‘I’m glad Delores arranged a photographer,’ Annie said, looking around. ‘It all seems like an unreal dream now.’
Taking Annie’s hand in his, Jesse kissed its palm gently. ‘It was extraordinary – I was honoured to be part of it.’
‘You were bloody brilliant. The moment that chicken slipped off the tray—’
‘And shot across the floor—’
‘And threated to knock over the fountain—’
‘And you caught it like Jonny Wilkinson going for a try . . .’
They laughed together.
‘And then Delores’s breast jumped out of its corset while she was eating another meringue,’ Jesse said, laughing.
‘I missed it completely. I was building a tower of profiteroles!’
‘You should have seen Mrs Appledore’s face!’ Jesse said, imitating her look of total horror.
‘What else, what else?’ Annie pleaded. ‘I missed so much of the action being stuck in the kitchen,’ she said.
‘Vlad and Miss Winkleman left together – couldn’t keep their hands off each other all evening.’
‘Rebecca will be furious – she thinks that her daughter is a Vestal Virgin,’ said Annie lying back on the floor.
Jesse’s heart skipped as he saw her hair fanned out like an auburn halo around her pale, beautiful face. In her makeshift kitchen, Annie had seemed powerful; now she looked so fragile and slight that he longed to take her in his arms and kiss away the violet smudges of tiredness under her eyes.
‘Tell me more,’ Annie implored.
Forcing his mind back to the dinner, Jesse said, ‘Earl Beachendon looked thoroughly depressed. He and his wife had got hopelessly lost in a Maida Vale housing estate. Someone snatched his phone and her bag. Hearing that Vlad was building a new museum, he cheered up somewhat.’
‘Which one was his wife?’
‘She looked like an animated herbaceous border.’
‘Oh my, the one wearing a pair of curtains?’
‘That’s her,’ Jesse said and lay on his side so that he could see Annie more clearly.
Annie felt Jesse’s eyes on her but kept looking at the ceiling.
‘For some reason Delores sat the Countess next to the rock star. What’s his name?’
‘Johnny ‘Lips’.’
‘I could not understand what the two might have in common. Thought that was a bad call,’ Jesse said, and edged closer to Annie.
‘And?’ Annie wished Jesse would stop staring at her.
‘It was a match made in heaven. They are both into breeding Arab horses and auriculas. What are the odds on that?’
‘What’s an arc-u-la?’ Intrigued, Annie turned to face him. His sweet-smelling breath grazed her cheek. To her surprise, she did not feel claustrophobic and enjoyed looking into his face. She noticed, for the first time, that his deep-blue eyes were flecked with tiny gold and black streaks.
‘Auricula – a kind of flower – lace-makers and silk-weavers went mad for it in the eighteenth century. Later someone sent a cutting to the States and Thomas Jefferson fell in love with it.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Eavesdropping on their conversation.’
‘Tell me about old man Winkleman.’
‘When your clown came out from behind the fountain he started to hyperventilate. Thought I might have to call an ambulance but he made his way out into the street, got into his car and was driven away.’
‘I noticed the spare seat but never stopped to think whose it was. Tell me about Barty – he won best outfit of the evening.’
‘He was a hoot. Gave the Sheikha and Vlad a long lecture about things that are common,’ Jesse said, noticing that a sprig of thyme was caught in her hair, a tiny speck of green among the red and golden curls. He reached over and gently pulled it away and then handed the herb to her. Their fingers touched and, taking the offering, she smelt it and then crushed it between her fingers. She felt a breath on her face and opening her eyes, looked up to see Jesse leaning over her.
‘You look so beautiful,’ he said. ‘Can I kiss you?’
Annie rolled away from him and sat up.
‘I want to remember tonight for other reasons,’ she said.
‘Of course,’ Jesse sprang up. ‘I am so sorry. It’s selfish of me.’
Annie also got to her feet and brushed off the dust from her trousers.
‘I need to tell you a few things,’ she said. ‘But not tonight.’ Looking at her watch, she smiled at Jesse. ‘I am going to drive that van home and try and get a few hours’ sleep.’
Jesse smiled. ‘Can you drop me at a bus stop?’
‘Thank you for helping tonight. I couldn’t have done it without you,’ she said, holding out her hand.
Jesse took her hand. ‘You could and you will have to. Tonight was the start of your new life – I could see that – you looked so at home, so confident, so happy and clear.’
‘Do you really think so?’
Jesse looked at this strange, fierce, yet fragile creature and longed to take her in his arms.
‘I forgot what joy felt like,’ Annie said, trying to find the key in the bottom of her bag. ‘I am beginning to understand that it was rather absent in my previous life. It probably sounds stupid but when I can persuade three different random ingredients to go together and create something delicious, I am overcome by waves of happiness.’
‘It’s the same feeling when my painting springs to life, taking on some unaccountable, independent force – a dab of green, yellow and dash of scarlet meld to create a perfect leaf.’
‘Do you really think I can make it as a chef ?’
‘I don’t think – I know,’ Jesse said with great conviction.
Annie turned to face him, her face shining.
‘Thank you, that makes me very happy.’
Chapter 28
Jesse needs to wake up: get off the fence. Love is not only about feelings, it is about proof of feelings. He needs to find a way of showing his inamorata that her life would be immeasurably better with him. He needs to be indispensible without being controlling; inspirational without ego.
Unfortunately for him, Annie has been so hurt that her merry little heart has shrivelled.
It was the same for my master – he never recovered from Charlotte’s rejection. Gradually he detached from the world, exhausted by an imploded heart and a collapsing body. He moved constantly, from the countryside, to different apartments in Paris, and even to London for a spell. This peripatetic lifestyle was an effective way of avoiding memories of those little intimacies accrued through shared experiences: the tavern where they had met; the taste of a type of bread she had liked; the bars of a song she had sung; a nape of a neck that resembled hers. Gradually his aloofness from the world became complete: he lived alone with his illness and his dreams. His contempt for material interests increased. When his friend Caylus begged him to seek treatment for consumption in a hospital, Antoine snorted, ‘Isn’t the worst that can happen to me the hospital? No one is refused admittance there.’ He did not want to be part of a club that would have him. My master died aged thirty-six. Alone.
I don’t wish this pathetic outcome on anyone, let alone the lovely Annie; I just don’t see love as a panacea or the grassy track connecting dark and light. I want her to prove my worth, to sell me, to set herself free financially, at least. I want her to enjoy creature comforts, to have the space and means to fulfil her dreams. I have not always brought luck to my owners: this time it must be different.
Chapter 29
After only a few hours’ sleep, Annie woke full of energy and purpose. Throwing off her sheets, she went to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. The person who stared back at her had the same baggy, slightly watery eyes and pallid skin, but this morning Annie looked at her own reflection with tolerance and even slight compassion. The imperfections had been earned well. She could not believe that her fantasy life, her dream of becoming a chef, was edging forward and t
he gap between make-believe and reality was closing.
Taking a flannel, she soaked it in hot water and pressed it to her face.
‘How did it go?’ Evie broke into Annie’s reverie.
‘Amazing – it was amazing.’
‘Tell me everything,’ Evie said.
‘I’ve got to take all the kit back now or I’ll get charged,’ said Annie, patting her face dry.
‘I’ll come too.’ Evie turned towards the bedroom to get her clothes. ‘Keep you company.’
‘Mum, I want to be alone. Besides, look at yourself.’
Evie stopped and look in the mirror. Her bleach-blonde hair stuck up in the air. Round her eyes were smudges of make-up.
‘You can be very cruel,’ Evie said, padding back to Annie’s room and closing the door behind her.
Annie felt a twinge of guilt. The truth was that she didn’t want Evie in the car, asking questions and turning the subject back to herself where, like a needle on a scratched record, it would stay, repeating ‘Me, me, me.’
Grabbing her bag, Annie let herself out of the flat and, taking the stairs two at a time, rushed down, out of the front door, to the rented van. To her relief it was scratch-less, even though her phone sat on the front seat, forgotten the night before. Between 3 a.m. when she returned home and now, nearly 9 a.m., there had been eight missed calls. Four were from Delores, one from Agatha, one from Jesse and two were from an unknown number. She played the first.
‘Hi, Annie, it’s me, Jesse – last night was amazing – simply amazing. Let’s get together. Fancy a drink tonight?’
The sound of Jesse’s voice sent shivers of anxiety down Annie’s spine. Over the last few weeks, Annie had felt liberated from love or at least the feelings that she associated so firmly with the past. There was another exciting sensation: being free and independent; not compromising or having to consider another person’s feelings. By desiring her, Jesse was imposing on her, and in rejecting him, Annie felt guilty. Being single meant being beholden to no one. Annie liked Jesse but not enough to take the risk of opening up her heart or contaminating her newfound spirit.
The next message was from Delores: ‘Darling. What a lovely dinner. Thank you. An absolute triumph. Clever girl. Now this is strange, but do you still have that painting you showed me all those weeks ago? Give me a call, darling.’
Annie skipped on to the next messages.
‘Miss Annie McDee. My name is Trichcombe Abufel. You might not remember but we met briefly in the British Museum drawings room. I urgently need to talk to you concerning that sketch.’
‘Miss McDee. This is Trichcombe Abufel again. It is urgent that you call me.’
‘Darling, Delores here. Call me. It’s eight in the morning.’
‘Miss McDee, please telephone Trichcombe Abufel as soon as possible.’
‘Hi Annie, it’s Agatha from the National Gallery Conservation department. I am terribly sorry to call you so early but something rather strange is happening. Could you give me a call as soon as you can?’
Annie hadn’t thought much about her painting for the last few days. Wanting to hang on to the triumph of last night for a little longer, she ignored the rest of the messages and put the van into first gear.
She drove through Shepherd’s Bush, passing a number of small family-run restaurants, a butcher and a chocolate shop. She had made her living from food before; she could again. Annie knew she could cook and that she had an original vision. She imagined herself surrounded by chefs, all dressed in white with her company’s logo, ‘Foodalicious’, printed on their caps and aprons, in a large open-plan kitchen with floor-to-ceiling windows looking over a kitchen garden with a glass wall separating the cooking from the planning areas. In another room, she saw a small design team poring over drawings and mood boards while at the back of the offices were storerooms where she would keep all the glasses, china and essential props needed to create her themed dinners.
Driving past the Russian Embassy to Kensington Gardens, Annie thought of different events she could offer – dinners inspired by 2001: A Space Odyssey; the Arabian Nights; Art Deco; Modernism; Victoriana. Annie felt a shiver of excitement as she imagined how these might look and what menus she could create. She wanted this new life desperately: all that remained was how to achieve it. She would need a place to cook in, plus equipment, some PR and marketing, some temporary help, and some cash up front to buy ingredients. The traffic slowed to a standstill. Hot petrol fumes left a halo of smog around the cars. Annie put up her window to keep out the noxious air. Perhaps, until it gets going, she thought, I can keep my job working for the Winklemans. Though the job was boring, it was easy and left time to consider other things.
Her phone rang again and she turned it off and the radio up. A cherished song by Bob Dylan came on. Annie, who had been in the choir at each of her schools, started to sing ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’, but her voice came out as a croak. She had another go but again, she could not hold the tune. She cleared her throat hard but her voice still meandered over the chords. With a start, she realised that it had been months since she had last sung – even in the bath. In her former life, she had belted out songs everywhere, to everything and anyone – birds, the television, the river and her friends. Her vocal cords had ossified through lack of use. A teacher used to say ‘singing comes from the heart’. I lost my heart and my voice, Annie thought, and now I am going to get them both back.
Trichcombe was not a religious man but as the aeroplane taxied down Berlin’s Tegel runway, he prayed that God keep him alive long enough to write up his recent discoveries. In his excitement to get back to London, to his desk, his notes and his typewriter, he had forgotten to book ‘speedy boarding’. Now he found himself in the middle seat at the back of the plane. On his left there was a young woman chewing gum in a particularly revolting manner, occasionally blowing bright-pink bubbles, which burst on her painted lips with a smack. On the other side, a much pierced, fierce-looking young skinhead wriggled and stretched in his seat with a manic intensity. Trichcombe desperately wanted to avoid touching bubble-gum woman but was actually scared of angering Mr Baader-Meinhof. Hunching his shoulders together, Trichcombe pressed his inner arms and his knees together and took small shallow breaths.
The flight to London Gatwick took just under two hours. Trichcombe refused anything to eat or drink but he touched his jacket pocket repeatedly to check that his small digital camera was still in place. On its hard drive was a photograph of a family standing in front of a fireplace. Above the fireplace was a small painting by Watteau and standing with the family was a small blond blue-eyed boy.
In his other pocket was a piece of paper. One phone call and a fantastical excuse had been all Trichcombe needed to persuade the librarian at the British Museum to give up the name and telephone number of the young woman with the sketch. Trichcombe explained that he had picked up a valuable book belonging to her by mistake and he had only just realised. Weeks had passed and she would be so worried. Oh, he felt awful. The guilt. The remorse. Could the divine and helpful person possibly help him? Of course it was against all regulations. Mea culpa. In any circumstances. Thank you so much. I am so very grateful. He had called the woman, a Miss Annie McDee, twice from Berlin. He would call her again on touchdown.
As the plane passed over Paris, Trichcombe wondered which publication he would use as his portal to bring about the absolute shame and exposure of Memling Winkleman and his family. The Burlington Magazine or Apollo, perhaps? He remembered that these publications of high art were probably part-owned by the Winklemans, whose tendrils of influence reached up and through tiny unexpected crevices. Perhaps, Trichcombe thought, it should be a daily newspaper – but they would want to edit his copy and insist on all sorts of fact-checks. As the plane passed over the English Channel, bubble-gum woman fell asleep and slumped in his direction. For the first time in his life Trichcombe felt a woman’s head on his shoulder, her breath in his ear, simultaneously sweet and sour. What an utter
ly repulsive experience, he thought, prodding his elbow into her ribs. She woke up and snorted deeply. Perhaps, Trichcombe thought, I can make money too. He quickly pushed that idea out of his mind. All that mattered was revenge: the more humiliating, widespread and utterly conclusive the better.
Delores’s office resembled a morgue preceding the funeral of a much-loved diva. Every surface was covered with extravagant arrangements of flowers.
‘Twenty more minutes in here and we’ll die of oxygen deprivation,’ Barty said testily. ‘Everyone knows that plants suck everything good out of the atmosphere.’
‘You’ve got it the wrong way round,’ Delores said sniffing a large hydrangea. ‘During the day they create oxygen and at night they make carbon dioxide.’
‘How do you know that?’
Delores didn’t answer. ‘How much do you think this lot cost?’
‘More than the dinner, probably.’
‘Do you think I could send them back to the florists and get a refund?’
‘You’re bound to get found out.’
‘Who spent the most?’
‘Who cares, darling? Let’s get back to planning our museum.’
Barty was sketching a picture of the grand salon in watercolours. The walls were lined in silk damask and the floors were made from inlaid wood.
‘I will tell the decorator to gild everything. Ceilings, pelmets, cornices, door frames, the whole lot.’
‘I don’t want your décor overwhelming my paintings.’
‘You haven’t got any pictures yet. At the moment we’ll be hanging you from the ceiling.’
‘It’s not that easy to find great masterpieces. Nearly everything has been gobbled up by museums.’
The Improbability of Love Page 35