occasion.’

‘And what am I supposed to say to that? You must obviously be bored with these people, if you’d rather spend the time up here with me, in the back of beyond.’

‘Not necessarily. I look on this as a working weekend. After all, my livelihood depends on the cultivation of talented young people: and I do regard you as talented.’ The compliment, he thought, was well calculated, and gave him the courage to add: ‘What I’m saying, my dear, is that I’m expecting something a little more exciting from this weekend than a few hours in the drawing room discussing the influence of Velazquez on Francis Bacon.’ And then, before Phoebe could reply, he caught sight of something on the distant horizon. ‘Hello, there it is. The beloved homestead.’

∗

Phoebe’s first impression of Winshaw Towers was not encouraging. Perched almost on the crest of a vast, forbidding ridge, it cast deep dark shadows over the grounds beneath it. The gardens were not yet visible; but she could already make out a dense area of woodland which screened off the approach to the house, and at the foot of the hill lay a large expanse of dismal and featureless water. As for the mad conglomeration of gothic, neo-gothic, sub-gothic and pseudo-gothic towers which gave the house its name, they resembled nothing so much as a giant black hand, gnarled and deformed: its fingers clawed at the heavens, as if to snatch down the setting sun which shone like a burnished penny and would soon, it seemed, have descended inexorably into its grasp.

‘Not exactly a holiday camp, is it?’ said Roddy.

‘Aren’t there any other houses around here?’

‘There’s a little village about five miles away, on the other side of the hill. That’s about it.’

‘Why would anyone want to live in such a lonely spot?’

‘God knows. The main body of the house was built in 1625, so they say. It didn’t come into my family for another fifty years or so. One of my ancestors, Alexander, bought it up – for reasons best known to himself – and then started adding to it, which is why there’s hardly any of the original brickwork left. Now this trumped-up duckpond’ – he gestured out of the window, for the road was now running parallel to the water’s edge – ‘goes by the name of Cavendish Tarn. It isn’t really a tarn, of course, because it’s man-made. Cavendish Winshaw was my great-great-uncle, and he had the whole thing dug out and filled with water about a hundred and twenty years ago. I think he must have envisaged hours of happy pleasure-boating and trout-fishing. Well, just look at it! You’d catch your death of pneumonia if you tried to stay out there for more than five minutes. I’ve always suspected that Cavendish – and Alexander too, if it comes to that – must have belonged to the … well, the eccentric side of the family.’

‘And what does that mean, exactly?’

‘Oh, didn’t you know? The Winshaws have a long and honourable history of insanity. It continues right up to the present day, as a matter of fact.’

‘How fascinating,’ said Phoebe. ‘Somebody should write a book about you all.’ There was a knowing, mischievous undertone to this remark which a more alert listener than Roddy might have registered.

‘Somebody
was
writing a book about us, now you come to mention it,’ he said blithely. ‘I even met up with him once: gave him an interview a few years ago. Inquisitive sort, I must say. Anyway, all that’s gone very quiet. Good job too.’