House of Trelawney

by Hannah Rothschild

  “Black makes you look dressed for court and it’s so ageing. Try something a little more feminine. Who wants to bed a spider?” Though his comments were cutting, Blaze knew he meant well. “The whole world,” he said, waving his arm in the direction of the diners, “will think I’m meeting my lawyer and imagine the worst.”

  “I’m dressed for work. People who eat here probably don’t know what that is.” Blaze was tetchy. “Remind me to refuse your next invitation,” she continued, looking around and hoping that no one had overheard their conversation. “Anyway, who says I want carnal diversions? Don’t tell me you’re still up to all that?”

  Tony rolled his eyes. “I’m nearly eighty. Ten years ago my testosterone fell off the cliff—such a relief. Who was it that said it was like being untethered from a lunatic?”

  “Kenneth Williams?”

  “I so miss Kenneth. Why does the Almighty take all the good ones?”

  “He was old.”

  “He was only sixty-two!”

  The barman leaned towards them. “A drink, madam?”

  “Murray, bring her a Bloody Mary,” Tony said.

  “I don’t drink at breakfast!”

  “You need one.”

  “I don’t want one.”

  “Live a little, I dare you.”

  Murray placed a Bloody Mary on the bar.

  Blaze took it.

  The maître d’ led them across the black-and-white chevron-tiled floor to a table in the centre of the room. As they made their way, several people waved or called out to Tony. One woman, dressed in pink tweed Chanel, leapt out of her chair and rushed towards them.

  “Here comes Cappuccino Joan,” Tony said to Blaze. “I’ll give you one guess how she earned her sobriquet.” Blaze looked at the woman whose hair had been teased into a frothy mass of blonde curls on top of her head.

  “Tony, Tony,” Joan called out.

  “Joan, my dear,” Tony said and air-kissed her on both cheeks.

  “I need a new Picasso for Gstaad; my decorator says it has to be blue.”

  “The Blue Period is so gloomy—I keep telling you that. What’s more important, the wall colour or the canvas?”

  The woman looked crestfallen. “But it’s specially woven silk from Palermo.”

  “New silk versus new Picasso—hardly a contest.”

  Joan shook her head ruefully and slunk back to her seat.

  “Tony, Tony, you never return my calls.” A dapper man wearing a black suit with wide white pinstripes now approached.

  “That’s because your bank bounces your cheques. The Dambusters has nothing on your line of credit,” Tony said loudly.

  Mr. Pinstripe puffed with indignation, turned his back and marched out of the door.

  Blaze sat down at Tony’s usual table, trying to look relaxed and insouciant. While her uncle circumnavigated his various acquaintances, she looked surreptitiously at other women’s clothes and saw that Tony was right: only the waiters were wearing black. Glancing to the left and right, she noticed women with tousled hair, smudgy eyes, sun-kissed skin and loose-cut suits; handbags were brightly coloured, nails painted in pretty pastels and shoes open-toed. Blaze longed to write them off as ladies who lunched or breakfasted but recognised a well-known literary agent, a theatre impresario, a magazine editor and a deputy governor at the Bank of England. Blaze had always thought restricting her wardrobe to black trousers and white shirts was a kind of freedom from choice; now she wondered if her “uniform” was a kind of sartorial straitjacket. Perhaps colours could be used to create a mood or set an atmosphere? Maybe different styles or fabrics could be liberating? She tried to imagine herself in a soft-pink dress with unvarnished nails and a looser hairstyle, maybe to cover up her face.

  Sensing her discomfort, the maître d’ returned with a copy of the day’s Times. Blaze smiled gratefully and laid the paper out in front of her. One headline dealt with the Chancellor’s precarious position in the Cabinet, another with the exodus of the wealthier inhabitants of New Orleans ahead of a hurricane. Turning to the business pages, she saw that President Bush had signed a decree guaranteeing up to $300 billion to support troubled mortgages; the author congratulated the Americans for putting an end to a period of instability. Blaze snorted derisively; this was a drop in the ocean, hardly likely to fill the pond of debt and particularly insignificant when one considered the rumours that the biggest mortgage lenders, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, were in serious trouble. What, she wondered, would it take to bring the whole house of cards tumbling down? Or had she got it wrong? Her predictions at Kerkyra’s shareholders’ meeting had not come true and since then markets had risen again. For Blaze it wasn’t simply a loss of face; if she couldn’t trust numbers and logic, she was a woman adrift without any kind of coordinates or belief system.

  “I can’t frequent this place any more; look around, it’s full of people with a past meeting those with no future,” Tony announced, finally joining her at the table.

  He sat down and unfolded his napkin with three brisk flicks. “Why does anyone want a Blue Period Picasso?”

  “Because it screams Picasso.”

  “He did the first forty in one night before a show. The paint wasn’t even dry when the doors opened. A couple are all right, but hardly worth the money. Regardless, in today’s market they fetch over £10 million a pop. That means each brushstroke earned Picasso £100,000. No wonder he painted so much.” He laid his napkin over his knees. Turning to Blaze, he asked, “What are you looking so thunderously cross about?”

  Blaze pushed the paper in his direction and stabbed her finger at the mortgage report. Tony took a pair of tortoiseshell pince-nez out of his top pocket and peered at the headline. “ ‘Presidential intervention ends housing instability,’ ” he read aloud. “One of the most exciting headlines ever,” he said with irony. “I thought you owned your flat?”

  “This isn’t about me, it’s the world economy.”

  “I can’t spend my life worrying about intangibles; looking after myself is hard enough.”

  “This will change all financial, political and social structures.”

  Tony pushed the paper away and pursed his lips.

  “I was born in the embers of 1929. I’ve lived through more crashes than you’ve had falls out hunting. It all rights itself in the end. History is like waves on a seashore: tides come and go but nothing really changes.”

  “Not this time. The world is so interconnected that a financial crash will reverberate across every corner of the world, through all sections of society.”

  “You’re being a catastrophist. All that will happen is those who own stocks and shares will be a lot poorer.”

  “It will decimate jobs, industries, communities and pensions.” As she spoke, Blaze heard a messianic desperation in her voice.

  Tony smiled benignly at his niece. “You’ve been banging on about this financial Armageddon for well over a year and nothing has happened.”

  “That’s because you haven’t tried to understand it.”

  “I read all those long dreary articles you sent me after our last breakfast,” Tony said tiredly. “I wasted a whole afternoon and continue to think a derivative is a type of biscuit and a CDO is a cross between a protest group and a venereal disease.”

  Blaze didn’t smile; she didn’t think anything about the present situation was funny.

  Tony, seeing his niece’s displeasure, tried a different tack. “The art world is getting stronger and stronger. Take Damien Hirst—he’s having an enormous sale in a fortnight, it’ll smash auction-house records. I can’t decide whether to go to that or a party in Moscow.”

  “The world is teetering on a precipice and the super-rich are going shopping. Ordinary people were told that all this wealth would be spread about, not concentrated in the hands of a few. There’ll be a revolut
ion.”

  “We don’t do revolt in England; we’re not like the French.” Tony waved at the waiter. He’d had enough.

  “It may not take the form of sticks and stones or result in immediate action, but if the collapse is as big as I fear, then old orders will be replaced.”

  “Crashes are like laxatives. There is nothing like a good round of bankruptcies to get the art market flowing. People like me live off the three Ds: debt, death and divorce.”

  The two sat in silence for a few minutes, one imagining opportunities, the other foreseeing disaster.

  “Have you been consulting people on the other side?” Tony knew about Blaze’s penchant for psychics.

  Blaze flushed. “I wish I’d never told you about that.”

  “I suppose Madame Jojo’s been looking into her crystal ball…”

  “I don’t ask them about work-related issues.”

  “Them?” Tony snorted. “How many do you have?”

  Blaze didn’t answer.

  “If the world is about to end, I’m going to disobey my doctor and order eggs Benedict. He says I should only eat the whites. Can you imagine anything more repulsive? Anyway, at my age who cares about a bit of chlamydia if the end is nigh?”

  “I think you mean cholesterol,” Blaze laughed. It was impossible to stay cross with Tony for any length of time.

  “Same difference; it’s all an invention of the pharmaceutical companies trying to make you buy their drugs and the GPs attempting to stay in work. The private doctors have to see enough patients to pay the rent, the National Health ones need to meet quotas.”

  “What would your prescription be?”

  “A long walk and a stiff willy. Or vice Versace.”

  Blaze giggled and Tony, seeing her change in mood, glowed with pleasure. He loved Blaze for her awkwardness and lack of guile. He often wondered how, with all her success and business acumen, she had failed to develop better mechanisms for coping with life. Only a fragile membrane separated her feelings from the outside world. She was beautiful but could only see the ugly scar on her face. She polished her cleverness like a shield until it shone so brightly that others had to protect their minds from its piercing rays.

  “Your need to be certain, to predict the outcome, whether through numbers and sums or prophesy, is touching but I wonder if you might consider a more relaxed attitude? As the youth say: ‘Let it all hang out.’ ”

  “I like clarity.” Blaze tried not to sound defensive.

  “What about waking up one morning and saying: ‘I don’t know what I’ll do today’ or ‘Where will it take me?’ ”

  Blaze’s look of horror gave Tony his answer. This time it was she who waved impatiently for the waiter.

  The young man hurried over. He took Tony’s order first while Blaze studied the menu.

  “Summer fruits and yoghurt,” she said, making her usual choice.

  “You will have a full English,” said Tony, and nodded at the waiter. “Honestly, darling, I am serious: you look all blue; like Casagemas in his coffin.”

  He waited for Blaze to say something. She remained silent. Tony leaned towards her. “Now, tell me what’s actually going on.”

  Blaze folded and unfolded her white linen napkin, unsure what to say. She shrugged her shoulders.

  Tony put his hand on hers. “Are things that bad?”

  Unused to kindness, Blaze felt tears rush to her eyes.

  “Oh my darling, of all people in the entire world, you deserve happiness. I’ve never known anyone have such a bad run.”

  Blaze swallowed hard and stared across the restaurant, willing herself not to cry. She could cope with anything but sympathy.

  “A love affair, I assume?”

  Blaze shook her head.

  “What the hell else is there to cry about?”

  Blaze said nothing.

  “The only thing worse than love is lack of love.”

  Blaze wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Tony tried not to react; ladies shouldn’t behave in this way.

  “Why don’t you go down to the big house? See your parents, reconnect with your old life. I have often found that denying something gives it too much weight.”

  At the mention of Trelawney, Blaze’s shoulders slumped.

  “Please don’t look upset—people will think it’s my fault,” Tony said, glancing around the restaurant nervously. “My USP is a rudimentary knowledge of art and an advanced degree in life enhancement. Your long face will besmirch my reputation.”

  Blaze laughed, in spite of herself.

  “You are still pretty,” Tony continued. “Now, make my day: tell me you want to spend millions of your pounds on art.”

  “It might be a better investment than stocks or commodities.”

  “What’s the point in having money if you don’t spend it? And you can’t frame a share certificate or hang futures in Japanese yen on the wall.”

  “I don’t know anything about art.”

  Tony roared with laughter. “If people who bought art knew about it, I wouldn’t have a job!”

  “It’s just not my thing.”

  Tony shook his head sorrowfully. If he’d had Blaze’s money, he’d have built a fine collection; as it was, he owned some good prints and a few minor oil sketches. His niece was always happy to supplement his income when business was slow; he wished he could take this money as a commission on a beautiful asset rather than a handout.

  Sipping his champagne, he changed the subject.

  “One of my clients, a ghastly man called Sleet, has been boasting about buying land around Trelawney.”

  “Thomlinson Sleet?”

  “There can only be one.”

  “What a coincidence! He bought my business.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “Unfortunately, I have,” Blaze said, thinking about her presentation. “I’d forgotten we were undergraduates together at Oxford; he was one of the many men in love with Anastasia Kabakov.”

  “That woman is still dominating the conversation?”

  “You remember her?”

  “Few could forget her—the most bewitching flower of your generation; perhaps any generation. What happened to her?”

  Blaze twisted in her chair. “She’s dying.”

  “Dying, like dead?” Tony’s mouth fell open. “What of?”

  “Dengue fever. She’s written to me asking if I’ll look after her daughter.”

  “I didn’t know she had children.”

  “Nor did I.”

  “You don’t want to be saddled with a heartbroken orphan. Frightfully trying.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Blaze was relieved that Tony saw it her way. “Jane and Kitto can have it.”

  “How old is the thing?”

  Blaze shrugged. “I never asked. Apparently there are two children—a boy and a girl—but the boy gets to stay in India.”

  “Why India?”

  “She married a maharaja.”

  “Of course she did. How romantic.” Tony hesitated. “I wonder which one. I had a little dalliance with one who had eyelashes like a camel and a thingy like a donkey.”

  Blaze held up her hands in protest. “Tell me more about Sleet.”

  “He telephones from his treadmill, no doubt sweating out buckets of Romanée-Conti.”

  “He doesn’t look like he exercises,” Blaze said, thinking of Sleet’s corpulent figure.

  “Once he was so out of breath that I thought he said buy the Manet when he actually meant the Monet. I realised my mistake too late and nearly had a heart attack—thought I’d be saddled with a multimillion-pound picture.”

  “What happened?”

  “Needless to say, the Manet was a better picture and he made millions. People like that always come out on
top.”

  “Do you like him?” Blaze asked.

  “He’s 100 per cent ghastly. He thinks that owning art will bring him class. Even the most exquisite works couldn’t whitewash his vulgarity.”

  “If you hate him, why have anything to do with him?”

  Tony wriggled uncomfortably. “I don’t have the luxury of choosing my clients.”

  Blaze grimaced. “I thought you’d cleared up that issue.” Seven years earlier, Tony had made a bad mistake, buying what he thought was a Camille Pissarro at a high price only to find out it was a fake.

  “I’m not sure who’ll live longer, the debt or myself.”

  “You know I’ll help you.”

  “You’ve already done enough.”

  The waiter brought their food. Blaze dipped a sausage into the poached egg.

  “This is delicious.”

  “What are we going to do with you?” Tony asked.

  “If I could think of another job, another way of living, I’d jump at it.”

  “I know a nice retired French marquis.”

  “Anything except love,” Blaze said firmly.

  “It is an option.”

  “I’m over love and it’s been years since anyone showed any interest.”

  “I imagine they’re terrified of you.”

  Blaze took a sip of tea and buttered some toast. The food was making her feel better. Since the presentation in July she had spent weeks trying to find new clients, but her reputation put many off. She wished that she’d devoted more time to cultivating friendships in the investment world; remarkably few would take her calls. She wanted to leave Kerkyra, but had no idea where to go.

  “What else have you heard about Trelawney?” she asked.

  “Kitto has been selling like crazy; the darling old place has gone to wrack and ruin. He should get rid of it before the roof goes.”

  “Let eight hundred years of history go to some foreigner?”

  “There’s a bigger problem: who the hell would want it? Stately homes are so last century. No one wants miles of corridors and bad plumbing any more. Easier to start from scratch, build to spec, than try and adapt some old monstrosity.”