The Improbability of Love

by Hannah Rothschild

‘Who are you?’ Vlad asked

  ‘The less we know about each other, the better,’ the voice said.

  The floor beneath him trembled. Vlad stepped back quickly as a section of it slid back, revealing stairs to a basement.

  ‘Descend.’

  No wonder they told me to come alone and switch cars twice on the journey here, Vlad thought. It wasn’t to protect them; it was to make sure that even if my disappearance was registered, my body could never be traced. Knowing he had no choice, he went down the stairs and into a large safe.

  ‘This is your payment box,’ the voice said. ‘Your code is known only to me and you, and it will change with each visit. Think of a series of five numbers, which must not relate to anything personal, such as year of birth, year of your mother’s birth, et cetera.’

  Vlad thought for a moment before keying in the days of his brother’s birthday, 61270.

  ‘That corresponds to your dead brother’s birthday. Can you think of another?’ the voice said.

  Vlad shivered slightly and then put in a random code.

  A box the size of a tea crate opened in the wall.

  Taking a small pouch out his pocket, Vlad opened it and placed the diamond in the centre of the box.

  ‘Re-enter your code now,’ the voice instructed.

  Vlad punched in the digits and the wall safe closed.

  ‘Once it has been verified, you will receive a notification by email. Exit from the passage to your left and find your car.’

  ‘What if I buy a large painting next week? How will it fit in there?’

  ‘You will be given different instructions. If you buy from an auction house, we deal directly with their handlers. Private sales are managed in different ways.’

  ‘Or if I buy a house or an island?’

  ‘We have yet to fail to process anything. That should not be your worry.’

  Leaving the building was as complicated as entering. Once reunited with his car, Vlad noticed that the gravel had been raked since his arrival and once again he had the minute but real satisfaction of messing up the perfect patterns.

  Leaving the compound, Vlad drove for a few miles and then, pulling into a layby, he laid his head on the wheel and succumbed to feelings of utter despair. How could he, week in, week out, find suitable objects to satisfy the Office of Central Control? If they didn’t like the diamond, what then? He had already employed six people to help locate works of art, precious objects, estates, paintings and shares. The problem was second-guessing what his Leader wanted. Last week he had rejected a chalet in Gstaad on the grounds that he already owned 40 per cent of the resort. The week before he had been given back a fabulous emerald for paying over the odds. If the Leader rejected the diamond then he would be three weeks behind on his payments and saddled with goods that he didn’t actually want. Vlad had no intention of going to Gstaad (he was told Courcheval was the only place to go); he had no girl to give the emerald to (though he lived in hope of capturing Lyudmila). Two weeks earlier he had bought a significant stake in a company that turned out to be already owned by the Office of Central Control. At this rate he would be personally bankrupt and in debt, and if he missed five weeks’ payments, thoroughly dead.

  Clutching the steering wheel hard in both hands, Vlad tried to think straight. He had to have a plan, a proper plan about how to meet these payments. He had to corner the market in something, some area that the Office of Central Control did not already own and whose value was irrefutable. He should also try to anticipate payments in advance – by buying something really valuable, Vlad would buy himself time: weeks, maybe months of unbroken sleep. The more he learned about the art world, the more confident Vlad became that he had found the ideal conduit. The problem with contemporary art was that there was an almost limitless supply and it was far too dependent on fashion. Hirst could pump out hundreds and thousands of spots, drown the market in brightly coloured circles. In the brief few days between buying a Richard Prince Nurse and delivering it to his faceless creditors, the artist’s stock had fallen. Old Masters were a safer bet. After all, the painters were dead and this lack of supply to meet potential demand meant that their prices were unlikely to fluctuate by much. Vlad had another thought. I could manipulate the market by buying a few works by one artist, then putting one in an auction, bidding the price up wildly, setting a new benchmark and making all the others worth far more. Why had no one else thought of this? Then he realised that others had, and this probably explained the record prices at auction.

  Taking his telephone, he punched Barty’s number into the dial.

  ‘Forty minutes – Chester Square,’ he said.

  When Vlad rang, Barty was lying on a massage table having a treatment to keep any potential cellulite at bay. That cellulite was unlikely to strike a slim, sixty-nine-year-old man was irrelevant. Barty had an absolute terror of imperfection – just because it hadn’t happened so far didn’t mean that it could not sneak up behind him. Rolling off the table, Barty left the treatment room and padded down the corridor to the club’s changing rooms. He had a lifetime free membership to this place and treatments to the value of £5,000 per annum, payment for providing introductions to his best clients.

  Standing under the hot shower, Barty thought about Vlad and how their relationship was developing. He had known enough Russian émigrés to understand what they needed. He remembered the old White Russians, summarily expelled following the revolution in 1917, who had escaped to London to live out their days in genteel poverty, forever mourning the motherland. The new generation was equally wistful but hugely wealthy, providing they could stay alive. Letting the hot water pour over his head, washing away the massage oil, Barty thought compassionately about Vlad’s situation. The great lummox had more money than most could even dream of spending, but he was a haunted, hunted figure. Being thousands of miles away from Central Control no longer offered safety. Wherever he was, Vlad was beholden: emotionally, financially and physically. His prison was luxurious and apparently without walls or boundaries, but he wasn’t free. Barty suspected that Central Control could trace an errant employee to the furthest Tahitian island and eradicate them in a matter of seconds. Their operatives had doubtless secreted microchips under his skin while he slept, tracking devices inserted by prostitutes trained in many dark arts.

  Barty would never swap places with the wealthy Russian, but he was happy to conjure up interesting ways for Vlad to spend his money.

  Recently he had advised another Russian how to manage his billions. Boris Slatonov had bought an ailing football club and revived its fortunes by spending millions on new players, coaches and facilities. Luckily the team began to win and Boris found out that there was nothing that the Leader loved more than international success. Boris’s next move, again with Barty’s help, was to found a museum in Moscow and fill it with modern paintings. Soon the Leader was using Boris as one of his personal bankers, channelling money through the exile via the sports fields and the art world.

  Looking at himself in the mirror, Barty drew a comb through his hair. Thick and silky, his tresses remained one of his best assets and were now dyed a strawberry blond. Barty thought the new hairdresser was probably his best ever, a man who resisted Barty’s occasional pleas to cut it or coxcomb or Mohican or shave it. ‘If you want to change your style, get a wig, darling.’ Picking up the hairdryer, Barty began to rough-dry it – there wasn’t time to do much more. Taking up his make-up pouch, he applied basic foundation, concealer and a touch of blusher to both cheeks before getting back into his three-piece suit (he was Steed from The Avengers today).

  Fifteen minutes later, Barty was in a cab on his way to meet Vlad. In his left pocket was a list of all the football clubs currently on the market. In his right was a litany of forthcoming auctions. Barty had also decided that Vlad shouldn’t look at contemporary works of art; although the Old Masters were rarer, more elusive and less sexy, Vlad should concentrate his efforts on the more recherché – in fact, Barty had decided
to finally reward his friend Delores and steer Vlad towards French eighteenth century. The three of them would identify a charming little ‘maison’ in St Petersburg (far nicer than the horrid and deeply masculine Moscow). They would create a Musée des Beaux Arts de l’École du Dix-Huitième. Barty could see it now – it would be a mass of brocade, damask, ormolu, gilt, gold and other utter fabulousness. Unlike those great bastions of monumental concrete and neon whiteness known as modern museums, their little palace would be a place where the eye would never be allowed to rest, even for one split second. It would be a cacophony of colour and texture, it would be contra contemporary, a fashion insult; Barty and Vlad’s museum would put the controversial back into culture.

  Barty arrived seconds before Vlad’s car glided into view. The enormous Russian looked even more disconsolate and depressed than usual. Barty slid into the seat next to him, feeling the soft cow skin under his fingers and admiring his own reflection in the highly polished walnut dashboard for a second before he turned to Vlad.

  ‘Cheer up, my little buttercup. I have a plan. A simply wonderful marvellous plan.’

  Chapter 27

  Using set designers, painters and dressers whom she had met working with Carlo, Annie transformed the Amadeus Centre in Maida Vale into an eighteenth-century glade inspired by her painting. Large drapes painted with dappled foliage hung from the wraparound balcony and great branches of willow, bought that morning at New Covent Garden Market, were placed in massive clay pots. The centrepiece, a large fountain, identical to the one in her painting, its edifice covered in tiny smiling putti, was carved in Styrofoam and painted in cream. A swing hung from the ceiling and the floor was covered in AstroTurf strewn with fresh petals.

  Annie set up a central table shaped like a horseshoe and covered it in heavy white damask. She had hired a grand service, in the style of Louis XV, along with twenty candelabra and thirty serving dishes from a prop company. The Winkleman’s housekeeper, Primrose and her daughter Lucinda had worked through the night sewing the heads of roses to sprigs of gypsum to make long ropes of flowers to festoon the sides and tabletops. The table’s centrepiece was made from mounds of candied fruit and edible sugared mice chased by chocolate-coloured kittens. Each place setting had eight knives and forks, three spoons and seven wine glasses, plus one golden goblet to hold water. Starched linen napkins, each four-foot square, had been folded into preening swans that sat on golden plates. In front of each place setting was a hand-engraved individual place card and a menu with details of the food and wine.

  In one corner of the room there was a tiny stage from which a band of musicians dressed in period costume would play madrigals. From another door, when the jacquard chicken was served, acrobats dressed as harlequins would tumble across the glade in a performance for the diners. During one of the eight puddings, a lachrymose jester, the doppelgänger for the clown in Annie’s painting, would appear with a lute and sing to the assembled guests.

  Hidden from view at the back of the hall, Annie had created a makeshift kitchen. Timing was essential, and to achieve a state of perfection, there were only a few seconds spare between dishes.

  While the set dressers were putting their final touches to the glade, Jesse, the army of waiters and the second sous chef arrived. Annie was grateful that Jesse behaved like any other employee. With much of the detailed preparation done a day or two before, the main issue was to get all twenty courses to the table on time, at the right temperature and served with the correct wine. While failure might not, as it had at Versailles, have fatal consequences, a botched job would spell the end of Annie’s dream. For Delores, the evening had to pass as a high point in the artistic social calendar.

  Splitting her team into four groups, each assigned a separate task and area, Annie handed out printed sheets detailing the evening’s events and chores. No detail was left to chance; even bathroom breaks were scheduled.

  ‘This evening must run like a military campaign,’ Annie explained. ‘Please read this list carefully: you must know what to expect and what is expected from you. Jesse is my second-in-command so if I am busy please refer to him. Raoul is in charge of waiters, Amy will look after the cloakrooms, Ted is our sommelier and Riccardo is managing clearing and washing.’

  Annie looked at the twenty-two expectant faces. After weeks of meticulous planning, she felt confident and calm. She had employed professionals who knew what to do and how to manage stressful situations. Her profit on the evening was shaved to a minimum: this evening was about her future rather than her bank balance.

  The first to arrive was Delores dressed as Marie Antoinette. Sheathed in layers of cream lace and purple shot satin, she reminded Annie of a vast animated sea anemone shimmying across the floor.

  ‘Oh my,’ Delores said as she stepped into the bower. ‘I am going to cry. I must not cry. I am going to cry – what have you done, you marvellous, clever creature?’

  Annie smiled and blushed root red.

  Heading towards the swing, Delores looked as if she would try and nudge her bottom into the seat but to everyone’s relief she was distracted by the putti-covered fountain. Soon she went behind the scenes to inspect the food. She paid close attention to each dish. Annie insisted on introducing each member of her team.

  At exactly 8 p.m. the madrigals started to play and minutes later a bugler heralded the arrival of the first guest, Mrs Appledore, who came dressed as Madame de Pompadour in a dress copied down to the last detail from the portrait by Boucher. She had even bought a lap dog for £2,500 from Harrods’ Pet Kingdom to accompany her, but the creature had whined and puked in the car and Mrs Appledore left the animal to its fate on the street outside. Seconds later Barty arrived dressed as an eighteenth-century courtesan in a ballgown with a five-foot span embroidered with gold and tiny pearls (he had to bribe his friend at the V&A to smuggle it out of the stores for one night). The dress had been so complicated to put on that his whole office had taken the afternoon off to fit Barty into the undergarments, wooden stays and hoops. This time he had borrowed a wig made of ropes of blond curls. Sweating slightly under the weight of the hairpiece and the thickness of his ermine-edged flowing cape, Barty went immediately to the men’s room to fix his make-up. Vlad arrived separately dressed in black leather trousers and jerkin with a crown on his head and a badge saying ‘Peter the Great’. Having agreed to Barty’s plan to build his baby Versailles in St Petersburg, Barty had appointed Delores as the principal paintings advisor and, to her unmitigated delight, three significant purchases, paintings by Pater, Lancret and Boucher, had been earmarked. Thanks to the commission on these, Delores had upgraded the evening’s choice of champagne from ordinary to vintage Pol Roger, the wine to premier cru.

  At 8 p.m., news reached the kitchen that Rebecca could not come – last-minute urgent business in Berlin. Instead, Memling Winkleman was bringing Carlo and Rebecca’s daughter, Grace. ‘Such a relief,’ Delores commented. ‘Rebecca would not know a good time if it bit her.’

  By eight thirty, most of the fifty guests had arrived. Peeking out from the kitchen area, Annie recognised Septimus Ward-Thomas, a minor royal, the ageing pop star Johnny ‘Lips’ Duffy, and several Hello! magazine habitués. The Earl and Countess Beachendon arrived dressed as courtiers. The Emir and Sheikha of Alwabbi were the only couple not to have dressed according to the theme ‘Rococo’. The biggest surprise was Carlo and Rebecca’s daughter – Annie had expected a demure twenty-one-year-old; Grace was a gothic punkess with piercings covering her nose and ears, and a tattoo of a dragon, clearly visible thanks to a backless dress, running from the nape of her neck to the top of her buttocks. Delores had placed her next to Vlad.

  ‘Are you art advisor?’ Vlad asked.

  ‘I am anything you want me to be,’ Grace replied.

  Memling walked in, looked around and became unsettled, though he could not quite articulate, at that moment, what was disturbing him.

  The next four hours flew past for Annie as she sent each course out,
one after the other – oysters, caviar, soups, quails, foie gras, jacquard chicken, onion soup with champagne, sole stuffed with crab meat, vegetables piled high, new potatoes the size of crocus bulbs mixed with quails’ eggs, pigeons dressed like baby peacocks, feathers made from herbs captured in cages of spun sugar. The pièce de résistance was a boneless turkey stuffed with a boneless goose, stuffed with a boneless chicken, a boneless partridge, a quail and finally a baby snipe. As Jesse and two others carried the bird to the table and sliced it through with a minature saw, the table erupted into applause.

  ‘Chef ! Chef !’ the whole room clamoured.

  Jesse ran in to the makeshift kitchen. ‘They are calling for you, come out and take a bow.’

  ‘I can’t – look at me,’ Annie said, knowing that her hair was protruding out of her chef’s cap and that her face would be streaked with sweat and flour.

  But the clapping continued and grew louder. Wiping her hands on her apron, Annie smoothed her hair and, stepping out from behind the fountain, nervously made her way to the centre of the horseshoe table.

  ‘Brava!’ Delores struggled to her feet. ‘Brava!’

  The other diners clapped enthusiastically.

  Annie, blushing deep red, bowed. ‘Thank you so much – now if you don’t mind, there are still eight more courses.’

  There was a collective groan.

  ‘We can’t eat any more,’ someone shouted out.

  ‘Just a few bites!’ Annie laughed, edging back towards the kitchen.

  No one understood why Memling Winkleman left shortly after the Pierrot appeared, but everyone was having such a good time that they hardly noticed.

  Annie had to take three more bows between courses, followed by a standing ovation at the end. Mrs Appledore, Earl Beachendon and Johnny ‘Lips’ asked her again to create an event for them, and the Sheikha of Alwabbi tried to hire her for the next six months.

  When the guests had left, the floors had been cleaned, the tables cleared, all the plates, glasses and hired equipment packed into boxes and loaded into a van hired for the evening, ready to be returned to their owners the following morning, Jesse and Annie were finally alone. They sat side by side, cross-legged in the middle of the floor. The hall had been returned to its original state, large, slightly tatty and oddly purposeless.