Pandora

by Jilly Cooper

  In between reading the latest on Kosovo in the Guardian, Alizarin gazed at Hanna Belvedon, Jupiter’s big blonde wife. The myth of the eldest son wanting to kill his father, and the second son wanting to kill the eldest, certainly applied to the Belvedons. If Jupiter longed to strangle Raymond for being a whimsical old dodderer, Alizarin wanted to murder Jupiter for stealing and marrying the one woman, apart from Galena, he had ever really loved.

  Hanna, sitting a couple of tables away, pretending to listen to the solipsistic ramblings of Casey Andrews, was miserably aware that her diet hadn’t worked, that her black dress was too tight and that her long hair needed cutting. She was drawing bluebells on the tablecloth and comfort from Alizarin’s dark ferocious passion.

  The marriage service earlier had reminded her painfully of the hopes and excitement with which she had, five years ago, made her own vows to Jupiter, who she was convinced was no longer forsaking all others. He wasn’t sleeping. He was curt and silent and, having hitherto insisted they spent every night together, had suddenly suggested she remain down in Limesbridge next week because of a forecast heatwave.

  ‘Sprog on the way?’ Casey leered at the black silk straining over Hanna’s tummy.

  Blushing, she shook her head.

  ‘Career minded, are we? Don’t want to leave it too long.’

  ‘Somerford is a-coming in,’ sang Jonathan, who was drawing the venomous critic as an obscenely fat python. Idly caressing his sister Sienna with his other hand, he asked, ‘Why, apart from a crap review, does Casey want to murder Somerford?’

  ‘Somerford’s decided to write a monograph on Joan Bideford instead of Casey,’ said Sienna. ‘More interesting really. Joan’s like living on Lesbos with a Swedish bus conductress.’

  A swan dressed as a very ugly duckling, Sienna seemed to have studs on every part of her body not covered by her leather catsuit. Only that afternoon she had dyed her lovely long Marmite-coloured hair bright scarlet to match her drooping mouth and bitten nails.

  She was now moodily telling a more subtle redhead, Harriet from Oo-ah!, about her latest installation on display at the Saatchi gallery, which was called Aunt Hill and consisted of piled-up stiff-legged nude models of her Aunt Lily.

  ‘It like illustrates the evils of ageism,’ said Sienna with a yawn. ‘How like we chuck the old on the scrap heap.’

  ‘Did your auntie mind posing in the nude?’

  ‘Why should she? I gave her a large cheque for Badger Rescue. Lily’s like my Auntie Hero.’

  ‘Any plans for the future?’

  ‘Putting her in a glass case with a bottle of whisky. If Damien can pickle sheep and sharks, why can’t I like get a hundred grand for a pickled aunt?’

  ‘It’s shocking’ – Harriet from Oo-ah! was not sure how to take Sienna – ‘the way we sideline our senior citizens.’

  No-one could have looked less sidelined than Aunt Lily, Raymond’s older sister, who’d made a killing on the horses that afternoon. Nearly eighty, and still beautiful, with Raymond’s luxuriant silver hair and brilliant turquoise eyes, she lived (to Anthea’s intense irritation) in Raymond’s nicest cottage overlooking the river, and caused coronaries at White’s and Boodle’s whenever she threatened to write her memoirs. She had a blond streak in her white hair from chain smoking, and was working her way down a bottle of champagne and observing everyone with intense amusement.

  ‘What did you give Anthea and Raymond for a silver wedding present?’ she shouted at Jonathan, who was now drawing his brother Jupiter as a lurking wolf.

  ‘A tin of Quality Street. I thought Anthea looked like one of those women in poke bonnets on the lid. But Knightie and I’ – Jonathan blew a kiss to Mrs Knight who, in a short and fetching maid’s uniform, was directing guests to their seats – ‘ate most of them.’

  Overhearing this, a hovering Jupiter, who’d scored a hit with his present of Emerald’s head, looked smug. Glancing contemptuously at his brothers and sister, unaware that he himself epitomized Envy, Avarice and, since he’d met Emerald, certainly Lust, he thought how they personified the deadly sins. Alizarin, refusing to compromise, was Pride; the constantly raging Sienna was Wrath; Jonathan, who had just nodded off, pen in hand, head on Sienna’s leather shoulder, was Sloth; and Visitor, the yellow Labrador sitting in the chair allocated to Jonathan’s ex-girlfriend, grinning in his master’s Old Rugbeian tie, was certainly Greed.

  Visitor, who always appeared to be trying to compensate for Alizarin’s hostility, was borrowed by other Belvedons if they wanted to appear more lovable when being photographed by the media.

  True to his name, Visitor toured the various Foxes Court houses every day for pieces of cheese from Raymond, rich tea biscuits from Anthea (who was surprisingly fond of him), bridge cake and cat leftovers from Aunt Lily, hash cookies from Jonathan, scrambled egg from Mrs Robens, and even wiggled his plump hips against Hanna’s bird table in case there were crumbs left to dislodge.

  In the past he had carried the rare cheques received by Alizarin to the bank, where the manager would always give him a piece of shortbread. Alas, Visitor continued to take cheques there, after Alizarin had left the bank in a huff for restricting his overdraft, so Alizarin now posted his even rarer cheques instead.

  Visitor’s tawny eyes were sparkling. He had already lifted his leg on several guy ropes and made his number with the chef. Visitor loved parties. They meant abandoned food, because there were invariably several Belvedons too uptight to eat, and dancing. Visitor adored dancing, bouncing round the floor with Dora and Dicky, who, drowning his sorrows at the prospect of appearing in Oo-ah! in a purple suit, was getting even drunker than Aunt Lily. Xavier Campbell-Black, who was in the same form as Dicky, would piss himself.

  After an hour and a half of drinking, when the majority of the guests were seated and the waitresses were revving up to bring on the first course, Emerald and Zac arrived. They were late because Emerald kept saying she couldn’t go through with it.

  Yesterday she had painted a watercolour of herself edging across a high bridge with half its slats missing. Behind her on the bank waved the disconsolate Cartwrights. On the bank ahead stood the hazily drawn Belvedons. Rocks and a raging torrent lay far below.

  As she and Zac came off the motorway, a huge red sun was sinking into the downs. This is the last sunset I’ll see before meeting my real mother, she thought. Tears welled up in her eyes as she simultaneously experienced intense loneliness and a feeling of coming home.

  The moon was hovering on the horizon like a great gold air balloon and the sun had set as they drove under the archway of white blossom. As the big golden house reared up before them, a deafening roar could be heard coming from the marquee.

  ‘I’m about to open Pandora’s Box,’ moaned Emerald, dabbing at beads of sweat with a powder puff, ‘and all the evils of the world are going to fly out and sting me.’

  ‘I’ve got insect-repellent in the dashboard,’ said Zac calmly, ‘but your Violetta smells much more exotic.’

  ‘Stop taking the piss,’ snarled Emerald.

  In her evening bag was the little musical box that played ‘One two three four five, once I caught a fish alive’, which Anthea had given her as a leaving present when she was three days old and which Patience had hung over her cot. As they walked from the car park through the garden, Emerald only noticed how beautifully the sculptures were floodlit.

  ‘I’m frightened, Zac.’

  ‘No, you’re not. I’ll be right beside you all evening.’ Zac’s fingers clamped on her elbow, propelling her through the front door.

  ‘Do I rush forward and hug Anthea or appear cool?’

  ‘Neither – remember our game plan. Don’t say a word until she can’t escape. Just relax – be yourself.’

  ‘How can I be, when I’m not sure who “myself” is? Oh, what a stunning house!’

  Emerald gazed round the hall and through into the drawing room, admiring glittering chandeliers, gilt cherubs frolicking around ancient lo
oking-glasses, incredible pictures on faded terra rosa walls, richly swagged curtains swarming with pink peonies.

  At least we’ve come to the right house, she thought, clocking Emma Sergeant’s portrait of Anthea.

  ‘That’s kind of kitsch.’ A grinning Zac was pointing to a blow-up under a picture light of Anthea and Raymond outside Buckingham Palace.

  ‘Shut up,’ hissed Emerald.

  Her first glimpse of her real mother was Anthea glancing round in fury because they were so late. Everyone was sitting down. The orchestra were poised to play ‘See, the conquering hero comes!’ The guests led by Green Jean would clap in time as Anthea and Raymond walked in hand in hand and regally took up their positions at the top table. The whole marquee was already lit by flickering candles.

  Anthea’s rage however evaporated at the sight of such a good-looking couple. Gushing like a Cotswold stream in February, she seized Zac’s hand when he introduced himself and Emerald.

  ‘What a handsome chap. I love the name Zachary, and Sir Raymond and I simply love the States, and of course any friend of Jupiter’s.’

  Now Anthea was taking Emerald’s little sweating hand in her own tiny one.

  I’m going to faint, thought Emerald, my heart’s going to smash through my ribs. This is my mother, how beautiful she is, a fairy princess, the same height as me, a twin gazing into my eyes, except hers are cobalt violet. But if I collapse into her arms, as I long to, I’ll send her flying. She was quite incapable of speech.

  Noticing the candle-snuffer hidden by its silver wrapping paper trembling frantically in Emerald’s hand, Anthea was touched that some Americans really were unnerved by titles. Accepting the present, she passed it quickly as a relay baton to a hovering Green Jean.

  ‘Thank you ver’ ver’ much, Emerald. Why, you’re a little person like me. What part of the States are you from?’ and when Emerald was still incapable of replying: ‘Grab yourself a glass of bubbly and rush in, we’re about to dine. Your table’s on the left, near Jupiter.’ Then, seeing Keithie, Somerford Keynes’s burglar boyfriend, sidling out of the drawing room, fat handbag bulging, Anthea rushed towards him. ‘Catch up with you two later . . . Keithie, I didn’t see you arrive. How ver’ ver’ good of you to come.’

  Emerald was appalled to find herself thinking Anthea had a dreadfully put-on voice.

  ‘You’re doing great,’ murmured Zac.

  As they entered the marquee, the room fell silent – then everyone launched into a frenzy of ‘Who are they, who are they?’

  Amidst the nouveaux riches collectors in their white tuxedos and pink carnations, and the upper classes, whose dinner jackets were lichened with age, and the deadpan monochrome art world, Zac dressed entirely in black (his ebony satin dress shirt replacing the traditional white) looked far more a part of the latter group, who far outnumbered the others. But the rest of the art world didn’t have Zac’s long lean elegant T-shaped body, nor his hard gold features, nor the amiable untroubled smile so completely belied by the unblinking, watchful yellow eyes.

  ‘Wow!’ murmured Sienna. ‘“Tiger, Tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night”.’

  ‘More like a Beverly Hills funeral director,’ drawled Jonathan, who loathed competition, ‘but I would not kick out his girlfriend.’

  Jupiter, still pacing, went utterly still, blood flooding his cold marble face, as he fought his way down an aisle of half-in half-out chairs to welcome them.

  She’s the one, thought Hanna Belvedon in despair. What chance have I got?

  The girl looked utterly jolted by Jupiter. She was terribly white, and trembling, and dropped first her scarlet bag, then her crimson pashmina, to reveal a slender fairylike figure. Jupiter was clearly just as fazed, diving to pick up her things, breaking the professional habit of a lifetime by gazing at something beautiful with unqualified enthusiasm.

  The girl’s handsome boyfriend by contrast looked totally unruffled. With an Adonis like him in tow, maybe she wasn’t that interested in Jupiter.

  Glancing round, Hanna noticed both Jonathan and Alizarin had stopped bickering about the right home for the Elgin Marbles and were also staring at the girl. Then Alizarin, with utterly uncharacteristic levity, chucked a paper dart at Hanna. Inside he had written: ‘You’re infinitely more beautiful.’

  ‘Where did that come from?’ demanded an icy voice. ‘What did it say?’ Jupiter held out his hand.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Hanna, and as a fleet of waitresses streamed on with the first course, sea trout mousse with a prawn and champagne sauce, to the accompaniment of the ‘Trout’ Quintet, she defiantly tore the paper dart into tiny pieces.

  ‘Any chink in that marriage and Alizarin will move in,’ observed Aunt Lily to Keithie the burglar on her right. ‘Jupiter will develop the most frightful squint if he tries to keep one eye on Hanna and the other on the exquisite child who’s just walked in. Ugh, here comes Willy of the Valley – even I keep my wrinkly old elbows rammed to my sides when he’s about.’

  Attention had been temporarily diverted from Emerald and Zac by the even later arrival of David Pulborough, who had only a hundred yards to walk from the Old Rectory, but who kept his watch deliberately slow so he could always make an entrance.

  ‘Of Armani and the man I sing,’ mocked Jonathan.

  ‘David, how lovely.’ Graciousness met graciousness as Anthea jumped from her chair and ran to greet him.

  As David drew her back into the ruched corridor leading into the marquee, Jupiter noticed him bending to kiss Anthea on the mouth, his eyes swivelling to see if Rosemary were watching before groping her bottom. Jupiter hoped David wouldn’t poach too many Belvedon artists or clients this evening. But entering the marquee, the little bounder waved at Casey and Kevin Coley.

  David was followed by his mistress, Geraldine Paxton from the Arts Council, who wore a navy-blue watered-silk trouser suit, blood-red lipstick and so much powder she looked as though she’d dipped her face in a barrel of flour. A networking nymphomaniac who advised the rich what to put on their walls, Geraldine was gratified to be on the top table on Raymond’s right, but irked to be so far from David. Anthea, who was unaware of the extent of David’s commitment to Geraldine, greeted her fondly, knowing it would upset Rosemary.

  Rosemary, who’d entered the marquee from the garden, had been tormented for nearly twenty-seven years by a tendresse between Anthea and David and had the lack of bloom and quilted jaw of the perennially cuckolded wife. St George’s horse had lost its bounce and looked like a riding-school hack, but she was cheered that the Belvedon children were now noisily yelling, ‘Come and sit with us, Rosie, you can have Visitor’s seat.’

  ‘You’re over here, Rosemary,’ said Green Jean firmly.

  Rosemary knew she couldn’t expect a better placing than between gay Somerford and gayish Neville-on-Sundays, who doted on Jonathan and, knowing of his need for sleep, always muffled the church bells when Jonathan was at home. Both men clearly felt they’d drawn the short straw being seated next to Rosemary. Across the table, Joan Bideford, back from Lesbos and roaring away like a sea lion, clearly did not.

  ‘Hello, Rosie,’ she yelled, ‘still married to that little squit?’

  Suppressing a smile, Rosemary jabbed a finger at a far-off table, where Anthea, knowing David’s ambition to become High Sheriff, had placed him between the equally dowdy wives of the Bishop and the Lord-Lieutenant.

  Rosemary then looked for her son Barney, who worked in the gallery with David, noticing that, perhaps with deliberate irony, Anthea had placed him next to the prettiest girl in the room.

  Barney, who preferred his own sex and who looked like a pallid version of his grandfather, Sir Mervyn Newton, did many dodgy deals to feed his cocaine habit. Like most children pushed together with the children of their parents’ friends, Barney detested the Belvedons, who used to tease him about being fat.

  ‘The moment I saw you I thought, “She was a phantom of delight”,’ sighed Barney’s father as he gazed in
to the rheumy eyes of the Bishop’s wife.

  Glancing round at the great and the good and the deeply iffy, Emerald wondered if any of them would like their heads done. She knew she ought to be doing a number on the rest of her table, but having met Anthea, she couldn’t think straight, and, having knocked over her glass of wine, found herself buttering her table napkin.

  Any of these men might be my father, she thought. Her panic at being separated from Zac, who was having a lovely time between Hanna Belvedon and Joanna Lumley, was somewhat allayed when she discovered the pasty slob on her left was the son of David Pulborough, who lived next door and who could fill her in with loads of malicious gossip.

  ‘That’s Alizarin the tormented conflict-junkie,’ Barney was now telling her bitchily, ‘waiting to be famous enough to be played by Daniel Day-Lewis.’

  ‘I hear your father’s just signed up Jonathan.’

  ‘Much good it’ll do him,’ snapped Barney, ‘Dad’s already got him fat commissions from the National Portrait Gallery to paint Rupert Campbell-Black and Dame Hermione Harefield, but Jonathan’s done fuck all except squander the advance on booze, drugs and women.’

  ‘He’s very attractive,’ confessed Emerald, glancing across at Jonathan who was clearly both plastered and coked up to his big bloodshot eyeballs. Seated next to a ferocious beauty with bright red hair, his hands were all over her. Now he was kissing the skylark tattooed on her shoulder, now unzipping her leather catsuit even further, to provide a glimpse of high round breasts and a silver stud gleaming in her belly button. Peering to see if she was wearing a ring, Emerald found she wore them on every finger.

  ‘Who’s Jonathan snogging?’ she asked Barney. ‘She looks familiar.’

  ‘His sister, Sienna, and they’re not entirely doing it as a wind-up. With any luck one of them will pass out before they disgrace themselves on the dance floor.’