‘Hey.’
Way down at the end of the gallery stood Oliver as if he had miraculously appeared from out of the whiteness: a black, leather-clad shadow against a blank canvas.
‘I’m so please you made it. I thought maybe Bill didn’t like my portfolio,’ he said.
‘These are…’ she mumbled, genuinely lost for words.
‘It looks great, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘This is Nancy, by the way.’
Esme was unable to take her eyes off one picture of – what was it? A lily shot through wet glass?
‘Is this who you were telling me about?’ said Nancy.
‘Yeah. Esme. She works with Bill Cartwright. The collector everyone wants as a patron.’
‘These are incredible,’ Esme said finally, looking at Nancy. ‘I mean, really, really incredible. Bill is going to go nuts.’
Fading flowers, rotting fruit and skulls recurred in the photographs. They were gloomy symbols of the brevity of life and the inevitability of death. Beautiful but damned. At the centre of one wall hung a huge still life of a lotus flower. It was the only colour in this snowy oasis and sprang – in all its purple glory – with a restrained eroticism.
The studio itself offered cool relief from the burning day and was as icily clean as a surgical theatre. There were no skirting boards or cornicing to mar the sanitary lines and the floor was a piste of glacial resin that sucked at her shoes as she moved towards Oliver.
Nancy was planted with her legs apart, arms folded. There was a hint of suspicion in her eyes. ‘Bit late for that,’ she said and walked away.
‘I’m so glad you came,’ said Oliver. ‘Let me show you around.’
He wore a blue-and-white-striped T-shirt under his jacket which made him look younger, somehow more familiar, less New Yorky and more like an image from her childhood holidays in the South of France. For a second she forgot why she was there – there was something about him that made her feel at home, even in this alien environment.
‘I’m so sorry I’m so late, Oliver.’
‘Jesus, I’m never on time for anything. Try getting around the grid system of Manhattan. It’s a fucking nightmare. I used rollerskate everywhere until my work got too heavy to carry twenty blocks,’ he said.
He came over and reached out to put an arm around her shoulder to show her the exhibition but something stopped him. His eyes travelled down her body and back up to her face.
‘Late one?’
Esme nodded, freshly conscious of how she must look. Smudged mascara, crumpled dress, matted hair and bloodshot eyes; a wreck of lost control. She hung her head, wanting to hide but wanting to explain. Instead she started on what she hoped was a happier topic.
‘Bill has authorized me to buy all of your best work. But I don’t know where to begin because it is all… well… it is all so incredible,’ she said hopefully. Surely he would let her reserve some pictures for Bill, giving her enough time to see if Dan or Cece had the missing cash. ‘He is in awe of your ability and got completely over-excited when I showed him your photographs. In fact, he was struck dumb. Literally didn’t speak for two minutes. Bill never stops talking but he couldn’t say a word when he saw your work…’
Now she was with Oliver – soothed by the serenity of his work and the fact he seemed genuinely pleased to see her – she felt a moment of hope.
‘That’s a pity. They’ve all sold,’ said Oliver, matter-of-factly.
‘What…?’ A chill ran through her. She looked more closely. Sure enough, little red dots of stickers were there, blinking against the whiteness surrounding the big prints that flanked here. ‘All of the best pictures have been reserved already?’
‘No, not just the large ones. I mean they all got sold last night. I couldn’t believe it. Esme, when you are trying to make it as an artist, you don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Two collectors came by and between them they bought up the entire show. Obviously I wasn’t going to refuse them.’
The room and – in particular – Oliver’s face, came into sharp relief. She wanted to get back into the sun to take away the sense of foreboding blossoming in her – the certainty she had that Bill would fire her for such catastrophic failure. She could smell the stale odour of disgrace from her clothes, her hair, her future. Bill had given her a chance and she had screwed it up.
‘No. Of course not! Of course, you wouldn’t,’ she said faintly. ‘I’m really pleased for you.’ Esme wanted to be happy for him, but as the magnitude of her mistake hit home, it was all she could do not to collapse to the floor. First she’d lost Bill’s money, and now she’d missed out on more than the photographs – she’d lost the chance to prove herself to Bill.
Please say something, she thought, but Oliver just looked at her, those blue eyes filled with – what was it – disappointment? Regret? Scorn?
‘I’ve been an idiot,’ she said.
‘Yeah, well…’ He pushed his fringe back but it wilfully flopped back and seemed to cast a shadow over his features, or was it a shadow rising within them? ‘I’m still flattered that the great Bill Cartwright wanted to own my work. I’m just sorry it wasn’t to be.’
A phone rang from deep within the bowels of the gallery.
‘Ollie! It’s the journo from the Observer,’ shouted Nancy.
‘I have to take this,’ said Oliver, with the bewildered slight smile of someone getting used to the smell of success.
‘Of course.’ Esme walked to the door turning to say, ‘Good luck.’ But the photographer had already vanished through a white door in the white wall.
Esme ran down the steps, clinging to the railing for support. Blinded by tears, she missed the final step and fell onto her knees. And there in a messy heap the sobs began; long, scalding ones that came again and again. Crawling to the wall, she sat and drew her legs in to her, wrapping her arms around them to become as small as possible. Blood trickled down her shin and she dabbed the graze with her dress. One of her heels had snapped and fallen under an overflowing wheelie bin and she took off its pair and threw it in the same direction. Resting her head against the sun-soaked bricks, she wept silently and unabated. From inside the gallery she heard a shutter clicking but the sound only reminded her of what she had lost.
Chapter Twenty
It took her nearly two hours to walk back home. Two hours of smothering car fumes and unbearable humidity. It had been very hot for too long now; the Embankment, for all its dazzlements, stank of the stagnant Thames, emptied by the tide. Everything glistened with a hard, brittle light, the intensity of the sun bouncing off car bonnets and firing the temperature to boiling point. Esme felt that every passerby saw through her demolished appearance, sensed her shame. At each pedestrian crossing she held her breath, aware that she stank of booze. Busy streets in the heat of the day were no place to be with a hangover. Everything felt far away and then suddenly she was ambushed by an unseen lamp post or car, briefly shaking her out of her trance.
Any hope that Bill might not be at the gallery was quickly dispelled by his Bristol parked outside. She pushed the door but it didn’t open. She normally loved letting herself in and locking the door behind her until Suki or Bill arrived, feeling the still security of the gallery. She rummaged for her keys which, thank God, had not been of any use to whoever had ransacked her bag.
The second post was still scattered across the door mat and there was no sound from within; but she felt a charge in the air, that she wasn’t alone. Gathering up the letters, she saw that her father had sent a postcard. It was a photograph of the amphitheatre in Arles. Provence had always been a favourite place for him to paint. It was the light, he said. Seeing his large, lazy handwriting made Esme realize that she hadn’t given her father much thought. Even when he was in the same country, or same city as Esme, he had felt absent. He had never written to her at school and as she read the card now – Having a marvellous time and painting like a fiend. Sending you much love, my darling girl – Esme felt an unfamiliar spark of affection for him.
As her life was about to implode, she was grateful for the momentary distraction.
‘Bill?’ she said too softly for human ears.
Silence.
She went into the kitchen where Suki, most likely, had already made a mess since the cleaner’s early-morning visit. The cutlery drawer tilted heavily open and milk curdled idly on the counter. She checked in the office and the vault was locked. Part of her guiltily wished there had been a burglary to deflect from her mistakes. She ran the tap until it was cold enough to drink and downed two mugs of water after rifling through the cupboard for aspirin.
‘So how did you get on?’
‘Christ, you made me jump.’ But she didn’t turn to face Bill, wanting to postpone her fate for a few seconds longer. She felt dread and self-disgust as palpable as seasickness.
‘Have you seen it? A double page in the Evening Standard. First time I’ve ever known a photographer to get a write-up like this. You picked a winner, blossom – your friend Oliver is being hailed as the next Man Ray.’
Esme’s heart sank as she turned to face him. Death itself began to look welcome. Bill would kill her anyway once the truth was out.
‘Jesus, Esme.’ Bill’s eyes widened as he took in her dishevelled state. ‘What on earth happened to you?’
‘Oh, Bill. I’m so sorry.’
He knew she hadn’t come back last night; it only took a few stuttered words to fill in the rest and tell him she’d missed the preview. Her body went limp with defeat and the weight of letting him down.
‘Bill, I’m really, really sorry. I’ve fucked up big-time, I know. I’d didn’t think they would be sold so fast.’ She began to cry, more genuine than the fake tears she squeezed out as a child to avoid punishment.
‘They’ve sold already? How many of them?’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘All of them.’
He stared at her, puce-faced with eyes bulging, his veins like fat blue worms etched on his neck. His fists were clenched with the strain of keeping his emotions in check.
‘Do you realize what you’ve done? This guy is no longer a rising star, he’s the full-blown fucking midday sun after this article and I gave you the opportunity to choose those photographs on your own – to get in there before the vultures – and you’ve fucking spunked it up the wall,’ he hissed, spittle flying from his mouth like sparks.
‘I know. I know. I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘If you knew, you wouldn’t have missed the fucking appointment. Jesus, if there is one thing I hate, it’s being taken for granted.’
He paused and rubbed his face, taking deep breaths like a swimmer before a dive.
‘I’ve done so much for you, Esme, and the one time I ask you to do something for me, you screw up. Not because you got run over or had a family drama but because you stayed out all night getting fucking pissed. You look like you’ve been dragged through nettles and you stink like a fucking beer mat.’
He looked at her like she was diseased.
‘You need to pray one of those sales fall through and that he realizes the value of being part of my collection…’
Esme remembered Oliver’s excitement in Bill’s interest and she wanted to kick herself for not actively pitching her boss when she had been at the studio. But then she remembered she had had no money. Shit. She was going to have to tell Bill about the money and it was better she did so before he asked for it back.
‘The other thing is…’ she stalled, preparing herself for the human hand grenade to explode.
‘Now what?’
‘Your money. Someone stole it out of my bag,’
Bill looked at her and put a hand up like a policeman flagging down a speeding vehicle and went very still. The edge of his pursed mouth went white and he shook his head, advancing to the door. When he turned around his face held a look of utter blankness.
‘I’ve got an important client coming in tomorrow, so I suggest you make yourself scarce for a while.’ He stalked off.
‘Bill, wait! Please wait,’ she banged on his car window but he ignored her and drove away down the street.
She slammed the door and screamed into the empty gallery.
Rage at her uselessness boiled inside. She wanted to punch the wall. Bill had given her the responsibility for her discovery and she had let him down. Oliver had been her golden ticket. If she’d bought those photographs when she was meant to, it would have been another rung up the ladder in the art world. If Bill sacked her now, it was all snakes and no ladders. And she didn’t blame him. It would be a fair consequence for her foolish behaviour. She would sack herself in Bill’s position. Then another thought struck her. With her job would go the roof over her head. What a mess. What a fucking mess.
If she didn’t feel so ashamed she would have called Sophia. She couldn’t decide if she needed to be alone to ponder her shame and despair in seclusion or whether her problem shared would be a problem halved. Where was Suki when she needed her? Although Suki would probably just tell her to follow her footsteps and focus on finding a man and settling down rather than trying to slog it out in the art world. Cece might be a better option. Yes. She would go and find Cece and be united in the rueful bond of a shared hangover. Esme still clung on to the hope that she might know something about Bill’s money. Cece’s no-nonsense, worldly-wise attitude was what she needed right now. Plus her sofa might be available until she found somewhere else to live. But first, she had to clean herself up.
The breeze had blown her bedroom door shut and the room was like a furnace; books and papers on the table by the window curled like old sandwiches. She threw her dress on the bed and went to wash, wondering if there was anything clean to wear. She still had a couple of tops lent to her by Cece and a borrowed striped shirt of Suki’s hung on the back of the door. After towel-drying her hair, cleaning her teeth and spraying deodorant on her stubbled armpits, she re-applied a light face and opted for the reassurance of her mother’s shirt and a pair of white shorts. Thankfully Bill had paid last week’s wage in cash which she pulled out and stuffed into her back pocket. The notes were covered in pencil shavings glued in place by ink from a leaking biro which got all over her hands. It felt like everything she touched was stained right now.
The closer she got to North London, the more she craved the comfort of Cece’s pragmatic outlook. She’d been there, seen it and done it, she was sure. At some point, she bet Cece must have been sacked and faced the prospect of destitution. Her empathy and sound advice was exactly what Esme needed.
Mornington Crescent was like a hairdryer, the hot air scooping up dead leaves and litter. Mini dust tornadoes swirled at her ankles, the grime settling on her hair, still damp. Esme used one foot to brush aside crisp and sweet wrappers from the entrance to Cece’s house. She rang the bell.
‘She’s not in, love.’
Esme turned around. It was Mabel, pushing a shopping trolley, a saggy sleeveless dress exposing her lack of bra.
‘Effing windy. Storm’s coming, they say.’
‘Did Cece say when she’d be back?’
‘I’m not her bleeding secretary.’
Esme thought she would wait for a bit and she sat down on the step, her face feeling irritated and clammy as dust gusted into her eyes and up her nose.
‘You might be there all night, love. She’s always out, that one. Right slapper.’
Esme didn’t fancy getting stuck in an argument with Mabel and got up to leave.
‘Will you tell Cece I came by?’ she asked.
‘Who are you?’
‘Esme. Tell her Esme came to see her.’
Mabel raised her giant arm in acknowledgement and Esme returned to the Tube station, faced with a miserable night alone.
Given her possible eviction, Esme began to pack, readying herself for a swift and clean exit. As she folded her new, newly soiled dress that reeked of smoke and was sticky with God knows what, she began to weep. Her misery came from an emptiness inside that she felt had been carved out with a
knife; the emptiness you get when you’ve broken something very important to you. She’d lost her chance at breaking free from her past. She pressed her face to the cool glass of her mirror and had an overwhelming sense of the loneliness of London. Thousands of souls in their bedrooms, high in the cliffs of windows.
Exhaustion began to creep in, wrapping itself around her bones, squeezing her so tight she could barely breathe. She’d have to finish packing tomorrow. As she went to turn out the landing light she clocked an envelope propped against the opposite wall. Parchment-thick, it had a red crest on the back and her name handwritten on the front. Opening it, the note inside was from Kensington Palace requesting her to join HRH Princess Margaret for lunch at her home.
Well, this was a first. To get an invite from the Princess in her own name, especially when her parents were out of mind and out of town, was something she never expected. How on earth did the Princess know she was in London? Esme thought back over her movements. The only thing she could think of was that one of the guests at Bill’s exhibition must have told her. The summons, whilst a surprise, did little to lift her spirits. She would have to lie about her circumstances and pretend to the Princess that all was rosy.
Chapter Twenty-One
The next morning, despite longing to stay in the oblivion of sleep, she woke early. Her hangover gone, she could feel the misery of the past twenty-four hours in even sharper detail. She kept replaying the last few days obsessively but try as she might, she could not conjure any vision of the future that didn’t involve feeling lost and in limbo. All she knew was that she had to get out of the flat. Bill had told her to make herself scarce and she couldn’t think of anything more miserable than cowering in her room above the gallery, hearing him downstairs, waiting for the axe to fall. But where was she to go? Cece hadn’t called her – if Mabel had even delivered her message. She should have pushed a note through the door. And then she remembered Dan had said he was covering a story at Battersea Dogs’ Home today, the last Friday of the month, and decided that was how she would spend her day. The way she felt right now, she’d definitely prefer to be around dogs rather than people. Plus she could ask Dan if he’d seen anyone pickpocketing and going through bags at Eaton Square.
Summer in Mayfair Page 22