The Vintage Guide to Love and Romance

by Kirsty Greenwood

  ‘So, where are we going tonight?’ I ask, delicately linking arms with him as we wander past the fountains in the square. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this evening all week long.’

  Leo points over towards the National Gallery.

  ‘Right there,’ he says, eagerly leading me in the direction of the steps. ‘There’s a private viewing of a Van Gogh collection and a newly acquired painting and I’ve got tickets.’

  Van Gogh?

  Shit.

  If there’s one thing I know even less about than poetry, it’s art.

  Gad, why can’t he just take me to dinner like a normal person? Or a rock concert. I’m ace at rock concerts – I can mosh like nobody’s business. Except for that one time when I tried to crowdsurf but the crowd was a bit sparse and it was essentially just one meaty-looking guy holding me up in the air for a bit.

  I frown discreetly to myself. Art. Leo Frost has gone and thrown me another bloody wild card. I only just got through the poetry night without letting the Lucille veneer slip and revealing Jess underneath.

  How the fuck am I going to manage this one?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A Good Woman is sophisticated and cultured. Make sure you are well versed in the topics of fine art, classical music and great literature. A good chap will appreciate a partner who won’t merely listen to his thoughts on the world, but who will understand them too.

  Matilda Beam’s Good Housewife Guide, 1957

  I am so out of my depth. The exhibition is full of posh artsy people sipping the requisite vintage champagne and talking about the Van Gogh paintings. They’re using words like ‘vigorous’ and ‘rhythmic’ and ‘urgent’ to describe them. The paintings are incredible, I’ll admit, but these people act like they’re about to have mega multiple orgasms over them. I think the pink-cheeked woman standing over by Sunflowers just did. I’m not quite in that place yet.

  As we make our way from painting to painting, I try hard to do as Grandma instructed and ask Leo about himself on a more substantial level. But each time I do, we’re interrupted by somebody he knows: clients from Woolf Frost, many, many women – some who seem to love him and some who very definitely hate him, all of them ridiculously beautiful – and even a reporter from the Telegraph, there to cover the event and extra keen to get a picture of me and Leo looking thrilled to be here.

  ‘Nooo!’ I yelp as the photographer points his big camera towards my head.

  If my picture is in a national newspaper then someone will recognize me for sure. They might spill the beans and then the project would be in jeopardy. I can’t risk it. Not now.

  But my plea comes too late, because the photographer has already papped us. Dammit. Grandma’s careful disguise has been enough to fool Leo Frost, but what about people back home? The people who know me in real life. They’ll be able to see through the hair and contacts and clothes and pointy boobs in a second.

  Leo raises his eyebrows. ‘You don’t like having your picture taken for the press?’

  I fiddle with the collar of my dress. ‘Um, no. I’m, er . . . I don’t.’

  He narrows his eyes and half smiles in an approving way. ‘How refreshing.’

  Whipping another two flutes of champagne off a passing waiter, he hands one to me. I sip meekly, pretending to be part of the champagne conspiracy. On the other side of the room, a white-haired man wearing bright red trousers spots Leo, waves enthusiastically and starts to make his way through the mob towards us. Before Leo notices this guy and I have to stand there looking pretty while he has another boring conversation about golf and centre-spreads and his turd of a dad, I dart right in front of him, peeking up at him from beneath my eyelashes.

  ‘It’s hot and crowded in here, don’t you think? Would you mind if we went somewhere a little . . . quieter for a while?’ I bite my lip. ‘I’d be ever so grateful.’

  Leo eyes me with concern. ‘Of course. Are you all right? It should be pretty empty upstairs. C’mon.’

  He grabs my hand and we dodge back through the crowd, out of the Van Gogh room and towards the lifts. Once the doors have closed, Leo says:

  ‘A good idea to get away from the hubbub. Any particular painter you’d like to see? They’ve got a wonderful collection here.’

  My mind goes blank.

  I can’t think of any painters. Not a single bloody one!

  I know them, but now that he’s asked me I can’t remember any of their names? Except for Van Gogh, who we just saw.

  I tense up and tap my fingers against my chin. ‘Hmmmm, let me seeee . . . ’

  And then, right as I’m about to make a total chump of myself, I get a miracle of a brainwave. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Weren’t they named after magnificent painters?

  ‘Donatello!’ I almost yell in relief.

  Turtle power.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think they have any Donatello in right now,’ says Leo.

  I scrunch up my face. ‘What a shame. Well . . . um, Leonardo then.’

  Leo grins, immediately pressing the button for the Sainsbury Wing on level 2. ‘Da Vinci, my namesake. Good choice. The National Gallery hold a fantastic assortment of Renaissance art.’

  ‘Super,’ I breathe. ‘Super. Renaissance art is my favourite kind of art.’

  Leo’s eyes widen in pleasure. ‘Mine too!’

  When the lift doors open, we’re intercepted by a bespectacled, besuited man with a long, studious face. I think this is the art world’s version of a bouncer.

  ‘Hi, Terence,’ Leo says, heartily shaking the man’s hand. ‘Only me. Thought we’d get a breather from downstairs.’

  ‘Don’t you ever go ’ome, lad?’ Terence winks. Leo winks back.

  I can’t believe the cheek! I should have known. Of course Leo brings all his dates here, probably perfecting his sensitive, artistic persona until some fool falls for it. Well, it won’t be this fool! He’s wasting his time and he doesn’t even know it.

  Terence guides us through a huge archway and into a high, white-walled room filled with gold-framed paintings. He glances down at his watch. ‘I can only give you fifteen minutes tonight, chief. It’s just me up ’ere tonight.’

  When Terence has left, Leo leads me over to one of the paintings. He takes great big confident strides across the floor and I have to totter quickly in the Mary Janes to keep up with him. I miss my trainers.

  Right. Alone at last. No one to interrupt us. For fifteen whole minutes. I’m going to have to work super fast.

  Hopes and dreams time. Do it.

  But . . . I can’t just blurt out the question, can I? Hey, Leo, what are your biggest hopes and dreams for life? It would be too obvious. And creepy.

  I start off lightly.

  ‘So, Leo,’ I say in my soft voice. ‘Please do tell me a little more about your work. I know you’re in advertising, but what exactly is it that you do at Woolf Frost?’

  ‘Well, I’m Artistic Director there,’ Leo replies brightly, his voice echoing in the large empty space. ‘Which is basically a souped-up way of saying that I work with copywriters and artists to generate concepts for client briefs and such. My specialism is print media. It’s not as popular as it once was, but I really enjoy working on a tangible page.’

  I nod deeply in the way Grandma showed me. Soooo interested.

  Leo Frost. Artist, Thinker, Man. Soooo interesting.

  ‘How long have you been there?’ I ask, taking a sip of my champagne. Blerg.

  ‘Gosh, ages. I started straight after uni at St Andrews, actually – my dad owns the company so I had an “in”.’ He raises his chin slightly. ‘But I worked my way up on merit and spearheaded the recent Mercedes Campaign. Drive Alive.’

  Drive Alive. That shit advert again. Yuck.

  When I don’t respond Leo prompts,

  ‘Do you know it? The Drive Alive advert?’

  Hmm. I’m not sure my skills are quite up to pretending that I thought that ad was anything less than gratuitous,
nonsensical crap. Surely the rage would shine through my skin like E.T.’s heart does in E.T.: the Extra-Terrestrial. Instead I shake my head ‘no’.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ I simper apologetically. ‘But I’d love to see it.’

  ‘I’ll show it to you sometime. I’d be interested to know your opinion – it’s had a pretty mixed response.’ He laughs to himself, as if remembering something. ‘You know, I was at a book party the other week when this woman barged up to me out of nowhere and told me how awful she thought it was!’

  Oh God. He’s talking about me at The Beekeeper launch.

  I actually stop breathing.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I squeak in an uncanny impression of Peach. Fucking hell. I wouldn’t say I barged up to him . . . did I? ‘How awful for you!’ I simper. ‘Anyway—’

  ‘Yeah, I sort of blew up at this woman. I felt bad about it afterwards – I’d lost a client at work that day and I was getting a terrible cold, so I was in a foul mood already. The funny thing is that the bit of the advert she was most offended by – the model wearing a gratuitous diamond swimsuit – wasn’t even my idea, it was my father’s! And I kind of agreed with her that it was ridiculous.’

  My jaw drops open. I can’t believe it. Leo Frost felt bad about being so rude at that party. He had a cold. The diamond bikini wasn’t even his idea.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure all your ads are wonderful,’ I say evenly, trying not to betray my surprise.

  ‘They do their job, I guess,’ Leo shrugs, pausing in front of Portrait of a Musician. ‘Drive Alive has managed to snag a nomination for a London Advertising Association award, so it can’t be all bad.’

  I already know about the award nomination from my Internet research, but feign shock and pleasure at just how clever my date companion is.

  ‘Wow!’

  Leo shrugs in a very good impression of a modest man. ‘There’ll be one of those ridiculously showy black-tie ball and dinner events. It’s my first time being nominated so, you know, pretty exciting stuff.’

  ‘That’s so impressive.’ I clap my hands together. ‘Your father must be very proud of you.’

  At the mention of his dad, Leo swallows hard and swiftly changes the subject. ‘Tell me more about your work, Lucille?’

  My work? Eek. I can’t exactly tell Leo that I’m a writer. He might make the connection to the publishing party and realize I’m the girl who called him a knob-prince. This is too important to just make up on the spot – it’s something I definitely need to check with Grandma.

  I pretend to be distracted by one of the paintings.

  ‘This one’s beautiful,’ I say, staring up at a painting entitled Virgin on the Rocks. As I look closer, I realize that it is amazing. Breathtaking, actually. I don’t know why – it might be the intricacy, the attention to detail, or the way the skin of the subjects glows; I don’t quite know how to describe it, not being an art ponce like Leo Frost.

  ‘I love it,’ I murmur.

  Leo gives me a sidelong glance. ‘That was my mother’s favourite too.’

  ‘Was? Did she change her mind?’ I laugh lightly.

  ‘I mean, it was her favourite painting before she died. She named me Leonardo after the artist. I come here a lot to look at it. More than I should, probably.’

  My breath catches in my throat.

  Leo’s mum died?

  I didn’t expect that. It doesn’t quite fit into the ‘charmed life’ theory I had worked up for him.

  ‘God, I’m sorry,’ I say instinctively. It sounds empty and not nearly enough to express that I know exactly how it feels. He gives an almost imperceptible shrug, and his eyes flicker with an emotion I recognize instantly. One I’ve seen when I look in the mirror for too long. Loss.

  ‘My mum died too,’ I say, plopping down onto the bench behind us. ‘When I was eighteen.’

  I shouldn’t have told him that.

  I tell no one that.

  I don’t even know him.

  ‘Fuck, I’m sorry to hear that, Lucille. I was young too – fifteen.’ He sits down beside me and smiles grimly. ‘Sucks, right?’

  Taking hold of my hand, he gives it a brief squeeze. It feels warm and strong. My chest tightens. I know I was supposed to delve a bit deeper with Leo tonight, but this feels like much too much. And though he might be the only person I’ve ever met who even slightly gets what it’s like to lose your mum, after all is said and done, he’s a stranger. And I’m not supposed to be telling him real stuff about myself. I pull my hand away from his and place it neatly in my lap. I need to lighten the melancholy mood that seems to have spilled over the room like oil. But I don’t know what to say. What the bloody hell do you say when someone tells you about their dead mum. I’ve never been on this side of that conversation before. Ordinarily, if this were real life, I’d just do one. But this is a job. I made a promise to suck it up and stick it out.

  ‘Well, she’d be proud about your award nomination,’ I say with a smile.

  Leo fiddles with the stem of his champagne flute for a moment. ‘You know, I’m not sure she would. She loved my dad fiercely, but always hated commercial art, said it was soulless . . . ’ He turns to face me. ‘Want to hear something ridiculous?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘I sometimes worry that my mother would be disappointed to know I joined my father in the ad business. Like I’ve let her down somehow.’

  ‘Not ridiculous.’ I shake my head. ‘Mums have a way of getting under your skin like that, even when they’re not there any more. And you love what you do, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m good at what I do, I suppose. You know, my mother always wanted me to be an artist. I won a school painting competition when I was fourteen and I’d never seen her quite as proud of me.’

  He looks wistful for a moment. I think of that boat drawing.

  ‘So why don’t you do that then?’ I shrug. ‘Be an artist. If that’s what you love. You’re talented enough.’

  Leo laughs out loud, a blast of a laugh that makes me jump. He runs a hand through his hair, mussing up the front of the quiff so that it loses its rigidity. ‘Ah, no, that’s just a pipe dream, the thing I think about before I go to sleep. Not something for real life. My drawings are just a mess-about, and I’m doing all right at Woolf Frost. Dad intends to give me the company one day and, well, no man turns his nose up at an opportunity like that. Everything’s lined up for me. I’m a very lucky man.’

  He gives me a confident grin. It’s the grin he was doing in the paparazzi shots I saw. But it falters slightly.

  ‘Just because things are handed to you doesn’t mean you have to accept them,’ I say quietly. ‘And we both know that life’s too short and too unpredictable not to grab the things you really want.’

  I think about what I really want. A lovely beach villa in a faraway place. But the image blurs a little in my mind, not quite as vivid as it usually is.

  Leo nods slowly.

  I examine his haughty features, the slightly long nose, high cheekbones, matinee-idol jaw, long-lashed, clever green eyes, all thrown off balance by the slightly sad frown between his eyebrows. Hmm. Is this part of the act? Some kind of ‘troubled soul’ play to get me to shag him? Based on what Valentina told me, anything is possible where this guy is concerned . . . But surely he wouldn’t use his mum’s death for that. Not even the worst kind of dickhead would do that.

  Leo leans in and nudges me with his shoulder. ‘So, was Rose your mum?’ he says in a low voice. ‘The person in your poem?’

  My heart suddenly starts to beat faster. Too fast. I’m not up for this question. I’m really not up for talking about my mum with Leo Frost of all people.

  ‘What do you know, I think our fifteen minutes are up!’ I say, so forcefully that it bounces off the walls and echoes back at us three times. I get up from the bench with a dazzling smile. ‘We should probably go back downstairs,’ I say more softly. ‘Wouldn’t want to incur the wrath of Terence!’

  ‘Oh.’ Leo looks star
tled. He stands up and follows as I head back through the archway. ‘Yes, of course. Terence can be quite frightening when he’s not obeyed. Hulk-like, in fact. Perhaps a conversation to continue another time then?’

  Not if I have anything to do with it.

  I don’t say that though. Instead I nod fervently like the open and sincere confidante I’m supposed to be.

  As we take the lift back down to the ground floor, I ponder about the aim of tonight’s date. To get Leo Frost to tell me about his hopes and dreams.

  How the sweet hell can I do that when he seems to have given up on them?

  Rose Beam’s Diary

  21st June 1985

  The vows were so beautiful tonight. Seeing how much love Mum and Dad have for one another made me realize that it was the right decision to be honest about Thom. He showed up to the party wearing a stiff, clearly borrowed tuxedo. It was odd seeing him in something non-colourful, and I could tell as soon as he arrived that he was uncomfortable to the max. I introduced him to my parents as my boyfriend, and although Mum flared her nostrils, it played out exactly as I had hoped and no one made a scene. Dad shook Thom’s hand and invited him for dinner tomorrow evening. Thom was thrilled, as was I. Nigel Pemberton spent the whole party giving me meaningful looks. Thom thought it was hilarious and we couldn’t stop giggling about it. Poor old Nigel.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  If you have followed my advice as instructed, it is likely that more than one Good Man will want to be your sweetheart, and thus you will have to turn someone down. Do so with sensitivity, kindness and respect. The heart is delicate and must be treated as such.

  Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955

  When the Van Gogh event is over, we amble out into the warm night, back through Trafalgar Square and onto the bustling road to wait for the town car that Leo has ordered to take me home. As we’re waiting, I watch the nearby fountains, now illuminated with brightly coloured lights. The twinkling running water is almost hypnotic, and not helped by the champagne I ended up drinking in an effort to extinguish the uncomfy feelings ignited by the deep-and-meaningful earlier on. I huff to myself, the sound of it getting lost in a sweep of evening breeze.