Summer in Mayfair

by Susannah Constantine

  Tilting her head back, she watched wispy clouds fly briskly across the sky, leaving a large swatch of clear indigo blue. Such clouds foretold a change in weather. They had no shape at all or every shape because they were constantly changing. She closed her eyes and sensed the warmth of the sun glowing orange on her eyelids. It was a wonderful feeling.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The door to the shop was wedged wide open with a copy of the Yellow Pages. She’d stayed in the cemetery as long as she could and thought she’d left it late enough for Bill to have gone home but she hadn’t banked on a refurb being underway. From across the road she could see the gallery was empty, removed of all paintings. A stepladder leant idly against the far wall, fenced off by a ring of pots. It seemed the showroom was immersed in a thorough revamp. Her desk was covered in a dust sheet and Bill sat behind, feet up and crossed on top. She tried to sense his mood by the way he held his newspaper. There was no snapping or flicking of the pages, which was a good sign, and he took unhurried sips from the mug held precariously aloft.

  She thought about doing a runner but her boss looked into the street and stared right at her.

  ‘Fuck,’ she said out loud and almost whipped in front of an oncoming BMW. What would Cece say?

  She made her way to the entrance and stood very straight with her fingertips skimming the doorframe for balance, suspended in the moment between success and failure.

  ‘It’s OK, you can come in,’ said Bill with a slight edge. He took his glasses off and twisted them between his thumb and forefinger in the way her father did when he was annoyed.

  ‘So. Where shall we start?’

  Esme looked down at the floor which had been stripped of its carpet. There was no sadness in her tears – they were the messengers only of overwhelming remorse. With the greatest effort she lifted her head, wanting to beg forgiveness.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Bill.’

  His face was impassive and nothing moved apart from his fingers manipulating his glasses which continued to stir her fear.

  ‘Bill, I can only apologize for fucking everything up. Seriously. I behaved like an imbecile.’

  ‘The thing is, Esme, there are no short-cuts to accomplishment. It took me fifteen years to become an overnight success. Fifteen years of making mistakes and carrying on regardless because I had the drive and bloody-mindedness to succeed, no matter what. I learnt from my mistakes and used them to further my career. You have a choice now. You can either sit in this job and wait for some rich fuck to propose, like Suki, or you can buckle down to proper work and make a go of your career.’

  Esme nodded, hardly daring to let herself hope that Bill was giving her a chance.

  ‘But if you really want the second option then you have to promise me to take responsibility, to get out there and use the famous Munroe eye to prove your worth.’

  Bill was giving her a lifeline which was both thrilling and terrifying.

  ‘Of course I want this and I will, I promise, do my absolute best. I’ll work all the hours of the day and night…’

  ‘I’m not asking you to do that – just to be accountable for the tasks and projects I give you.’

  ‘I will. Bill, thank you. You have no idea how grateful I am. And I’ll pay you back, you can take the money out of wages,’ she said.

  ‘You might not need to. If you just listen – because opportunity sometimes knocks very softly,’ he said cryptically. ‘It’s one of the reasons why I am making some changes.’

  ‘So what’s going on here?’ said Esme. ‘In one afternoon, you’ve stripped the entire place.’

  ‘It seems you made quite an impression on our young American friend.’

  ‘Ollie?’

  ‘Yes, Oliver Maxey. He brought me some contact sheets,’ Bill said, pulling a sheaf of photographic paper from under the calico. ‘I’m not sure you’ll be too happy but I’m over the moon.’

  The images were black-and-white and showed a crumpled figure sitting head bowed on a pavement. As usual, Oliver had made the familiar unfamiliar, bringing out new emotion in the way he framed the shot and almost made it abstract. Esme could see despair weighing down on the figure – a smacked-out junkie? – as if the day lay on top of their shoulders like stones, but there remained something beautiful in the heartbreak he’d captured.

  ‘Oliver took these?’

  ‘Yes. It’s the ones on the next sheet you really need to see.’

  The printed negatives continued on the next page. The girl – for Esme could now see it was a girl – looked up, eyes bruised with mascara and tears catching the sunlight. It was her. In that candid, awful moment outside his gallery, Ollie had captured the essence of her mistakes creating images that were perfectly imperfect, elegant yet provocative. From the mess of her emotions had somehow come images that played with the classical aesthetics of proportion and clean lines. She was amazed.

  ‘Look at you!’ said Bill. ‘A beautiful mess.’

  She scanned the next page – a record of misjudged actions in detailed precision – her bag discarded on the ground next to her, open and empty, a broken shoe and scattered dreams.

  ‘I had no idea…’

  ‘That’s what makes them so incredible. This is what I’ve been waiting for, Esme.’ He took hold of her shoulders and shook them, excitedly. ‘These are why I’m changing the space. New pictures, new paint.’

  He went on to tell her how Ollie had come to the gallery to show him the photographs of her saying it was only right that she and Bill ought to have first refusal. ‘He said he couldn’t resist taking them of you and he couldn’t exhibit them or sell them to anyone else without your permission. He clearly knew how much you regretted missing out on the other pictures. As a matter of fact, I think he brought these to me to help you.’

  ‘Help me?’

  ‘These are evidence of your contrition, blossom.’

  Esme would never forget the feeling of relief that swept over her or the sensation that she was being lifted from her own ashes.

  ‘He wanted to give them to me but I refused. Instead he has a body of unseen work and, along with these, I am giving him his first solo Central London show. You will be the one to decide if these are for sale or just for display.’

  ‘Bill, that’s incredible,’ Esme cried.

  ‘Photography has never been shown here before so the gallery is having an overhaul to complement his work. Thanks to your fuck-up, I’ll be exhibiting the new wonder boy.’

  ‘Wow. What will the neighbours say?’ she laughed. ‘I am so pleased. For you both.’

  ‘We’re not getting married, blossom, although I admit, he’s ravishing.’

  ‘He is,’ she grinned.

  ‘This will shake up Jermyn Street. Out with the old and in with the new.’ He got up with an attempted little skip. ‘And you, my darling girl, are getting a promotion. I want you to be my ears and eyes.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s decided. With your youth and beauty and dedication, you will open more doors than I will. People only show me what they think I want to see. You are a blank canvas.’

  Esme thought of Emma Hamilton: her intensity and ability to take today’s admirers back to another time. George Romney had captured a moment and turned it into thought and feeling, and Ollie had done the same. She hoped there was a place for both of them in this gallery and that Bill wouldn’t turn his back on Old Masters forever.

  ‘Where’s Suki, by the way?’

  ‘I told her to take the next two weeks off whilst the refurb is being done. She’s thrilled as it means she can read all those wedding magazines she bought. I’d love to say you could do the same but I need you here to plan Oliver’s exhibition. Now I’m going to go and get some rest and I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Esme couldn’t rest. Instead she walked down to the waterside. The tide was out, leaving behind a trove of pre-loved items and trash. It wasn’t a fragrant breeze coming off the Thames but it held a welcome dampnes
s that reminded her of Scotland. A few weeks ago, Esme had thought she could conquer London. She had imagined a whirl of art openings, rebellious nights, larky parties, bittersweet romances conducted right here on the Embankment. So much had changed but not in the ways she’d envisaged.

  She looked all round her – at the two bridges, Albert and Battersea, the great trees, the grey-brown ever-flowing river. She sat on a bench, her hands in her lap folded over her jeans and smiled, thinking she had never seen anything as beautiful as this. The river was the heart of London; for centuries it had brought all the wonders of the world to the capital, and now it had transported Esme to a place where things were simple once more. The air was warm, skittish and nimble and she glanced down the long stretch of water which ran perpetually, ebbing and flowing, forgiving and renewing and reshaping the shoreline until it came to a brackish conclusion as it met the sea. And with it, she felt it carrying all her misdemeanours and her past away.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Autumn was her favourite season and Esme was so happy she lived in a world where there were Octobers. It was the time when everything burst with its last beauty, as if nature had been saving up all year for a grand finale. The symphony of colours richer than any other month – green speaking of life and strength, orange of golden contentment and red a burning heart that would keep the world warm through winter months. Autumn carried more gold in its pockets than all the other seasons put together, she had once read. It settled you into your favourite chair, like an old friend.

  Work was going really well. Bill’s forgiveness and faith in her ability had given her the confidence to pick herself up and earn success. Old Masters were still her passion but as she learnt more about fine art photography, she came to appreciate that the skill of printing was as important as the composition itself. She and Ollie had spent hours in the darkroom. He had shown himself to be kind and patient, a natural teacher who could turn the ordinary into something fresh and new. Life to him was an exclamation. He shouted his talent through his work yet never felt the need to explain it to anyone. His photographs spoke for themselves. The exhibition had been triumphant and, thanks to Bill, Maxey prints were in high demand and there was a healthy waiting list of subjects wanting to be photographed by him. She loved her job and she had to admit, she was falling in love with him. She and Oliver had slept together the night of his new exhibition and had barely been apart since.

  Somehow Dan had managed to crash Ollie’s opening night. At a thirty-foot distance he was still attractive with the strident body of an alpha male. At close range, his inflated ego took up the gallery as if he owned the place.

  ‘Lovely to see you, beautiful,’ he said, moving in to kiss her hello. Esme recoiled, inhaling the stench of his chauvinism and lies. ‘I’ve been thinking about you constantly,’ he proclaimed, but his words struck her as empty and contemptible. There was nothing to charm or tempt her anymore.

  It was incredible, that, after everything, the closest to an apology he could offer was a ‘I couldn’t resist you,’ as if it was her fault. She had told him he was ridiculous and to fuck off. ‘Ouch,’ Dan had winced, then rebounded with a sleazy smile. ‘That would hurt me if I believed it or even cared.’ Seeing the tension from across the room, Max had subtly taken him by the arm and kicked him out.

  The friendship between Max and Esme had continued to grow. Whenever she was swamped or overwhelmed she sought the tranquillity of his company and studio. Seeing him and Ollie form a friendship was a delight to her too. They were such different breeds, like a whippet and Afghan hound, she used to tease. They fought like kids over the respective superiority of each other’s chosen fields, but there was also a deep well of mutual respect.

  But Ollie had gone. He’d needed to go back to the States for a while and Esme couldn’t deny London was not as much fun without him. He had been away too long. When Ollie got back, she was taking him to one of Max’s bohemian nights of revelry and drunkenness.

  On the night he’d left for New York, Cece had invited her for a drink at the new bar she was running. They’d regenerated their friendship and were taking things slowly. When she’d arrived in London, Esme had been so desperate to make friends that she’d overlooked the time needed to forge significant bonds. To date, their relationship had been built on surface appeal and convenience, but now both were keen to underpin what they shared – as strays roaming the metropolis – ready for life’s surprises.

  Work and Ollie may have kept her busy but Esme knew she couldn’t use them as excuses not to act on the lessons of the summer. She was on her way to meet her father and as she turned into Sloane Avenue now, her heart was drumming in her chest so hard it ached, but it was the good kind of ache: excitement and effort and action. She stopped to breathe in the crisp air that smelt ever so slightly of smoke.

  Her parents had become members of the club she now stood outside when they’d sold the London house. Designed as a bolt-hole for out-of-towners spending the occasional night in the city, you paid a small surcharge for a decent room and a full English breakfast. It was exactly the kind of place Cece teased Esme for frequenting, but she understood why her father had chosen it. The antiques were subtly arranged and it was decorated with understated elegance. Bookshelves lined the walls of the room she was shown into and there was no overhead lighting, just a few lamps and a pair of picture lights showcasing a decent landscape and portrait of a Chelsea Pensioner.

  Esme found an empty sofa in the corner in front of the fire and ordered a pot of tea with toast and Gentleman’s Relish. It was comforting to be back in the warm arms of tradition for an hour or two. She got up to browse the shelves as if she was at home. She slipped out a leatherbound copy of Vanity Fair and ran her finger down the spine.

  ‘Am I in time for tea?’

  Esme turned. Her father’s hair was greyer or perhaps highlighted by the sun. The suntanned face was handsome as ever and as familiar as an old pair of slippers. He wore an open shirt with a scarf looped around his neck and as she moved to face him fully, he regarded her like she was someone he knew but couldn’t place.

  ‘Esme! My God, look at you. You’ve become a woman!’

  She laughed and went over to embrace him. He felt strong and smelt of lavender.

  ‘Are you wearing aftershave?’ she asked. ‘You never wear aftershave.’

  ‘It’s this soap. Made in the village I’ve been staying in,’ he said, handing her a brown box tied with straw, ‘for you, darling.’

  ‘How lovely. Thank you,’ said Esme. ‘Here, I’ve got us a place by the fire. London must seem cold after the South of France. And tea is on the way.’

  He looked at her approvingly and joined her on the sofa. A good-looking waiter dressed in a neat black-and-white uniform wrestled with a tray weighed down by an unnecessary array of Spode china. Sugar bowl, milk jug, teapot, plates, cups and saucers, tea strainer, cutlery, butter dish and decanted fish paste smartly filled a chunky silver tub. Keeping up appearances is so complicated, thought Esme.

  ‘Here, let me help you.’

  Esme watched her father stand to assist the young man in his struggle. He poured them each a cup, remembering that she liked two sugars.

  ‘It seems a lifetime since I saw you. How are things?’ he asked, spreading a thick layer of butter onto his toast.

  ‘I had a bit of a rocky start. Finding my feet, learning on the job, but everything is brilliant now. Bill’s been a hero.’

  ‘You’re in expert hands, just don’t let him exhaust you.’ He smiled, the creases around his eyes filling with sunshine.

  ‘And I’ve met someone. He’s gorgeous but it’s early days.’

  ‘Really? Do I know his parents?’ he asked with mock casual indifference.

  Esme rapped his hand with her spoon and they both laughed.

  ‘No. You won’t know him or his family. He’s a photographer from New York. His show at the gallery was a sell-out.’

  ‘Ah, Bill did mention something abou
t that. He was raving about him,’ he said leaning back into the sofa, putting his hands behind his head.

  The waiter reappeared and asked, ‘Would you like anything else?’

  ‘Esme?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘So he’s a Yank?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s living here for now. Although he’s away for work at the moment so you can’t give him the third degree about me while you’re here!’

  ‘Well, I look forward to meeting him, darling,’ he said. Esme had never introduced a boyfriend to her family before, and she found herself suddenly looking forward to the encounter.

  ‘How’s everything with you?’ she asked.

  ‘Extremely well. I adore France. The people are so much more relaxed. Less prejudiced. The Brits could learn a thing or two. I’m not back for long. The Culcairn set is just too bloody restrictive. If it wasn’t for visiting your mother and Mrs Bee, I’d not even have gone back there on this visit. I didn’t go up to the castle while I was there. Your mother’s home and The Lodge were enough for me. I know we spent a lot of time with the Culcairns when you were younger but I don’t think it’s a happy home for the Contessa.’

  Esme had the sense that he was about to say something more but had stopped himself. There was a brief silence, and then she laughed. ‘Totally agree. London has taught me that. There’s so much more to life than stilton and “Pass the port, old bean.”’

  ‘The thing is, people like the Culcairns take everything for granted. Assumption is their curse. Don’t get me wrong, I still miss Scotland and your mother, of course.’

  Esme could hear the sincerity in his voice, and also the inner turmoil. It really must have been so difficult for him, especially considering what she now knew, and she had to fight the temptation to lean over and hug him.

  ‘It’s true. I grew up believing that the world revolved around a candelabra-laden dining table but actually I’m happier hanging out in a greasy spoon,’ Esme said.