‘I’m sorry, darling. I deliberately left my mobile behind. There was a warning on the news, you see, that petty thieves and yobs might be on the make today. Anyway, I’m back now and why I phoned is to invite you somewhere else, so don’t you dare refuse!’
‘I shan’t, I promise. So where are we off to this time?’
‘Not far, don’t worry. Remember I told you about my friend, Scott, the only one of our circle who’s become ultra-fashionable? The lucky dog can charge a fortune for anything he does. Well, on May 12th he’s having a private view at a trendy Mayfair gallery. From all I’ve heard, it should be rather splendiferous. Two of my other artist friends are coming down from Suffolk for it and I’d love you to join us, too, so I can show you off to everyone.’
Show her off! And she’d imagined he was furious ….
‘And afterwards we can go back to my studio and work off all that lovely food in bed. It’s less than two weeks from now, so I hope you won’t be madly busy still.’
Busy? No way! If the newly created Duke and Duchess of Cambridge asked her to dinner on 12 May, she wouldn’t have the slightest compunction in declining, due to an infinitely more pressing engagement. ‘Felix,’ she said, her smile so exultant she suspected he could feel it vibrating down the phone, ‘I can’t wait!’
Chapter 16
FELIX SQUEEZED HIS way through the crush towards a tall, balding man in jade-green cords and a natty blue bow-tie. ‘William,’ he said, ‘meet Maria – a fantastically talented artist.’
She didn’t contradict him. Indeed, she was beginning to believe him, now that he’d been broadcasting her talent half the evening. And, with him as her shepherd and chaperone, she felt remarkably at ease in an ambience that would have otherwise been intimidating.
‘So what’s your main field of work?’ William asked, raising his voice above the buzz of conversation.
‘Well, at present, I’m exploring colour more than anything – mainly abstract stuff, in oils.’
‘And what do you think of Scott’s work?’
‘Oh, it’s incredibly original! In fact, I plan to come back tomorrow and study it in much more depth. It’s not easy to do justice to it with all these people milling around.’
‘You’re telling me! I keep getting side-tracked by friends from long ago, who involve me in long, nostalgic chats about the old days. Or some beautiful girl—’ He smiled at a young waitress, in a black mini-skirt and a frilled white apron, approaching at that very moment ‘—insists on refilling my glass.’
As the bubbles fizzed into her own glass, Maria couldn’t help reflecting that, for once, she was rivalling her daughter: swilling Moët & Chandon and surrounded by the glitterati in one of Mayfair’s leading galleries. Of course, during the years she’d worked at various galleries in the north she had helped to run many private views, but those had been extremely modest affairs. No famous names, no art critics or other art-world luminaries, no pinstriped city types, complete with bulging wallets, and certainly not this extensive range of skin colours. Even in the eighties, she couldn’t recall a single black or Asian ever turning up.
William gave a distracted wave, as yet another fan or friend spotted him from yards away and began semaphoring wildly. ‘Oh, Lord!’ he hissed to Maria. ‘That woman over there is poison, pure and simple! I just have to give her the slip. D’you mind if we move into the other room?’
She glanced in Felix’s direction and, seeing he was deep in conversation with a peculiar-looking gent, sporting pince-nez and a Charlie Chaplin moustache, she eagerly agreed. ‘Yes, Scott’s earlier works are mostly in that back room and I’d really love to see them.’
‘OK, let’s go – quick march!’
‘Quick march’ was hardly the term to describe their stop-start motion, as they tried to weave their slow way through the crowd. William was obviously well known, judging by the number of people who buttonholed him and, unfortunately, the ‘poisonous’ woman caught up with them and tugged rudely at his sleeve. Ignoring Maria, she then began haranguing him, the words ‘neglect’ and ‘betrayal’ featuring prominently.
Embarrassed, Maria backed away, all but colliding with one of the bevy of young waitresses, who was advancing towards her with a large silver platter of sushi. She stammered her apologies, relieved to see that the sushi were still intact.
‘No harm done,’ the girl said, offering her the plate. Each fishy morsel was a work of art in miniature, and exotic orchid-heads had been decoratively arranged all round the edge of the plate – an idea she’d pass on to Amy for her next office party, perhaps.
As she was just finishing her mouthful, a glamorous but hard-faced female teetered up to her, unsteady on four-inch heels. ‘Hello, I’m Eleanor Kingsley.’
As the woman went on to explain that she ran her own Bond Street gallery, Maria felt somewhat daunted, yet also glad of Eleanor’s company, since William was still preoccupied. His persecutor had vanished but he was now being interrogated by an intense young lad, incongruously dressed in elegant black-velvet trousers, teamed with a lurid T-shirt, proclaiming I’M A GENIUS!
‘How long have you known William?’ Eleanor asked.
‘About five minutes! I’m actually here with Felix Fullerton.’
‘Really? I’ve always liked his work. And, of course, he and William were at the Hornsey together, weren’t they? Not that I’ve had a chance to say hello to him – or to Scott, for that matter. But then it’s hard to get anywhere near Scott, with all those fans paying homage! He’s being lionized tonight – and rightly so.’
Maria peered across to where the star of the evening was standing amidst a circle of admirers, his head thrown back in a guffaw, his iron-grey hair dishevelled, his shabby jeans looking out of place amidst the snazzy suits. It must be a mark of success, she mused, not to have to bother to dress up. She herself had gone to quite some trouble, having found a rather special dress on the sale rack in a charity shop: a silky, swirly number in a purple-and-scarlet print.
As Eleanor moved away to talk to someone else, Maria continued to watch Scott, who seemed enviably relaxed, in marked contrast to the artists at the Northumbrian private views. Some of them, she recalled, were barely known outside the local area, and often desperately nervous, wondering if anyone would actually show up, let alone buy a painting. And the only food and drink on offer had been paper cups of bargain-bin wine and a few plastic bowls of crisps and nuts. And, of course, she was the one responsible for buying the refreshments, sending out the invitations, cleaning the glass on the paintings and vacuuming the whole place before the show. And, on the night itself, she was expected to act as waitress (whilst trying to stop the artist getting drunk) and also as clearer-up, next morning.
‘Sorry to have left you on your own.’ William returned to her side, at last. ‘That poor young sucker,’ he added in a whisper, ‘is due to finish art school this July and was asking me the secret of success. Damned hard work, I told him, for at least twenty or thirty years.’
‘Lord, you’ve probably put him off for life!’
‘That’s no bad thing, Maria. There are far too many of us artists as it is.’
Us artists – she relished the phrase, and the thrill of being bracketed with a painter as eminent as William. All thanks to Felix, of course, whose passionate kiss was still jolting through her body. He had met her outside Green Park tube and, regardless of the rush-hour crowds, had embraced her with such ardour, the kiss deserved a plinth and a glass case. But she was happy to be with William, just at present, because Felix needed time on his own, to chat up agents, talk to potential buyers, and also put out a few feelers, in the hope of being taken on by a new gallery. He’d been telling her, just yesterday, about the deficiencies of his own gallery, which had apparently hung his last show badly and done pitifully little in the way of any publicity. But, with her clinging to his side, he’d had no chance to network yet.
After a few more interruptions, she and William finally succeeded in reaching th
e back room which, mercifully, was far less crowded and allowed them to study the pictures properly.
‘I have to say,’ William remarked, as they moved slowly from painting to painting, ‘I admire Scott’s versatility. If you compare these works with the later ones, you’d hardly know they were done by the same artist.’
‘And this is quite a contrast to the rest,’ Maria observed, stopping in front of a large oil-and-acrylic entitled ‘Near Horizon’, which seemed to dominate the room. ‘It’s much bigger, for one thing, and he appears to be using colour in a very different way. It’s more lucent, don’t you think? More austere and restrained? In fact, it makes me realize how much I have to learn.’ Stepping closer, she scrutinized the brushstrokes, trying to take in every detail. ‘Those gradations in shade are so subtle – from steel-grey, to pewter, to oyster-shell, then fading away into a sort of ghostly pallor.’
Before William could reply, two matronly women joined them in front of the painting and began discussing it in ringing tones.
‘He’s such an intuitive artist, don’t you think? Deeply spiritual, I’d say.’
‘Yes, though I reckon he’s a tortured soul, judging by his themes of vulnerability and isolation. There’s certainly a strong religious dimension to his work, so perhaps he’s seeking comfort from a higher sphere. In fact, in almost all his paintings, he seems to be exploring man’s relationship with God.’
Once the pair had moved away, William nudged her in the ribs. ‘If Scott heard that, he’d die laughing! He hasn’t a religious bone in his body and as for being a tortured soul, nothing could be further from the truth. If he seeks comfort anywhere, it’s down the pub, with a double scotch!’
‘Maria!’ Felix exclaimed, suddenly appearing in the doorway. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. And if you’re planning to run off with William, I’m afraid you’ve left it too late! I’ve come to spirit you away.’
‘What, leaving so soon?’ William reproved. ‘The party’s hardly begun. And, anyway, aren’t we all going on for dinner somewhere afterwards?’
‘Sorry – can’t do. Maria and I have another engagement.’
‘Really? Where are you off to?’
Felix reached for her hand and moved his thumb in slow, suggestive circles, round and round her palm. To bed, he didn’t say.
‘Let’s pretend you’re still a virgin, darling. I want you to be just eighteen and strictly Roman Catholic and I’m your priest who’s been sent from Rome to counsel you.’
She froze.
‘Well, my child,’ he said, adopting a patrician tone and switching his expression to one of lugubrious solemnity, ‘having given the matter much deliberation, this is my conclusion, as your spiritual adviser. For many years, you’ve said your prayers and regularly attended Holy Mass, but now it’s time for a radical change of direction. And, as a man of the flesh, as well as of the cloth, I feel I’m eminently suited to initiate that change and teach you the pleasure of carnal delights in place of heavenly ones.’
As he moved his mouth to her breast, she pushed him off; sat up.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘I thought you enjoyed our fantasies.’
‘Not that one.’
‘Why not? It really turns me on to think about you then – so naïve and inexperienced and probably rather submissive.’
She hugged her knees, wincing at the adjectives: exactly how she had been with Silas. ‘Felix, there’s something I haven’t told you …’
‘What, you really had an affair with a priest?’
‘No,’ she said, aware she had gone too far already, in light of her decision to conceal her murky past. Yet was that decision right? Felix was her lover, after all, so shouldn’t she allow him access to her mind, as well as to her body?
‘I … I had an affair with an older man I met just after leaving art school.’ Suddenly, it was all pouring out: the pregnancy, the baby, the break-up of her first and only relationship.
‘Oh my God – you poor love! That must have been incredibly tough. But why on earth didn’t you tell me before?’
She shrugged. ‘Oh, lots of reasons,’ Shame, embarrassment, concern about his reaction. ‘It wasn’t a very happy time, so I suppose I prefer to keep it quiet. Don’t forget, illegitimacy carried a real stigma then. And a priest was involved, in fact, not to initiate me into carnal delights, but to urge me to do penance for what he saw as a serious sin.’
‘Sex isn’t a sin,’ Felix exclaimed, indignantly. ‘It makes me mad the way priests and Popes get everything so wrong.’
‘The Church does have a point, though, in only allowing sex within marriage. If you look at the statistics, they all tend to show that children with two parents do far better than those of lone mothers. And I know Amy suffered from not having her father around. Which is why,’ she explained, ‘I’ve been so busy recently, trying to track Silas down. I’m getting closer, at last, thank heavens, and I reckon it’s only a matter of days now before I lay eyes on him.’ Last week, she had gone to Tolworth again, to meet Ruby’s neighbour, Barbara, and actually been given an address, obtained by Barbara from her former boyfriend, Ian Johnson. Unfortunately, neither Ian nor his parents had heard any word of Silas since they had sold their Tolworth house and ejected him as lodger, so in the ensuing eighteen months he might have moved on somewhere else.
‘You intend to meet him, Maria?’ Felix exclaimed, cutting across her thoughts. ‘What’s the point, for Christ’s sake? If he didn’t want to be lumbered then, why the hell should he have changed his mind?’ He sprang off the bed and began pacing round the studio, stark naked still, but with no trace of an erection now.
Startled by his vehemence, she wondered what had prompted it. Could he possibly be jealous, or simply annoyed by further demands on her time? ‘I don’t have any choice. I promised Amy I’d try to persuade her father to take an interest in her, and nothing would make me break that promise.’
‘I’m sorry but I just can’t see it working. Frankly, I’d let the bastard rot!’
She bit back a furious retort. How dare he be so negative, or judge Silas so harshly without ever having met him? ‘I shouldn’t have told you – that’s obvious,’ she said, in her frostiest tone.
‘Yes, you should. I hate you having secrets from me. In fact, I can’t understand why you had to hush it up at all.’
‘Well, you ought to understand,’ she countered, angrily. ‘We’re roughly the same age, so you can’t have forgotten the social climate in the early seventies. OK, men often got away with fathering a bastard child, but it was completely different for women. Girls were banished from home for getting pregnant, or sacked from their jobs, or forced to give up their babies for adoption, however much they longed to keep them.’
‘Not in the art world they weren’t.’ Felix turned to face her, his voice still querulous. ‘Most artists see sex as a natural instinct and one very closely linked to creativity.’
‘Bully for them,’ she snapped. ‘Unfortunately, I didn’t come from that milieu. My mother regarded art as an insecure profession, and artists as unreliable and invariably self-indulgent.’
‘Well, that was nice, I must say,’ Felix jeered, ‘when her own daughter trained as an artist.’
‘So now you’re attacking my mother, are you?’
‘I’m not attacking anyone. I just want you to see sense.’
‘Meaning you’re the fount of wisdom and I’m seriously deluded?’
‘Well, actually, I do think the way you live is somewhat misguided – your obsession with economy, for one thing, never splashing out and spoiling yourself. It’s part of the whole Catholic thing – renunciation, self-denial …’
‘That’s nonsense!’ she retorted, incensed on her forebears’ behalf: Theresia first orphaned, then penniless; Franz-Josef jobless after his imprisonment; widowed Hanna forced to scrimp and save. ‘It’s nothing to do with religion; it’s to do with basic finances. My family never had money and I’m not exactly rolling in it myself.
Just because you’re loaded, you assume everyone else can splurge.’
‘Come off it, Maria! You know nothing about my finances.’
‘Well, judging by the treasures in this flat, you’re not exactly short of a bob or two.’
‘That’s not the point. It’s a question of attitude. Your Church taught you all these so-called virtues that happen to be negative.’
‘I’m not so sure they aren’t virtues – at least compared with nowadays, when everyone’s fixated on conspicuous consumption. Yet people are actually more miserable – dissatisfied and envious, because, however rich they may be, there’s always someone better off than them. Frankly, I’d rather live my own way than spend my time having to accumulate possessions and—’
‘But why go to extremes? We don’t have to be either out-and-out materialists or Gandhis in loincloths, begging for our daily crust. All I’m suggesting is that you throw off some of the baggage you seem to have inherited from a succession of frugal killjoys.’
Stung, she leapt to her feet. ‘Look, if you’re so dammed judgemental about me and my whole family, what am I even doing here?’
He said nothing more; just slumped down on the bed, his back towards her, while she stood, shaken, by the door. Despite her residual annoyance, it slowly began to register that he might, in fact, be right. Hadn’t Kate said much the same, and even Amy criticized her penny-pinching?
As the silent minutes ticked on, her sense of shame increased; horrified that they were quarrelling at all, when normally their relationship was so blessedly harmonious. Worse, they were ruining the evening – an evening he’d wanted to make magical, purely for her sake. He had gone out of his way to boost and support her; introducing her to everyone; ensuring her glass was filled and that she never felt out of her element.
Tentatively, she approached the bed, touched his shoulder, coaxed him to turn round. ‘Why are we arguing,’ she whispered, lying back full-length again and drawing him towards her, ‘when we have much better things to do?’
An Enormous Yes Page 17