Looking Down

by Fyfield, Frances

  It was bad for a young man to have everything his heart desired. That could not last either, it was the death of fury and ambition. He rather missed his own bitterness, the badge of his exclusivity, his excuse for not loving and not being loved. It was only in this state of dangerous contentment that conscience could come creeping, like a sniggering voice in the background of some discreet, respectful gathering. Conscience was laughter in church, a shaft of light between ill-fitting curtains, which he did not like. It forced him to realise that he really had brought a great deal of mess into a couple of lives and it was particularly unfortunate that this should have involved his sister. Whom he loved and admired, to be frank. Still, it was a positive mess: her good painting was mended, no real harm done, and he had returned that sweet little nude he had pinched from her dentist friend – what more did she want? No, the conscience came from being less than frank about the whole business, and being thanked for the rescue of Minty’s sister. As if that was the real result of climbing the wall and risking his neck.

  He rose from his graceful recline on the bed, and left the room. As he did so, a series of images flashed through his mind, like old, cracked film. He was standing in that gallery, by that snooty girl, with the addresses on her screen, himself still fresh with zing and anger. Then he was in the biggest room of the penthouse, shushing the girl, telling her it was all for the best, come with me, I’m not here to hurt you. You, it, she, his jaw dropping as he spoke. Oh, my darling. There you are.

  Steven left his new room, purely in order to come back, slowly. There she was.

  Tiepolo, leading exponent of Italian Rococo. Style characterised by airy frivolity and playful effects.

  Look at it. Look at that triangular composition, the uncanny use of light and shade, the white, not pale, droolingly beautiful women at the very centre. Look at that bare shoulder and décolleté neckline. The way the ghostly white passages contrast so powerfully with the dark backs of the figures in the foreground. The gentle, summoning arm of Jesus, the preacher. Youth, beauty and age, all in thrall to the wise one. Found, easily wrapped, on the floor of the Chinese traders who dealt in art and slaves. Easily rolled up into nothing.

  Utterly magnificent. A surge of ridiculous, jaw-dropping happiness. Zing.

  He wondered if he would ever want more than the single, real masterpiece, supposed he might. Tiepolo was the reason for acquiring a home: The Sermon on the Mount deserved a home. In contemplation of his own deficiencies, Steven sighed.

  Art was the real mistress.

  Sarah Fortune repositioned the painting of the cow on her living-room wall, where it fitted perfectly into its rectangle of faded paint. Then, dressed for the heat of the day in a black linen shift clinched in at the waist with a broad red belt and her red shoes, she went out to lunch with a lover.

  She made him laugh, when he was sad.

  That was the whole purpose of luck.