by L. S. Hilton
‘A colleague from Paris,’ I smoothed, wishing one of the thorny branches would whip into the car and take her beady eye out. ‘He worked on the 798 show at the Vuitton Foundation last year. The Beijing artists. Did you catch it?’
That kept things going as we crunched over the gravel drive to the house, but I could feel her glaring at me even as we were bustled into the hallway by a collection of fully liveried footmen. Rupert was doing pretty well at the breezy denial act, but increasingly, I knew this was personal. I had no idea why Mackenzie disliked me so much, but I wasn’t planning on giving her much more time to explain.
*
Lancing turned out to be a severely lovely eighteenth-century house in softly lichened grey stone, a pedimented central block flanked by two high-windowed pavilions. The footmen introduced themselves, which gave Rupert a bit of a turn as we followed them along the shallow curve of the wing to an orangery. The fruits on the trees had been replaced with little disco balls, twinkling over the pastel fifties frocks of a gaggle of tea-pouring maids. The place had more staff than Downton fucking Abbey.
‘Isn’t it ghastly?’ whispered Rupert cheerfully as he helped himself to half a Victoria sponge bulging with whipped cream and raspberries. I took a cup of Earl Grey and a caramel éclair. There was very little one could have done to spoil the exquisite spare lines of that room, but our host had certainly tried his utmost. The panelling along the closed wall had been whitewashed and a stuffed rhino wearing a Yankees cap was positioned by the window, flanked by urns of silver-dyed ostrich feathers. The lozenges in the orangery panes were filled with more taxidermy – a mounted giraffe’s head, a gaping turbot, a zebra, each wittily adorned with clashing headgear. A hidden sound system wafted soft Ibiza beats and the huge fireplace had been turned into a gleaming chrome and silver bar.
‘Revolting,’ I whispered back.
‘The clients love it though. Ah, here’s Willy!’ Rupert did an impressive switch from contempt to beaming pleasure as we greeted Novak and the room began to fill with guests. Novak dragged me enthusiastically from one group to another, presenting me yet again as ‘the girl who found the Gauguin’.
‘And this is Larry Kincardine.’
‘Hello, Lawrence. Fancy seeing you here.’
‘Hello, darling.’
I could see Rupert watching me approvingly as I laid down that particular trump in the name game. Lawrence was an old acquaintance from my party days in London, where he’d run a bit of a speakeasy from his place in Chester Square. Back then, he’d been languid and epicene; now he was pudgy and belligerent-looking, but then I’ve never met anyone who actually looked better for ditching the smack. I wasn’t remotely concerned that he’d identify me – even if he’d ever known my name we had always called one another ‘darling’, according to the rules of the night.
‘I haven’t seen you around,’ Lawrence managed, between urgent drags on a violet-scented vape.
‘I’ve been . . . travelling. Fancy a proper fag?’
We slipped out through the orangery doors to the steam-ironed lawn where a family of white deer were disporting picturesquely by the ha-ha. I gave him my packet of Marlboro Golds and he lit up gratefully.
‘What’s with the knees-up, then?’
‘My pa made me come. Reckoned it would be good for me. I’m mostly up in Scotland these days, don’t get to London much.’
‘Bit of a snore?’
‘Yah, kept the place though. Old Kevin’s still there.’
‘I remember Kevin.’
‘In fact I was thinking of going on somewhere else after this dinner. Waldgrave?’
I shrugged. ‘Don’t know it.’
‘Might be a bit more up our alley.’ He was sniffing slightly and looking a bit agitated; maybe he’d replaced the heroin with something less mellow.
A gong sounded from inside the house.
‘I suppose that means we’d better go and change. I’ll see you later, Lawrence.’
‘I was thinking of ditching about eleven? It’s not that far. We can get back in time for church.’
That sounded good. In fact, that sounded perfect.
*
The guest rooms on the first floor were arranged along a central gallery with Edwardian-style name cards in a silver slot outside each, a reminder of the good old days when bed-hopping was a rural sport. Between each doorway stood an oversized plaster reproduction of a classical statue, after which the rooms were named. I was Venus de Milo. Mackenzie Pratt, two doors along, was Laocoon. Whatever wasn’t white or dead at Lancing seemed to be made of marble; after a slither around the Carrara tiles of my bathroom I hauled on the sequins and tapped lightly at her door.
‘Sorry, Mackenzie. I was just wondering if you had a Nurofen? I’ve got a splitting head.’
‘Really, honey? You have a headache? Well, come right in.’
Mackenzie was inserting her tiny figure into a stiffened black Issey Miyake column – her head was lost in one of its three sleeves. ‘Just in the bathroom,’ she muttered through the crepe.
‘Thanks so much. Sorry to disturb you.’
I crossed the leopard-skin rug to find the bathroom. My room had ocelot; likewise Mackenzie’s marble was veering towards fuchsia as opposed to my black and gold. A neat black leather necessaire was open on the mount of the sink, containing the usual face creams, a silk eye mask and a packet of painkillers.
‘Got them!’ I called brightly. I ran water into the tooth glass while I opened the bathroom cupboard. Valium, Zoloft, Lexapro. So Mackenzie had depression issues. Interesting. A diminutive pair of black silk pyjamas hung on the back of the door next to a thick white dressing gown with ‘Lancing Park’ embroidered over the pocket in silver, identical to the one in my room.
Mackenzie had emerged from the Miyake, her sunglasses still attached. I nodded at her and made for the door, but one tiny foot in a black patent Mary Jane shot out and kicked it shut.
‘So. Here we are, Elisabeth.’
19
‘Quite the place isn’t it?’
‘You can cut that shit out, honey. I don’t like you and you don’t like me.’
‘That’s not quite how I see it.’
‘And you’ve convinced them all you’ve got the first version of Woman with a Fan?’
‘It belongs to my client at present. Are you planning to bid on it?’ I asked lightly.
‘I very much doubt it.’ She came closer, laid a ligneous hand on my arm. The glasses goggled up at me malevolently but her voice retained its Southern softness. ‘I don’t buy fakes.’
‘I don’t believe it’s a fake. Nor does the House.’
‘It’s as much a fake as you are. I saw you there. “Research” my ass. I know what you were doing. I might not be able to prove it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know.’
I was beginning to rather warm to Mackenzie. She might have looked like a cartoon but she was the only person connected with the Gauguin so far who wasn’t yearning to believe in its authenticity.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Thank you for the pills, but I’m afraid you’re being rather rude. I’ll see you at dinner.’ I stared down at her. Slowly, she removed her foot and let me pass.
*
Dinner was served in another white-panelled room, twenty places set along a white marble table with a silver crepe runner and piles of silver-sprayed fruit. I rather envied Mackenzie her sunglasses. A catalogue of the July sale at the House lay beside each placement. Novak had given me the seat of honour on his right; we discussed his renovations at Lancing over the first course, a chilled cucumber soup with oyster and horseradish toasts. I turned to my left as the footmen, who were now sporting white velvet dinner jackets, served a venison carpaccio with sour cherry compote.
‘I’m Elisabeth. How do you do? I don’t think we’ve met before.’
‘Ned.’
My neighbour was very tall, so tall that he had to stoop deeply over his plate. The dress code on the invi
tation Rupert had given me had said ‘Fabulous’. Most of the men around the table had made an effort – there were quite a few garishly coloured waistcoats and even a pair of orange cowboy boots, but Ned clearly hadn’t got the memo. His height and his greening dinner jacket gave him a lugubrious air, which his conversation did nothing to leaven. After receiving monosyllabic answers to my increasingly desperate questions, I clutched at the ignominious life raft of the conversationally marooned and asked him what he did.
‘I . . .’
I leaned towards him encouragingly. ‘You . . . ?’
There was a pause in which several square miles were lopped off the Amazon forest and Greece got a new prime minister.
‘I . . . hunt.’
‘Oh. Who do you go out with?’
‘In’ – Ned made a superlative social effort – ‘Shropshire.’
He sat back, overwhelmed with his contribution to the entertainment. I spent some time carving the last of the translucent strips of venison into tiny strips then stared despairingly at the table decorations. Our mutual silence was interrupted by Novak tapping a glass and introducing Rupert to talk everyone through the sale.
Rupert hauled himself to his feet, clutching his glass of ’71 Pomerol. Novak may have had the taste of a pikey prizefighter, but no one could say he was stingy with the plonk. ‘Fabulous’ for Rupert had turned out to be a vast shantung Favourbrook smoking jacket in a print of pineapples which clashed revoltingly with the deepening puce of his complexion. He made a few sycophantic remarks about the company, who if it was to be believed were single-handedly keeping the art market afloat, then launched into the highlights of the auction. The finale was me, to talk about the discovery of the Gauguin. I got to my feet as Rupert led a round of applause, feeling Mackenzie’s shaded glare from the other end of the table. Lawrence’s place, between her and a Swedish model married to yet another hedge-funder, was empty. I presumed he’d popped out for a toot on the molly. I ran through an abbreviated version of the presentation I had given at the House, emphasising the agreement of Rupert and his team on the provenances and being sure to credit them, rather than myself, with the attribution. Rupert watched me approvingly, smiling and nodding along, and despite myself I experienced a similar wave of the pleasure I had felt when I had first given the speech, the sense of affirmation and belonging which was all I had ever sought from him. It could all have been so different, really.
‘And what if you’re wrong?’ Mackenzie’s voice interrupted me before I had finished, which at least provided a moment of interest for the table. The women had been watching earnestly, showing how knowledgeable and cultured they were, but the men hadn’t felt the need for the pretence and were most of them checking their phones.
‘What if you’re all wrong? What if it’s a fake?’
MacKenzie had clearly been having a good go on the Bordeaux, more than was advisable, perhaps, for an elderly midget. Nonetheless, the word ‘fake’ was taboo, the art-speak equivalent of the ‘N-word’. It fell into a silence which thickened as the footmen exchanged the plates for truffled guinea fowl poached in yellow Jura wine. Rupert and I exchanged a sudden look of camaraderie, both of us standing, exposed.
‘I don’t think any of us would be here this evening if we didn’t rely unconditionally on the credentials of Rupert and his team,’ I replied eventually. ‘There is no other institution in the art world which has such a reputation for probity. That’s why I wanted to sell the picture there, so that I could be absolutely assured of its authenticity. As such a serious collector yourself, I’m sure you agree, Mackenzie?’
‘Phooey,’ she spat.
‘Steady on, old girl.’ The voice at my elbow was Ned’s. Perhaps he was sentient after all.
‘I saw her.’ She pointed a blood-tipped nail through the candlelight. ‘I saw her with a Chink! In Essen. And what are Chinks famous for?’
‘Well,’ I smiled, making my effort to keep my temper conspicuous, ‘there’s Ai Weiwei. Or perhaps you were thinking of another Chinese artist?’
I cast a pleading look at Rupert. Please rescue me. Please don’t let the bad fairy spoil my pretty dream. It had the desired effect. He straightened his shoulders, lifted his chins and sallied forth on the billows of the pineapples.
‘Mackenzie, Elisabeth is here as my client and my guest and I will not have her offended. Moreover, I think your remarks are racist and extremely inappropriate. Perhaps you’re rather tired? Maybe you should go and lie down. In the meantime’ – he raised his glass – ‘a toast to Willy for this wonderful dinner, for such wonderful connoisseurs of such outstanding works.’ He stressed the word connoisseur just enough to let Mackenzie know it didn’t include her.
Show over, the company dutifully scraped back their chairs and bobbed up to toast Willy. Rupert came round to embrace me as Mackenzie stalked from the room. She hadn’t reached the door before one of the velvet footmen had cleared her place.
‘I’m sorry, Elisabeth’ – Rupert’s voice was sweetly coaxing – ‘she should never have been asked. Terribly set in her ways. All that silly business with Gauguin’s life – it’s obviously a fixation. I hope she didn’t upset you?’
‘Not in the least, thank you.’ I was all molten gratitude in his big strong arms. The other guests were making that extra noise that groups do when something embarrassing has happened. The Swedish model swayed round the table and informed me that Mackenzie was a bitch.
I hadn’t worn my watch to dinner, as naturally a lady should never need to know the time, but I heard a clock striking the quarter hour and looked around for Lawrence. His offer of a party had really been an excellent idea. Novak got to his feet and crossed the room to a concealed door, from which an enticing pink light emerged. He announced that dessert would be served in the ‘secret’ cellar, and everyone trooped down a spiral staircase into the hectic welcome of El’se Massoni from a DJ booth contrived from a giant barrel. More disco balls hung from the ceiling around a small dance floor that was soon mostly occupied by Rupert. Gauging his crowd, the DJ flipped resignedly from Berlin underground to ‘Blurred Lines’. I’d never seen Rupert in party mode before and, after being briefly mesmerised by him attempting the nae nae in the general direction of the Swedish model, I hoped that I never would again.
‘Are you still up for going out?’ Lawrence was already installed with a fag on a silver velvet loveseat.
‘Definitely.’
‘I’ve got my car in the stables. Whenever you’re ready.’
‘Give it a bit, maybe. I need to change my shoes. About half an hour?’
‘Sure. Go out the front, then left past the garden door.’
Bracing myself, I took a turn on the dance floor opposite Novak, who was giving it an Ibiza hand pump. I endured until the footmen carried in a Methuselah of Krug and then slipped up to my room, carrying my slim Stuart Weitzman sandals. I set down a pair of flat boots near the door and took the dressing gown cord from my bathroom just in case. Then I moved slowly along towards Mackenzie’s room, listening as the party amplified two storeys below.
First I switched out the light on the corridor, then tried the handle very slowly. If this hadn’t been an imitation country house it would have creaked or stuck, but the latch slid out quietly. The room was in darkness except for the light of a single candle on the leopard-skin covered floor – Diptyque Feu de Bois – and the upwards beam of a phone screen which caught the shimmer of Mackenzie’s black silk pyjamas. She was seated cross-legged, with ear buds in, humming softly to herself. She didn’t move as the noise of the party wafted in briefly before I closed the door. I couldn’t sense anyone else nearby on the guest floor. Meditation and a massage to the vagus nerve, very calming. She didn’t react until I was behind her with her body clamped between my knees, and in the first swift gasp of her fear I twisted her head round into the cotton-padded crook of my shoulder, straining her neck to the right while my left hand felt for the sweet spot under her ear. I forced my thumb into
the little hollow and began to squeeze. She struggled, but I had her too tight, and she was so small, so horribly small, her flailings only exhausted her even as the first twitch of her stopping heart momentarily stiffened her resistance. I counted out a minute until her head drooped more gently against my arm. The stable yard clock struck eleven as we sat there, a black and silver pietà, and I counted another minute before relaxing the muscles of my thighs. Strong antidepressants can have an ageing effect on the carotid arteries. A heart attack. I’d originally thought of hanging her from the shower rail with a dressing gown cord, but she was so old and tiny it wasn’t worth the bother. She fell forward softly, her sunglasses landing on the rug. Something rustled, sudden and repulsively alive around my knees and I nearly dropped her before I realised that the vivid red bob was a wig. The head sagging level with my hipbones was bare and flaking, crossed with a few wisps of colourless hair. I shuddered, but it gave me an idea. A heart attack was good, but a full on house fire was even better. Everyone else was awake, they’d have time to get out, but here in the country, with luck she’d be ashes before the fire engines arrived.
When I left the room, MacKenzie was arranged on the skin, the headphone from her left ear pressing into her neck where her weight against it would bruise her just so. It seemed a kindness to replace the sunglasses, but the tip of her dislodged wig just touched the naked flame of the candle. After I had washed my hands two doors down I paused a moment before the closed door of her room. Beneath the soft fragrance of woodsmoke from the candle there was a definite high, bitter smell, the singe of burning hair. A floor below, the black and white tiles of the hallway were pearly in the light of the sconces, bouncing a high shine off the smooth wood of the banister. Irresistible. I hitched up my dress, got astride and let go.
*
Rosemary from the walled beds, leaf mould, the incense murmur of old stone, all the sharp scents of night. Lawrence was waiting for me in the stable yard, smoking. In the dark, he looked much more like his old self. I hadn’t been so much in the mood for a party as an alibi, but his slouching long-legged silhouette recalled other nights, the scent of lilacs outside the house in Chester Square, and I felt a current of anticipation sear through me so harshly that I gasped. Lawrence shoved his ancient Volvo into gear and offered me a line of coke from two cut out ready on the wide dashboard.