by Ruth Brandon
This was the day of the first opening party, the one for the VIPs, the people who had made the exhibition possible and a few illustrious others, to be followed by dinner. Tomorrow there would be a press show, with information packs prepared by the publicity department, then a couple of Friends’ days, and finally the show would open to the public.
Even before the exhibition opened, it seemed clear its effect was going to be all I’d hoped and more. I’d already given a number of interviews – to the Sunday broadsheets, Vogue, the Art Newspaper – and Front Row was booked for opening day. There had been television enquiries from people wanting to do drama-doc reconstructions, and in-vitations to give keynote papers at two conferences. We were all set for a big hit. Caravaggio’s Angel had remembered our long friendship. Just one more detail, and we’d be quits.
The party was due to begin at six thirty, with speeches at seven. Several hours ago it had been six fifteen; now it was six sixteen. ‘Relax’, said a voice in my ear.
I jumped several inches off the ground, nearly braining Joe, who had arrived early.
‘I am relaxed.’
He took my hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘So you are. Can’t wait to see our boy.’
‘You promised to be discreet, remember.’
‘Oh, I will, don’t worry.’
We spent a lot of time together these days, at his place or mine. What went on in the intervals? We didn’t ask. Here, after all, we still were.
‘Looks good,’ he said, indicating the exhibits.
‘Thanks. My big night.’
The guests were arriving now – the Director of the Getty, who happened to be in London, the Italian cultural attaché, the Director of the Tate, a couple of television pundits, the author of a recent book on Caravaggio, a famous painter, a few of the ultra-rich and ultra-generous. I’d asked Manu, who hadn’t replied, and Olivier, who had – very sorry, he couldn’t make it, too far (he was working in Bordeaux for a PR company), no time. And very little inclination, I’d have thought. I didn’t blame him. I wondered if he’d found a new partner – he hadn’t said anything about that – and how the kids were doing. Nothing had ever been found out about Delphine’s death: the other driver had vanished (had anyone ever looked for him?) and she’d become another road-accident statistic. My very own. If I hadn’t been so clever-clever, dropping my little bombshell in Olivier’s ear, she’d still be alive now. If, if. If Olivier hadn’t pursued me, or my story, to London. If Jean-Jacques Rigaut hadn’t been a psychopath . . . I’d sworn never to forget her. But to my shame, she kept dropping to the back of my mind. From time to time, in a rush of guilt and sorrow, I thought of her, but those moments were already less frequent. Soon, despite my best intentions, she’d recede into a shameful oblivion, interspersed with sporadic moments of painful remembrance.
Here now was Charlie Rey. We exchanged a cool little airkiss before he moved hurriedly on to more congenial company. He was followed by Freddie Angelo, pink cheeks shining, red braces just visible beneath a tremendously chalk-striped jacket. In his wake stepped a grey-suited Japanese, perhaps – why else would he be here? – the mysterious owner of the fourth Caravaggio, though whether the one for whom Freddie had been acting when we met, or a buyer subsequently found, I didn’t know and could not, just at that moment, ask.
‘Freddie! Lovely to see you!’
‘Darling, wouldn’t miss this for anything. Isn’t it wonderful? Congratulations. Let me introduce Mr Furuichi, Reggie Lee. You should have seen her face when I showed her your picture. I can tell you, she’s an absolute terrier.’ Or was that terror? Mr Furuichi looked bemused. He gave a little bow.
Waiters were circulating with champagne. I took two glasses and handed one to Mr Furuichi. I noticed Freddie’s eyes sliding round the room, checking who was here, and felt mine insidiously follow. Charlie Rey, I noticed, was deep in conversation with TM. And there were David and Caroline! This was a big day out for Caroline, the girls were staying with friends, she’d bought a new dress specially. We waved frantically and I rushed over to them. What do they always say – Without X and Y the show/book/film could never have happened . . . But we’d hardly had time to remind each other of the fatal school fair when, inevitably, I was whisked off to meet some financier, a big contributor to emergency appeals who had to be kept sweet and who wanted to know all the detail – what came from where, how I’d found it all. And suddenly, as I was in the midst of giving him the edited story, it was time for the speeches, an opening few words from the Director, followed by the catch of the evening: the French presidential hopeful, Jean-Jacques Rigaut, who was of course (I heard someone whisper to his wife) Emmanuel Rigaut’s son. Didn’t you know?
When I looked round for him he hadn’t seemed to be there, though his office had confirmed that he was coming. They’d been enthusiastic – just the kind of thing to do his image good, remind people of the Surrealist connection, a bit of cultural resonance, always goes down well in France, one of the few countries where intellectuals actually go into politics – Poincaré, Malraux. Wonderful what the right gloss can do for the innately flaky. Not that Monsieur Rigaut could be described as flaky. On the other hand, he was sometimes in danger of appearing rather – well, brutal. But brutes don’t open art exhibitions, do they? Firm yet wide-ranging, that was the message. They’d send a photographer.
The Director tinkled his glass, and everyone fell silent. ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen . . .’ He gave his usual urbane and polished performance, deftly thanking all concerned, outlining the show’s raison d’être, and finally introducing – yes, there he was after all, how had I missed him? A head taller than the rest of the crowd, snappily dressed today in a white silk polo-neck under a perfectly cut navy suit, Gallicly elegant. I wondered if he spoke English. It didn’t matter – most of this crowd probably understood French.
‘Mesdames, messieurs . . .’
In fact, like most French politicians, he spoke English with impressive ease. He made the obligatory remarks about how flattered to be here, then moved on to the pictures – quite a detective story, we should congratulate Dr Lee (here he caught my eye and bowed slightly, while people clapped and I blushed and acknowledged him.) And yes, damn it, the rush was still there: in spite of every-thing, and after all this time, I still fancied him like mad. And could have sworn, as we exchanged complicit smiles across the room, that he fancied me right back. Not that there would be much opportunity to test that out now.
Appropriate, he went on, that both pictures should now be safely at the Louvre, or perhaps safe was not quite the right word (polite laughter). Then he talked about his father – how tickled he’d be to see himself enshrined as Official Art. He did not, I noticed, mention his mother, though she’d originated the joke, if joke was the word, that had, after all these years and so many adventures, landed us all here in this room today. Meanwhile he was delighted to declare the exhibition open – rather, it struck me, as though it was a garden fête.
Soon it would be time for the restaurant party to leave. There’d be thirty-five of us, what with spouses and partners. Rigaut was coming, his office had informed us, though he’d have to leave early. We’d booked tables at the Oxo Tower, where even if you don’t like the food or the company you can enjoy the wonderful view. The publicity girl began rounding people up, telling them where to go.
‘Will you be coming?’ I asked Joe.
‘Of course. Why ever not?’
‘I thought you had to file –’
‘Oh, that!’ He laughed. ‘I did it before I came. Gave Pascal the nod, too. Though there was a bad moment when I thought our man hadn’t made it . . . Not that it’d have mattered, but we’d have had to change things round a bit and it wouldn’t have been so poetic. They’re really going to town. I got them to do me a mock-up. Want to see?’ He scrabbled in his pocket and brought out a folded sheet.
‘I can’t look at it now!’
‘Just the headline.’
I saw a photo of the S
t Cecilia surmounted by a head-line: Caravaggio’s Killer Picture. The opening lines read: The publicity surrounding the new Caravaggio show at the National Gallery has concentrated on a Surrealist jape involving two of the pictures. What has not been told is a far more sinister story . . . I wondered what Pascal had done. Knowing Le Monde, something more restrained and intellectual. And of course more political. It was his country, after all.
‘He’ll kill me.’ The cliché took on a sudden terrifying new life.
‘You’re the last person he’d kill. Too obvious.’
The publicity girl shepherded us into a fleet of taxis, and ten minutes later we arrived at the restaurant. We’d booked tables out on the terrace, and half London glittered beneath us. For any number of reasons I’d have liked to be seated as far as possible from the star guest, but the publicity girl had insisted. ‘It’s your show! You put it together. All this stuff about his father – he’s sure to want to talk to you about it.’
‘No, he won’t. It’s the last thing he’ll want to talk about.’
‘Don’t be silly, Reggie, of course he will. All right, I’ll put you on the opposite side of the table, if that’s what you really want.’
‘How about Joe?’
‘Sorry, he’s not a VIP, he’ll have to go on one of the other tables.’
There was the usual milling about while people identified their namecards. At the other end of the terrace, a party of cityboys was in full bray. Suddenly I found myself beside Rigaut. He nodded, and we shook hands.
‘Bonsoir, madame. So, you have your exhibition.’ He still had my hand in his, and now gave it an extra little shake.
‘I’m most grateful, monsieur.’ All I could think of was the contact of our two hands.
‘Grateful!’ He laughed and finally let me go. ‘You should go into politics. A formidable operator. My chef-de-cabinet, perhaps!’
People were taking their seats now. The Director came over. ‘Let me show you where you’re sitting,’ he said to Rigaut
‘Ah yes, though I’m afraid I shan’t be able to stay long.’ He turned to me. ‘Madame Lee – aren’t you coming?’
‘I don’t think they’ve put us together.’
‘Ah, non, quel dommage, j’insiste!’
That was a strange evening – one of the strangest I ever spent. Having insisted on my sitting beside him, Rigaut hardly spoke to me, as TM busily introduced him to the rest of the table. But as we exchanged pleasantries with the other guests, our attention was concentrated on each other. First, as if by chance, our legs brushed, then finally, all ambiguity abandoned, remained in a contact so dis-tracting that all other activity – conversation, eating – became almost impossible. Once I felt his hand on my wrist. And through it all I knew (though he did not) that nothing further would ever happen between us.
Lying beside Joe later that night, enveloped in post-coital drowsiness, I thought of Rigaut. To tell the truth I’d been thinking about him ever since we’d said our goodbyes, his face imposing itself upon Joe’s just as mine, I was willing to bet, haunted his dreams. He’d be in Paris now, in his own bed – perhaps (though this seemed improbable) beside his wife. They might even be lying in that very bedroom, in the rue d’Assas, where his uncle had lived and died. And tomorrow he’d wake up and do whatever it is prime ministers do on a Sunday – read papers, attend to urgent business, play golf, meet his mistress. But by then Pascal would have published his story. By midday it would be the lead on the television news. Journalists would be ringing Rigaut’s office – soon he would be besieged. The inquiry into Antoine’s death would be reopened, the question of Juliette’s revived, perhaps Delphine’s as well. And that would be that – disgrace, maybe even prison. The end.
What would he feel? Fury, resignation? Chiefly, I suspected, surprise. The dead were dead – buried in the hectic flurry of present life, necessary rungs on the ladder. Why resuscitate them? Although for a moment I’d had him rattled, the possibility that they might rise again was something he’d never seriously considered. All that had been dealt with: we’d struck a bargain, last night’s dinner the final flourish on the signature. He’d done his bit and he hadn’t a doubt that I’d do mine. Didn’t he have me entranced?
But there he was wrong. That was the Angel: true keeper of my heart.