by Jilly Cooper
‘And I found Mr Casey Andrews’s cheque.’
‘Oh God.’
‘No, it was OK. He popped in half an hour ago, I explained about being a new girl and it probably being my fault. He couldn’t have been kinder. I gave him a coffee and he went off with his cheque like a lamb.’
All the letters Raymond had dictated that morning came back immaculately typed.
‘These are fine,’ said Raymond, signing them, then smiling at her, ‘but in future could you possibly put Esq. rather than Mr on the envelope, and I prefer to write in the Dear Somerford or Dear Lady X at the top, more intimate somehow. I’ve got a boring dinner this evening, so I’m going to have a shower. See you in the morning.’
‘Give me your jacket,’ said Anthea. ‘I can’t have my handsome boss going out with a button hanging loose.’
Wiping a hole in the misted-up mirror, Raymond wondered if he was still handsome. When he came out, Anthea had retyped all the letters.
‘You should have gone,’ said a shocked Raymond, accustomed to Fiona’s insistence that anything after six o’clock was well past her party time. ‘Particularly with all the tube strikes.’
‘I only like leaving an empty in-tray.’ Anthea stood on tiptoe to adjust his collar as she helped him on with his jacket. ‘You do look smart. Have a lovely evening. Thank you for such a wonderful day.’
The next day she brought him home-made cake and a jar of pear jelly.
‘I live in Purley, which means “Pear tree lee”.’
She really was the most conscientious child. She never took lunch hours except to shop for the gallery. She revolutionized Fiona’s sloppy filing, despatched Galena’s invitations, had a mug printed with Raymond’s name. She also brought in a small wireless.
‘So we could have a dance when we’re not too busy. I so wanted to be a dancer, but I was too little,’ she told Raymond, ‘but working in a gallery’s so much more exciting.’
Soon she was adding womanly touches: making cushions and chair-covers to enhance the pictures being shown; arranging wonderful flowers, which she’d bought early in Covent Garden; finding pretty frames for the photographs of Galena and the three boys, pointing out Mr Belvedon’s beautiful family to everyone.
Raymond found himself missing David less and less. Anthea was so slender, smelled so sweet and, scorning the flares and long skirts that were fashionable, stuck to short, tightly belted frocks and pleated skirts which showed off her pretty legs and tiny waist.
‘I’m into femininity, not feminism,’ she was always saying.
At the end of the week, the agency rang. They had found an older more experienced woman to replace Anthea.
‘Oh no,’ said Raymond in horror, ‘we all love her, we want Miss Er, Miss Er . . .’
‘Rookhope,’ whispered Anthea.
‘Miss Rookhope to stay as long as possible.’
When he came off the telephone, Anthea gave him a little kiss.
‘It’s pronounced Rookh’p,’ she giggled, ‘after a little village in Durham.’
‘I shall call you “Hopey”,’ said Raymond happily, ‘after a character in a picture at home, which one day I’ll show you. I must remember: Rookhope pronounced Rookh’p.’
‘To rhyme with suck’p and shack’p,’ muttered Eddie, who was much less taken.
It was clear Raymond had developed a sodding great crush on Anthea. Eddie had hoped with David and Fiona out of the way, it would be him and the Governor together again. Anthea, he noticed, turned on the charm like an electric kettle. She never remembered he didn’t take sugar and only gave him a slice of homemade cake if Raymond were about.
‘I’m a good listener,’ she was always saying in her silly squeaky voice, but, like the Boy David, she was more interested in storing information that could be used later.
She praised everything Raymond did, noticing dark rings under his eyes, a different tie, laughing at his most insane quips. Important collectors and artists got the same treatment.
She might charm the birds off the trees, reflected Eddie, but he didn’t think she’d take them to the RSPCA if they broke a wing in the fall.
The person she creepily reminded Eddie of was David. Like him, she was frantic to escape from her dull, relatively impoverished, suburban background. There would be a battle royal for Raymond’s affections when David returned.
Eddie retired to the basement to smoke dope and photocopy his cock in the smart new machine ordered by Anthea. Hearing how pretty she was from other artists, Somerford Keynes, the demon critic and a great fan of Eddie’s, waddled down to the Belvedon to have a butcher’s.
‘She’s very small,’ he murmured.
‘So was Napoleon,’ snapped Eddie, ‘and about as defenceless.’
In early September, Galena came up to London for a party at the Tate, and spent the afternoon at Vidal Sassoon, emerging with gleaming collar-length hair falling over one eye from a side parting. Dramatic makeup, and a beautiful vermilion dress, floating to avoid the spreading waist, but slightly see-through to show off the still exciting breasts, completed the picture. Raymond felt all the old tugging of his heart strings. Galena’s latest tipple was a pinch of cocaine in a glass of champagne, repeated throughout the night.
All the art world were at the party, all smiling brightly to conceal their envy and animosity. Galena received a lot of attention. She’d been stuck in the country for months, and news had filtered out that an important new exhibition was imminent.
Everyone stopped talking as an extraordinarily handsome Pakistani – a young artist called Khalid – walked in.
‘You’d like him, wouldn’t you?’ Galena murmured mockingly to Raymond.
It took her precisely half an hour. She and Khalid left the party together. Raymond returned to the flat in Duke Street, St James’s, which he’d acquired after the top floor of the gallery in Cork Street had been given over to pictures. Here he waited up, churning with rage, humiliation and misery, until a dull dawn broke over the dirty city.
‘What is life to me without her?’
Arriving at the gallery, he thought he’d been burgled. A little Watteau was missing from the wall, then he realized Anthea was dusting its frame. Coffee bubbled in the percolator. The peel of the oranges she had squeezed for him lay in the waste-paper basket, a croissant was keeping warm in a drying-up cloth. He also recognized the opening bars of the Sanctus from the Missa Solemnis, on the score of which Beethoven had written, ‘From the heart, may it again go to the heart.’
‘We’re singing it in the choir at home,’ explained Anthea. ‘I bought you a tape. Whatever’s the matter, didn’t you have a lovely party?’
A desolate contrast to her new, bright-coloured cushions, Raymond had slumped on the sofa, his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking.
‘Galena never came home.’
‘Oh, you poor dear.’ Anthea ran over and put her arms round him. She was so tiny, it was like being comforted by Alizarin.
‘Don’t be upset, Daddy, please don’t.’
It was Eddie’s day off, so they stayed quietly in the gallery. As Anthea cosseted him with chicken soup and tomato sandwiches made with fresh basil, further details emerged.
‘I want to drop her horrible party list in the dustbin,’ raged Anthea.
There was also a train strike. Anthea rang home.
‘Mr Belvedon’s very kindly lent me his flat, Mum. He’s going to work late and sleep in the gallery, we’re so busy.’
She and Raymond were planning to go out to dinner, but over a bottle of Chablis still more details emerged.
‘I can’t satisfy Galena. Her contempt makes me impotent. She complains I’m too small.’
‘How beastly of her. I’m so tiny, you’d be quite big enough for me.’ Anthea was edging up to him on the sofa.
‘I’m far too old for you.’
‘You’re not, you’re so distinguished looking and you’ve got a figure most young fellows would die for.’
Much encouraged, Raymond put a
n arm round her shoulders, expecting to encounter angel’s wings. He felt like a collector, taking an exquisite figurine out of a glass case, fondling, examining, making a miraculous discovery: that he could give her pleasure. She was so perfect, so responsive, wriggling on his knee like a little girl, letting him play with her for hours.
‘I’ve got a real daddy at last.’
Anthea’s fortnight ran into months.
It was a bright crisp morning at the beginning of October; dry plane leaves rattled along the gutters. The sun was no longer hot or high enough to necessitate the green-and-white-striped awning outside the gallery. Anthea on the telephone could see cobalt-blue sky between the houses.
‘We’re showing Kit Eskine this week, Lord Partridge. We’re open till six. We don’t close for din— sorry, lunch. Lovely, see you later.’
The switchboard meant power and knowledge. Anthea had also received increasing abuse from Galena, whose pictures were due in today. The Boy David was due back tomorrow. Anthea had pinned his postcards on Raymond’s cork board.
‘I’m like a coffee machine,’ she joked to a passing Raymond, ‘that’s twenty cups I’ve made this morning.’
‘You shouldn’t attract so many collectors,’ said Raymond fondly as he retired into the inner office with one of the madder and richer. ‘We don’t want to be disturbed.’
David was thrilled to be back in London. His honeymoon had been pleasant enough. Rosemary had proved a surprisingly easy companion. He had made good contacts in Florence and Venice, put more of Galena’s money into a Swiss bank while admiring wild flowers around Geneva, and enjoyed the game reserves. Although after a bit one giraffe looks very like another.
Leaving his bride to wake up slowly, anxious to show off his wedding present, he thundered up Piccadilly, only to be distracted by a beige windmill. It was a frantically waving Somerford Keynes.
‘Dear boy, dear boy, how are you enjoying the lap of luxury? Lovely party at the RAC. Liked your new wife, but aren’t people bitchy? “There goes David and his pension fund,” said some wag. I can’t remember who. “Don’t knock it,” I reproved them, “a young lad has to get on,” particularly now it looks as if you’ve got competition at the gallery. Raymond is positively besotted by his new popsy.’
David was shocked. In private he might fawn over Raymond, but he hated outsiders thinking there might be something sexual between them.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said sharply.
Somerford’s sleepy crocodile eyes were suddenly alight with malice.
‘We all know you’re Raymond’s boy.’
Somehow David managed not to betray his fury. He had expected widespread envy when he married money. He’d bloody well show them.
Parking meters had replaced the prostitutes of the Sixties in Cork Street. Fortunately David found a space right outside the Belvedon.
What a lovely brown man, and what a posh car, thought Anthea, checking her curls in the little gilt mirror she’d bought to hang by her reception desk. Since David’s absence, there had always been plenty of petty cash.
‘Where’s Raymond?’ David asked her curtly.
‘With a client.’ Then, as David strode towards Raymond’s door: ‘You can’t go in. He shouldn’t be long.’
David’s lips tightened. Fiona had often let in the wrong people. Not wanting his searchlight charm diffused, Raymond preferred dealing with one person at a time.
‘Would you like a catalogue?’ asked Anthea. ‘It explains about the pictures.’
And I wrote the fucking blurb, thought David.
Anthea went back to her press cuttings. David mooched around, noticing the number of red spots, pausing in front of an exquisite watercolour of a black girl cuddling an off-white baby.
Anthea decided to charm this unfriendly stranger. He was so good looking in that white suit and lovely shiny shoes.
‘D’you like that picture?’
‘Very much.’
She was wearing Penhaligon’s Bluebell, noticed David, which Raymond often gave to clients’ wives.
‘Well, I’ll let you into a little secret,’ she whispered, ‘that’s Mr Belvedon’s favourite. I know he’d like to keep it himself, but they’ve got so many pictures already in their beautiful Limesbridge home. I expect you’ve visited it.’
‘Frequently,’ snapped David.
‘Perhaps you’d like to be invited to Mrs Belvedon’s private view next week? If I ask Mr Belvedon nicely, I’m sure we can smuggle you in.’
‘How very kind,’ murmured David. Let me let you into a little secret, he wanted to shout, I’m Mr Belvedon’s favourite.
Next moment Raymond came out of the back room with the rich mad old collector, who was clutching a china Alsatian wrapped in the Daily Mirror.
‘This clearly has huge sentimental value,’ he was saying to her. ‘Unfortunately public taste has yet to catch up with it. But hang on to it. Who knows what may happen. Thank you so much, I’ll get my assistant to find you a bag.’
Looking round, he caught sight of David, and his face lit up.
‘My dear boy, you look so well.’
‘So do you.’ Spontaneously David crossed the gallery, embracing Raymond, kissing him on both cheeks.
‘How were the game reserves?’
‘Rather tame after Casey and Joan. It was all fine, but it’s great to be back. Come and see my new car.’
Outside was an olive-green Aston Martin.
‘Won’t show up when it’s parked under trees on summer evenings.’ David grinned wickedly. ‘It’s Rosemary’s wedding present.’
‘What did you give her?’ said Raymond, laughing yet disapproving.
‘My undying respect.’
‘You must come and meet Anthea.’
Anthea was scarlet – ready to explode like a hurled tomato. How dare David make a fool of her?
‘I’d no idea. You must think me so stupid.’
‘I think you’re a great operator. She nearly sold me a picture, Raymond. Your favourite evidently.’
‘Anthea’s wonderful,’ said Raymond, detecting tension.
‘How about some fresh coffee and home-made chocolate cake?’ asked Anthea, frantic to regain the ascendancy.
‘I’d like something stronger,’ said David, who for the past month at half past ten in the burning sunshine had been enjoying Bloody Marys that scorched the roof off one’s mouth.
‘Bit early,’ said Anthea primly.
David raised an eyebrow: ‘I’m still on Kenya time. Come on, Raymond. Where’s Fiona?’
‘Gone to Hong Kong for six months.’
‘You must miss her terribly.’
‘Not now I’ve got Hopey.’ Raymond smiled at Anthea.
‘Hopey?’
‘Mr Belvedon’s nickname for me, my name’s Rookhope after a village in Durham.’
‘Well, you’ve certainly made some changes, gallery looks like Laura Ashley. Are we selling cushions as well?’
Wandering into Raymond’s office, he picked up the photographs of Galena and the children. Asking after each one to emphasize his intimacy, he was appalled to learn of Alizarin’s rheumatoid arthritis.
‘That’s terrible. Rosemary and I’ll drive down and see him. I don’t suppose all this has helped Galena.’
‘No, she’s had a terrible time. We’re expecting her pictures any minute. Eddie’s gone down with the van.’
David noticed Anthea hovering in the doorway. To get rid of her, he asked her to bring in the party list.
‘When I’ve finished updating it,’ said Anthea coolly.
‘How is Rosemary?’ asked Raymond hastily.
‘About to start househunting, for somewhere near you.’ With every sentence, David tried to exclude Anthea, emphasizing his and Raymond’s closeness. Why the hell didn’t she fuck off and leave them?
‘Where shall we have lunch?’ he asked Raymond. ‘I’ll take you to the Capital in Basil Street – it’s wonderful.’
Oh, the joy of
a joint bank account!
‘I expected you tomorrow,’ sighed Raymond, ‘I’m committed to taking Somerford to Wilton’s, softening him up for Galena’s private view.’
‘Pity,’ said David lightly, then, turning to Anthea, ‘Come and have lunch and tell me’ – he smiled slyly at Raymond – ‘what the old fox has been up to.’
Anthea thawed like butter in a microwave.
‘I’ve got to chase up the press who haven’t replied, and I told Lord Partridge we stayed open through the dinner hour. Perhaps Eddie could hold the fort when he gets back.’
Raymond felt distinctly deflated to see his new little friend going off with his old little friend, but after all, he was ashamed to find himself thinking, they were the same age and class.
David took Anthea to Jules Bar in Jermyn Street. Outside on the wall was a giant royal-blue cocktail glass. Inside was filled with sleek young bloods in pinstripe suits, noisily discussing the afternoon’s racing as they downed large gins and tonic. They all eyed up Anthea, who confessed to David she was not much of a drinker. David suggested Pimm’s and surreptitiously persuaded the waiter to add a double measure of gin.
‘I’m going to have a steak, very rare,’ he announced. He didn’t like bloody meat any more than he liked black coffee, but asked for them because Raymond did.
‘I fancy a prawn cocktail and perhaps a dessert. That gâteau looks tasty,’ observed Anthea. ‘We mustn’t be longer than an hour, Fiona took such frightful liberties.’
She was clearly beady about her predecessor, justifying her anger by cataloguing Fiona’s misdemeanours: ‘She left everything in such a mess.’
‘One mustn’t speak ill of the deb,’ confided David, ‘but Fiona’s tiny mind was on other things: Wimbledon, Henley, Ascot, Goodwood, skiing. Raymond loved her because she was very glamorous and knew all the right people. She’s a particularly good friend of my wife, Rosemary.’
Then, seeing Anthea was feeling upstaged, softened his approach.
‘Raymond’s very pleased with you. He adores small pictures, so easy to smuggle, and they don’t take up too much room on the gallery walls. Similarly he likes small, very feminine ladies; you’ve stepped out of a Fragonard.’