The Gallery of Vanished Husbands

by Natasha Solomons

  ‘Can I be in it too?’ asked Frieda.

  Philip shrugged and turned to Juliet. Frieda screwed her hands into tight fists, nails making angry half-moons on the fleshy bit of her palm.

  ‘Mum, can I?’

  ‘I don’t think so, darling.’

  ‘Why?’

  Juliet frowned. ‘He doesn’t have much time. And it’s to go along with Max’s picture and Charlie’s. You’re not in those ones so it wouldn’t be tidy.’

  Frieda studied Juliet. She offered too many reasons. That, Frieda decided, meant none of them was true.

  ‘I want Philip to paint my picture.’

  ‘People pay him lots of money for their portrait, Frieda.’

  ‘He’s painting you for free.’

  Philip set down his charcoal and twisted round in his chair, cowboy style. ‘I’ll do your picture,’ he said to Frieda, ‘soon as I’ve finished Juliet’s.’

  He reached into his pocket and drew out a silver cigarette case, placing a cigarette in his own lips and passing another to Juliet. Frieda watched as he leaned forward to light it for her, tender and solicitous. She looked from her mother to Philip and decided that she hated them both.

  • • •

  The moment she saw it, Juliet adored Philip’s portrait of Frieda. Unlike Charlie or Jim, Philip was private while he was painting and wouldn’t allow them to see the picture until it was finished, refusing even to leave it unchaperoned in the gallery if he left before Juliet. She was glad he did not trust her, knowing that she was quite incapable of resisting an early peek. So when it was finally complete and he unveiled the picture for the first time, it was like a perfect birthday surprise and as she looked and looked, Juliet was filled with a warm happiness as if she’d stepped out into a sunny morning after weeks of rain. She was pleased that she’d insisted on individual portraits. She disliked family groups in pictures, they always seemed false – everyone frozen in a single, symbolic relationship with one another; they reminded her of rigid seventeenth-century portraits commissioned by pompous husbands to display the wealth of a plump new bride. Frieda needed her own space on the canvas – neither mother nor daughter liked to share. Philip had captured exactly that adolescent sulkiness, a girl caught between childhood and the promise of womanhood, still uneasy about the whole thing. She sat in the lone studio armchair and glowered at the viewer with her greenish eyes, skinny legs curled up beneath her, hand draped over the armrest as she dangled a drooping stick of liquorice between her fingers.

  ‘I don’t care what you want for it, you can’t sell it,’ said Juliet. ‘Well, only to me.’

  Philip laughed, evidently pleased by such enthusiasm. Juliet’s response to her own portrait had been muted. She professed admiration, she was grateful, she agreed it was very clever but they both understood that she did not like it. On the one hand she’d been quite wrong: it was clear that Philip did not perceive her as suburban or dull but, she realised when he’d finished, he didn’t know her at all. Juliet had been quite used to this. The rabbis and the neighbours and Mrs Greene’s gossips all watched Juliet without seeing her, waiting for a mistake or evidence of some flaw until she felt herself to be nothing more than an assortment of bad decisions and habits. When she first saw Charlie’s portrait and Max’s watercolour and Jim’s fledgling piece, she was relieved to recognise herself. It was like waking up after a dream where one is falling into nothingness and discovering with a flush of gratitude that you’re still here after all – the glass of water is still on the nightstand. Philip’s painting of Juliet was accomplished, the brush work skilful and the light on the brow very pretty, but it remained a picture of a stranger. This stranger looked very like Juliet and she had several sets of arms engaged in making phone calls, typing letters and mopping the brows of harried painters. Perhaps it was the efficiency with which the stranger went about these tasks that made her so unfamiliar – Juliet felt she lived at the edge of chaos, unable to finish anything how she would like – but the truth was simply that Philip didn’t know her. It was not the fault of either painter or model and any lingering disappointment was dispelled by the brilliance of Frieda’s portrait.

  • • •

  Frieda’s own reaction to the picture was more ambivalent, although it changed over time. When Philip made her stand in front of the canvas, and uncovered his hands from her eyes, her first impulse was to cry. It was quite clear from the painting that Philip did not fancy her. He’d painted a little girl. She was pretty enough but it was a childish, pink-cheeked prettiness, not the bosomy languor that Frieda imagined she was conveying as she draped herself across the armchair. She also considered the failure of the picture to be entirely her mother’s fault. Frieda had wanted to model in a miniskirt and had borrowed one from Margaret Taylor’s older sister especially, but Juliet had vetoed it. If only Frieda had been allowed to wear the skirt then Philip would have fancied her and then he wouldn’t have painted this silly picture of a rosy Renoir girl. What made it worse was that Philip never even asked her what she thought of it. She watched as he laughed, thrilled by Juliet’s delight. Neither of them asked her opinion. Charlie did, but when she told him it was ‘yuck’ he only chuckled and ruffled her hair.

  • • •

  Max declined the invitation to the opening party. The others told Juliet he would not come but she refused to believe them until a small yellow card arrived inscribed in skinny letters: Max Langford regrets that he is unable to attend. On the back he’d added, If you happen to be passing, you must pop in for tea. At first Charlie tried to mollify her, insisting that a reply in itself was a kind of victory, but Juliet remained hurt and more than slightly irritated. She wasn’t likely to be just passing through rural Dorset. It wasn’t an invitation but a polite maintaining of distance. She read and re-read the card, searching for some additional meaning in the wording, but there was nothing except blank formality.

  ‘What did you expect?’ objected Charlie, openly exasperated by her disappointment. ‘He can’t drive, or rather he won’t. He dislikes the train. His sphere is limited to where he can walk or bicycle.’

  Juliet said nothing more about it but she felt sorry for Max as well as herself. Her world had expanded beyond the half dozen familiar suburban streets, unfurling like an Ordnance Survey map on a windy afternoon, while Max’s remained limited to a few acres of woodland and a stretch of muddy river. Even though she knew that he saw universes contained within his little patch and could spend days quite transfixed as he painted a shining beetle posed on a leaf or a curl of fox turd, Juliet was not comforted.

  While Jim’s Night Swimmer was the critical star of the show and acclaimed in all the papers, Frieda was the picture most loved by ordinary visitors. Juliet could have sold the portrait fifty times over and before opening night was done, she replaced the discreet red spot with a handwritten notice declaring ‘This work is NOT for sale.’ Through the crowd, Juliet sought her out – smiling when she spied her on the wall, as though she’d caught the eye of a friend. The real Frieda was not so engaging. She petitioned Juliet for weeks to be allowed to attend the party and then refused to put on the party frock purchased by her grandmother (‘It’s so hideous, I wouldn’t even be buried in it!’) and skulked at the back of the gallery, licking the salt off peanuts and filching all the tinned pineapple squares from the spears of cheese cubes.

  The gallery was packed with bodies. Juliet had no idea that so many people could be crammed into the space. Hardly anyone had troubled to RSVP (except for her parents, who’d posted a prompt and formal reply rather than simply mentioning it over the kneidlach soup on Friday night) and she’d mistakenly presumed no reply to mean non-attendance. Until then Juliet had lived in a community where invitations were punctually accepted – one never declined. Parties and suppers were carefully scheduled so as not to clash since the same people were inevitably asked each time and catering could be accurately calculated down to the last matzo ball. She wasn’t to know that the London crowd never re
plied, that invitations existed to be balanced on mantelpieces, bookcases or bedsit fridges, and options must be kept open until the last moment.

  That night everyone had apparently decided to drop by the party just to make sure they weren’t missing out on anything. The day had been humid and the gallery was as tight and airless as a sealed biscuit tin. The atmosphere was grey with cigarette smoke and everyone was forced to study the pictures through a fog. At last the weather broke and it started to pour, sudden summer rain battering against the windows. The rattle on the flat roof was tremendous and the guests’ polite cocktail chatter swelled into shouts. Feeling dizzy from the heat and the noise, Juliet propped open the doors and little puddles formed on the floor inside. She wasn’t sure who anyone was – she’d studied photographs of the few who had replied but since most had not, she tried to distinguish between the various species of guests. The boys’ pals and fellow artists were easy to spot in skin-tight jeans and T-shirts; the art critics and the friends of Charlie’s mother steamed gently in linen jackets (the critics distinguished by their black-rimmed spectacles and their ability to drink). Beside the tables of sherry she recognised several of the local lushes, drinking with focus and without pause. She knew she ought to ask them to leave, but she hadn’t the heart. Her parents huddled together near the door, too shy to talk to anyone, trying to be proud. She knew she ought to speak to the critics, but she felt a little sick at the thought.

  Jim and Charlie stood before Night Swimmer with a friend Juliet did not recognise. He wore rather thick spectacles and bleached blond hair tickled his collar – something she had only ever seen on girls before. He scrutinised Jim’s painting with a connoisseur’s thirst. Charlie caught Juliet looking at them and beckoned her over.

  ‘This is our friend, David. We were at the Royal College together.’

  Juliet smiled and shook the boy’s hand.

  ‘Where did you get the acrylic?’ he asked, turning to Jim. He spoke in a soft northern accent Juliet could not place. He grinned. ‘Not from round here, I reckon. Only stuff I’ve found here is dull, dull, dull.’

  Jim chuckled. ‘From America. All the thrills are over there. Bars—’

  ‘Sunshine. Sex!’

  ‘—with the prettiest boys.’

  At this both Jim and David laughed. Juliet glanced at the floor, feeling terribly unsophisticated. Until Jim she’d never met a gay man before. It was something she associated with Oscar Wilde and Sodom and Gomorrah, picturing top-hatted Victorian dandies in velvet smoking jackets and ivory-tipped canes sauntering along blazing biblical streets, thunderbolts going off like firecrackers. She hadn’t even known about Jim until one Saturday morning when she’d arrived with the children to discover Jim and a cherubic boy of eighteen or nineteen fast asleep on the couch, wrapped in each other’s arms. Juliet had roused them, making everyone coffee and embarking on excruciating chitchat with the exotic boy who, it turned out, was only from Bromley. Politely, she’d asked him to leave and blushing a furious scarlet told Jim not to invite guests to the gallery for ‘late-night visits’ when the children were coming. Jim had chuckled at her unease but refrained nonetheless.

  She was saved from being further drawn into Jim and David’s conversation by finding herself engulfed by a mink coat. Fur tickled her nose and she spat gently to remove it from her mouth.

  ‘I see you’ve found my boys,’ said the coat.

  Juliet disentangled herself from the mink and discovered that she was face-to-face with an elegant woman of about forty-five, smothered in fur and draped in a velvet dress at once old-fashioned and beyond fashion. Despite the fur she was apparently untroubled by the heat or the crowd, which was beginning to remind Juliet of Waterloo station at rush hour. The woman shot Juliet a warm smile, but waggled a gloved finger in warning.

  ‘You must remember that I discovered these boys first. I went to the college and I dowsed for talent and I found them.’

  She paused at the end of this, removing a glove and waving its empty fingers with a flourish. Her voice held a slight Mitteleuropa accent and automatically Juliet was reminded of George.

  ‘Juliet Montague, meet Bluma Zonderman,’ said Charlie. ‘Bluma, I’m so pleased you came.’ He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek with cheerful familiarity. Jim and David only gave small, polite smiles.

  ‘Bluma’s Jewish too,’ added Charlie, as though this must be a fact of great interest to both women and that neither could have discerned it without him.

  The two women met one another’s eye with suppressed amusement. Juliet bit her lip, unable to explain to Charlie that while this elegant woman was Jewish, she was part of the set of glamorous refugees from Vienna or Berlin and as unlike Juliet as Charlie’s smart friends. In the corner of the room she noticed her parents standing together hand-in-hand, speaking to no one, her mother surveying the party with frightened eyes.

  ‘Well, gentlemen?’ demanded Bluma. ‘What do you think? I’ve made each of you my best offer.’

  As the boys exchanged glances, Bluma turned to beam at Juliet. ‘I’m creating a collection of artists’ self-portraits. I’m going to be a Medici.’

  Unsure how to respond to this, Juliet said nothing but Bluma seemed unperturbed by silence.

  ‘It’s a gamble. Everything is a gamble but I think you have it. Yes. The three of you have it.’

  The boys stood in a row gazing at Bluma, taken aback by the force of her enthusiasm. Charlie was the first to speak.

  ‘Yes. I’ll do it.’

  Bluma took his hand, grasping it warmly, a smile of frank happiness spreading over her face.

  ‘Wonderful. Wonderful. And how about you, Mr Brownwick? I’ll pay you twenty guineas.’

  Jim nodded. ‘Yeah, okay. Twenty guineas is all right, I reckon.’

  Bluma clapped her hands in delight. ‘And, Mr Hockney? Have you had time to think?’

  There was a slight hiss as she said ‘think’. Juliet tried to put George out of her mind.

  David shrugged and plunged his hands deep into his pockets. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Zonderman,’ he said. ‘I like what you’re doing and everything. But I can’t. Not for twenty guineas. At my last exhibition they were selling my work for a hundred pound.’

  Juliet’s eyes widened. A student selling pieces for a hundred pounds? She’d priced Max’s bird pictures at seventy but it had made her feel a little sick. She’d wanted to ask a hundred for Jim’s Night Swimmer but in the end Jim had decided he didn’t want to sell.

  ‘Then I wish you luck, Mr Hockney,’ said Bluma with a shrug. ‘This is the fee. Nobody, no matter how famous, is paid more than twenty guineas. I would have loved a picture of you. I am sure I’ll regret it.’

  The boys disappeared in search of more cigarettes, leaving Juliet alone with Bluma.

  ‘You can find talent. Trust that stir you get inside the belly that feels like joy or indigestion, when you stand in front of something truly marvellous. Sometimes you will get it right and sometimes not, but the truth is you’re not ever really right or wrong. It’s only luck. She’ll be with you and then she won’t.’

  Bluma pointed to Max’s painting of high-flying geese.

  ‘He’s the best painter but you’ll have the least success with his work. He’s too old. The public doesn’t want middle-

  aged painters having a second spring. The pictures seem old-

  fashioned even though they’re not. They want the young and modern.’ She nodded towards Jim’s Night Swimmer. ‘He’s your star. The brush work is ordinary and the light’s a little flat but that’s not important. It feels new. It isn’t but that doesn’t matter. And, best of all, it will reproduce beautifully. Those expanses of colour will print nicely and you won’t notice the flatness.’

  Juliet took a sip of wine to avoid making a reply. She didn’t care what Bluma said, she was determined to make Max a success. It was his pictures that she loved the best and she’d make everyone understand. She started to excuse herself but Bluma took her arm. />
  ‘I won’t tire you with any more advice except this: only sleep with one of them at a time,’ she glanced towards the makeshift bar where Charlie and Philip were opening bottles of wine. ‘Men are more fragile than you think.’

  Juliet reddened in embarrassment and irritation. ‘I’m not. I wouldn’t—’

  Bluma cut her off with a laugh. ‘Well, when you do, remember my suggestion. It’s as useful as anything I’ve said about painting. Now take me to some champagne.’

  Grateful that the conversation was at a close, Juliet led Bluma to the bar. She wished that she could slip outside for a minute. In the cubby that passed for a kitchen she saw Frieda and Philip washing up glasses and laughing. Juliet sighed. She never seemed able to make Frieda laugh any more. Sometimes she felt that her daughter had joined the ranks of the disapprovers of Chislehurst. She watched Charlie’s mother Valerie glide among the partygoers, sleek in a hot cerise dress that skimmed her knees, eyes perfectly stencilled into Elizabeth Taylor sultriness – her hand must be as steady as a draughtsman’s. Juliet wondered for the first time if Charlie had inherited his skill with a pencil from Valerie. She was everything that Juliet was not. Perfectly at ease, Valerie understood whose jokes to giggle at, who needed to be flattered and with whom to flirt. Juliet watched in admiration and anxiety. This was supposed to be her party but she felt like a beech tree in the middle of a pine forest. She had tried to make herself look more like one of them. She no longer frequented Minnie’s Boutique on the high street and her new skirts were cut a fraction shorter and a trifle tighter. She wore lipstick every day but she still couldn’t sense, as Sylvia or Valerie could, when to reach out and brush a man’s arm.

  A slim hand slid into hers.

  ‘You look like a wallflower, darling. This is your party,’ said Sylvia. ‘Come. I’ll introduce you. Half of them came because they’d heard a popsie was running a gallery but now they’re here, they’re really rather impressed.’