by Jonathan Coe
‘Oh, Peter’s on some freebie in Barbados. Won’t be back until Tuesday.’
‘Didn’t you want to go with him?’
‘I wasn’t asked, dear. He’s gone with that bitch of a Features Editor.’
Roddy smiled. ‘Well, you always said you wanted an open marriage.’
‘Interesting little phrase, isn’t it, though: “open” marriage? Makes it sound like a drain, or a sewer. Quite appropriate in our case, really.’ Absently, she wiped the lipstick traces from the rim of her wineglass. ‘Actually he’s not such a bad old sod. He got me that Matisse for my birthday.’
Phoebe could not contain her astonishment. ‘You own a Matisse?’
Hilary looked up sharply, and said, ‘Good God, she talks.’ Then, turning back to her brother: ‘The trouble is that it clashes horribly with the green in the music room. We’re going to have to redecorate the whole bloody thing again.’
‘On the subject of presents,’ said Roddy, ‘you realize it was father’s birthday two weeks ago?’
‘Oh, shit. I forgot all about it. How about you?’
‘Slipped my mind completely.’
‘Why isn’t he eating with us, anyway?’
‘Had a bit of an accident this afternoon, it seems. His wheelchair got out of control.’
‘Pyles again?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Oh well.’ She giggled. ‘Perhaps we should slip him a few quid and make sure he does the job properly next time. I suppose I’d better go up and see the old misery at some point tomorrow.’ She pushed aside her plate of half-eaten food and noticed that Conrad was still struggling with his. ‘You don’t have to finish it, darling. We won’t be offended.’
‘It’s delicious,’ said Conrad.
‘No, it isn’t delicious,’ she said, like a grown-up talking to a retarded child. ‘It’s shit.’
‘Oh.’ He put down his fork. ‘I don’t know much about food,’ he confessed, to the company in general.
‘Conrad’s American,’ said Hilary, as if this explained everything.
‘Do you own many famous paintings?’ Phoebe asked.
‘She has something of a one-track mind, doesn’t she?’ Hilary aimed this remark at no one in particular, and then put a finger to her chin, affecting an attempt at recollection. ‘Well, let me see … There’s that Klee, and one or two Picassos, and some Turner drawings … Plus a few hideous eyesores by protégés of my brother …’
‘Why did you buy them,’ Phoebe asked, ‘if you think they’re hideous?’
‘Well, I’m an innocent in these matters, you see. Roddy tells me that they’re good, and I believe him. We’re all at his mercy.’ She thought about this for a moment and leaned forward. ‘Except for you, of course. After all, you’re a professional. You must have an opinion about the artists he represents.’
‘All I know is what I saw in the gallery last week.’
‘And?’
‘And …’ Phoebe glanced at Roddy, then plunged on. ‘I thought it was dreadful. Elementary stuff that wouldn’t even have been given a pass at any decent art school. Wispy pastels and those terrible would-be naïve landscapes – except that they weren’t even … clean enough to be called naïve – which looked as though they’d been knocked off by some pampered socialite’s daughter to pass the time between garden parties. The photographs of the artist were nice, though. I’m sure she went down a storm at the private view.’
‘Hermione happens to be very talented,’ said Roddy indignantly. ‘And yes, it’s true that I did know her brother at Trinity, but not everybody that I represent comes from that kind of background, or has to be introduced to me personally. I do go round all the art schools, you know, looking for new work. I’ve just taken this chap on, and he lives in Brixton. Thoroughly working class. It’s pretty dangerous stuff, too: pretty groundbreaking. He takes these enormous canvases and holds them at a sort of angle and then he tips these big cans of paint over them so that it all runs –’
Phoebe tutted impatiently. ‘That sort of stunt was interesting for about five minutes in the sixties. You’re so easily taken in, you people.’
‘Forthright little thing, isn’t she?’ said Hilary.
‘Well, it matters, you see. Because this is how reputations get inflated and mediocre work gets promoted, and then even when a good painter does manage to slip through the net you’ve already pushed the prices up so high that the smaller galleries can’t afford to buy them and it all ends up going into private collections. So what you’re doing, in effect, is robbing the country of its own culture. It’s as simple as that.’ She sipped her wine, somewhat abashed.
‘I wonder how long she’s been working on that little speech?’ Hilary asked.
‘Well, it’s a point of view,’ said Roddy, ‘and she’s entitled to it.’ He turned to Conrad, hoping to lighten the atmosphere. ‘What do you make of all this?’
‘I don’t know much about art.’
‘Have another drink, dear,’ said Hilary, refilling his glass. ‘You’re doing just fine.’
‘I’m not trying to start an argument, or anything,’ said Phoebe, who was growing more wary of Hilary by the minute, ‘but I always had the impression that you agreed with me on this. I thought you dismissed the whole business of collecting modern art as so much snobbery.’
Hilary’s eyes widened, and for several seconds she didn’t answer. Her left hand groped towards a bowl of fruit between the two silver candelabra, and she broke off a small cluster of grapes, one of which she then began to peel slowly, sliding her long fingernail between the skin and the purple flesh.
‘Have we met before?’ she asked suddenly.
‘No,’ said Phoebe. ‘No, I don’t think so. Why?’
‘I’d just like to know,’ she said, finishing one grape and starting on another, ‘what makes you think you have any kind of insight into my personal opinions.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Roddy, keeping a close watch on his sister’s fingers. ‘Why don’t we all go into the smoking room and make ourselves comfortable, if we’re going to chat away like this?’
‘I’m only going by what I read in your column once,’ said Phoebe. ‘I remember when somebody – some businessman or other – had just paid hundreds and thousands of pounds for a Rothko to go in his private collection, and you went on about what a waste of money it was and how it could all have gone into building schools and hospitals.’
There was a pause, before Hilary said, ‘She really does come out with the most remarkable things,’ in a slightly strangled voice. Then, turning back to Phoebe: ‘It’s only a bit of junk for the newspapers, you know. I don’t write it on tablets of stone. Besides, that column has literally millions of readers. You don’t think I’d share my beliefs – anything that was actually mine – with all those people, do you?’
‘I thought that was the whole point.’
‘There’s this thing called the real world,’ said Hilary. ‘Have you heard of it?’ She didn’t wait for the answer. ‘You see, we can’t all decide that we want to be artists, sitting up in some lofty enclosure, knocking off the occasional painting whenever the fancy takes us. Some of us have to work to order, and meet deadlines, and little, unimportant things like that. Perhaps what you really need is a lesson in how it feels to be stuck in front of a keyboard with five hundred words to write and the subs expecting it in thirty minutes.’
‘I don’t paint for a living,’ said Phoebe. ‘I’m a health visitor. Ask anyone who works in my profession and you’ll find that they know all about pressure.’
‘I’ll give you an example of pressure.’ Hilary was on to her fourth grape by now. ‘Pressure is being holed up in some hotel in the middle of Kent with three colleagues and a fax machine, knowing that you’ve got to put together an autumn schedule by Thursday morning.’
‘Possibly,’ said Phoebe. ‘But you might just as well say that pressure is having twenty pounds in your purse and wondering how you’re going to make it l
ast until the end of the week. Or finding that you’re pregnant again two days after your husband has lost his job. That’s the sort of problem I come across most days, and these people don’t even have the consolation of feeling that the decisions they have to make are in any way glamorous, or make any kind of difference to people’s lives other than their own.’
A smile spread itself across Hilary’s face, and she turned to her brother. ‘Oh, darling, she’s priceless. I really must congratulate you. How did you find her? You realize what you’ve got here, don’t you? I do believe you’ve managed to track down a bona fide, old-fashioned, dyed-in-the-wool, head-in-the-clouds socialist. They’re terribly rare, you know. And now, clever old you, you’ve managed to catch this creature and transport her all the way up here. I mean, whatever next? Are you hoping that she’ll mate in captivity?’
Roddy jumped to his feet.
‘All right, Hilary: that’s enough. Just leave her alone.’
‘It’s a bit late to come over all chivalrous, isn’t it?’
‘You’re being offensive.’
‘She won’t go to bed with you, you know. I would have thought that was pretty obvious.’
Roddy turned to their guests. ‘I must apologize for my sister. She’s clearly had a very hard week. All the same, that doesn’t excuse her manners. I think you’ll agree they’ve been appalling.’
‘I don’t know much about manners,’ said Conrad.
Hilary put her arm around him and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Conrad doesn’t know much about anything,’ she said, ‘except for flying, and fucking.’ She got up, and, taking his hand, pulled him gently with her. ‘I think it’s about time I put his second area of expertise to the test. Good-night to you both.’ And to Phoebe she added: ‘It’s been an education, my dear. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’
Once they had left, Roddy and Phoebe sat in silence for some time.
‘That was nice of you,’ she said finally. ‘Thanks.’
He glanced at her: perhaps on the look-out for irony.
‘Pardon?’
‘Sticking up for me. You didn’t have to do that.’
‘Well, you know … She was way out of line.’
‘She doesn’t seem to have a very high opinion of your motives for bringing me here.’
Roddy gave an apologetic shrug, and said: ‘Perhaps she’s right.’
‘So what’s the deal?’
‘The deal?’
‘I sleep with you, and I get – what? A mixed show? A show of my own? Written about in the newspapers? Introduced to lots of wealthy and influential people?’
‘I think you’re jumping the gun a bit.’
‘And do we do it just the once, or is this going to be a regular thing?’
Roddy walked over to the fireplace, where the two bars of an electric fire were doing their feeble best to make an impact on the room’s deathly chill. He seemed about to embark upon a speech.
‘You’re quite right, of course.’ The words came with some difficulty. ‘Clearly I wanted to sleep with you – I mean, what man in his right mind wouldn’t? – and I knew that the only way I was going to … persuade you, was by offering to help with your career. Which I’m certainly in a position to do. But the thing is’ – he laughed awkwardly, running a hand through his hair – ‘I mean, it galls me to admit that anything my sister might say could have any influence, but – hearing her ranting on like that, it has made me realize that my assumptions, my presumptions, even, have been decidedly … Well, the whole business suddenly seems dreadfully cheap. And I feel that I owe you an apology. I really am very sorry: for bringing you here under … false pretences.’
‘You must think I’m very innocent,’ said Phoebe, joining him at the fireplace, ‘if you expected me to come up here without suspecting anything.’
‘So why did you come?’
‘Well, that’s a good question. Let me tell you two things.’ She leaned back against the mantelpiece, only occasionally turning to meet his eye. ‘First of all, although I do genuinely believe that you know hardly anything about art, that the power you wield is unhealthy, and that your business practices probably stink to high heaven, I don’t find you totally unattractive.’
Roddy snorted. ‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’
‘Secondly.’ Phoebe hesitated, her eyes closed, and then took a breath. ‘I’ve never really been brave enough to say this to anyone before, but – You see, over the years, I have, with great difficulty, built up a certain … faith in myself. In my painting, I mean. In fact, it’s got to the point where I think it’s probably quite good.’ She smiled. ‘That must sound very arrogant.’
‘Not at all.’
‘It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when I didn’t have any faith in myself at all. It’s quite … painful to talk about, but – well, it happened when I was a student. I’d given up nursing for a while to go to art college, and I was living with some people in this house – we were sharing it – when someone came and stayed with us for a few days. A visitor. And one day I was out shopping, and I came back to find that he was in my room, looking at this painting that was only half-finished. Less than half-finished, really. And it was as if … as if he’d seen me naked, I suppose. And not just that, but he started trying to talk about the painting, and it was obvious that it meant something completely different to him, that I was completely failing to communicate anything through it, in fact, and I … It was very strange. A few days later he left without saying anything. Didn’t say goodbye to any of us. He left us all feeling … empty, somehow, and I couldn’t bear the thought of looking at those paintings again – of anyone looking at them. The upshot was that I asked the landlady if we could have a bonfire in the back yard, and I burnt everything I’d done. Every painting, every drawing. I dropped out of college and went back into nursing full time. And that was that for a while. I didn’t paint at all. Not that I wasn’t thinking about it. I still used to visit galleries, and read all the magazines and everything. There was this sort of – empty space, inside me, where I used to paint, and I was looking for something to fill it: someone, I should say, because I was longing just to find a picture – any picture – which would leap out at me and suddenly … connect. Do you know that feeling? You must do: coming across an artist whose work speaks to you so directly, it’s as if you both understand the same private language – somehow confirming everything you’ve ever thought and at the same time saying something completely new.’ Roddy was mute, incomprehending. ‘You don’t, do you? Well, anyway. It never happened, needless to say. But what did happen was that a couple of years later I got a parcel in the post, from one of my old lecturers at the college. They’d been having some sort of clear-out, and they’d found some sketches of mine, apparently, which they wanted to return. So I unpacked these things and started looking at them again. Funnily enough, there was an early version of the painting which had caused so much trouble in the first place, the one this man had completely misunderstood. And seeing it again – seeing all of them again, really – I realized how wrong he’d been: how wrong I’d been, to over-react like that. Because I knew, as soon as I saw them after all this time I knew that they were good. I knew that I’d been on to something. I knew that there was no one else around who was – I won’t say better than me, I don’t have that much of an ego – but who was really working in the same field, or attempting anything at all similar … It just gave me my confidence back, somehow, made me feel that I’d actually been doing something at least as worthwhile as all the other painters who were getting bought and sold and commissioned and exhibited. And I’ve never really lost that feeling. I do feel that I … that I deserve. So what you should know, I suppose, is that I’m pretty determined. I don’t think there’s anything, now, anything in the world that matters to me as much as finding some kind of audience for my work.’
She took a few sips from her glass and brushed a strand of hair back from her brow. Roddy didn’t speak for
some time.
‘What we should probably do,’ he said at last, ‘is take a look through the pictures tomorrow and see what we can arrange.’ Phoebe nodded. ‘Right now, I think we’d better go to bed.’ She looked up, questioning. ‘Separately,’ he explained.
‘All right.’
Together they climbed the Great Staircase, and at the entrance to the East Corridor, they kissed a formal good-night.
4
Phoebe felt tiny in the four-poster. Her mattress was soft and full of lumps, and although she had intended to lie to the side of the bed nearest the window, she found herself rolled by the weight of her own body into a deep valley at the centre. The bed creaked whenever she moved: but then the whole house seemed to be forever creaking, or groaning, or whispering, or rustling, as if never for a moment at ease with itself, and in an effort to close her ears to this disquieting soundtrack, she tried to focus her mind on the day’s strange events. She was pleased, on the whole, with the way things had worked out with Roddy. Even before arriving at Winshaw Towers, she had taken the reluctant decision to sleep with him if he made this his absolute precondition for promoting her work, but she was glad that she hadn’t been obliged to go through with it. Instead, something much better, and much more unexpected, was starting to emerge from their weekend together: a sense of mutual understanding. She even realized – very much to her own surprise – that she was beginning to trust him. And in the warm glow of this realization, she permitted herself a fantasy: the same fantasy to which all artists, however good their intentions, however unflinching their principles, have recourse from time to time. It was a fantasy of success; of recognition, and acclaim. Phoebe’s ambitions were too modest to encompass worldwide celebrity, or serious wealth, but she did dream – as she often had before – of having her work seen and appreciated by other painters; of touching the lives and colouring the perceptions of a few members of the public; of being exhibited, perhaps, in her home town, so that she might give something back to the people with whom she had grown up, repay her parents for the faith and patience which they had vouched her and which had been so valuable during her worst moments of self-doubt. At the thought that some – or even all – of this might now, possibly, miraculously, be about to happen, she stretched her legs beneath the grey, musty sheets and added a whole new chorus of delicious creaks to the furtive stirrings of the house itself.