Summer in Mayfair Read online

  ‘He exaggerates. Just jealous. They are so entertaining – wild and crazy,’ giggled Javier.

  ‘Sounds fun,’ said Esme – feeling that at last, the life she’d dreamed of was in touching distance.

  Eventually, Esme climbed into bed, the cool sheets coating her body in luxurious softness. She was exhausted having barely slept on the train. Despite being in a strange bed she fell asleep happily, surrounded by the kind of high spirits and affection so long absent from her life.

  Chapter Three

  Esme woke, bewildered by the pink glow that enveloped her bedroom. Where the hell was she? A smell of coffee and burnt toast reminded her, she had spent her first night in London. A thrill of the new zipped through her replacing the gnawing anxiety that usually startled her awake. No threat of domestic bombshells unless they were of her own making and, as the mistress of her own destiny, what made her uncomfortable was now in her power to change.

  There was a knock on the door and an arm reached around to put a mug on the bedside table.

  ‘Morning, blossom. Tea. Milk and two sugars. We’ll head off in half an hour. Time for a quick shower and slice of charred Hovis first, though.’

  ‘Thanks, Bill. Can I borrow your shampoo?’

  ‘Of course. Clean towels are on the rail.’

  Apart from boarding school, Esme could count the number of times she had taken a shower on one hand. The Lodge had none and neither did the castle. Hair rinsing was done with a detachable head hose forced to fit enormous taps that were no longer in production. Despite this, she always would prefer having a bath. Standing naked in a glass cubicle made her feel vulnerable, whereas a bath was a warm embrace.

  Bill’s walk-in shower took up half the bathroom. The showerhead was the size of a dinner plate and drenched her in freezing water. She shot out, slipping on the tiled floor.

  ‘Shit.’

  Reaching in, she put her hand under the spray waiting for it to warm up before re-entering.

  Esme held her face up to the showerhead and allowed the water to wash over her. There was no sense of vulnerability today and despite feeling like a taxidermy creature in a display cabinet, her exposed nakedness was liberating. She squeezed shampoo into her palm and stood back from the downpour, lathering it through her hair. A razor lay next to the conditioner. Did the Boys rid themselves of stubble in the shower, like she was about to do? Javier was very smooth. Surely he wouldn’t mind her borrowing it. She still felt like a country mouse, and figured she needed all the help she could get fitting in with London life.

  The razorblade cut a pathway through the rampant wilderness that had grown on her calves over the winter months. She never shaved in the winter, unless she had a boyfriend, which she hadn’t now for several years. Even that hadn’t lasted long. A few months that she had had to cut short when she started to fall in love. She didn’t want that. She’d seen enough of the twisted relationships at home not to share her friends’ dreams of love and fairy-tale weddings.

  It was better not to become too attached; safer to keep things casual. A brief and unsatisfactory union with a Flemish aristo from a family of vast wealth accumulated from growing coffee in South Africa followed. He had dumped her upon discovering her own pedigree didn’t match his own. Snob. She’d then fallen headlong for a DJ who was the antithesis – considered a lascivious predator by the low-hanging female fruit growing in the affluent suburbs. Esme was thrilled by his knowledge of music and ability to create at an atmosphere at the endless round of eighteenth birthday balls she attended. He was the rock star standing in his booth manipulating the crowd of beautiful young things to dance to his tune. A pied piper that all the girls fancied but were too scared to approach. Esme’s parents would have disapproved, which was a major part of his attraction. It had only been a one-night stand but it had felt like rebellion.

  Esme towel-dried her hair and dressed, turning yesterday’s pants inside out (Mrs Bee would be horrified, she thought) and went to join Bill in the kitchen.

  Breakfast was the polar opposite of dinner and had all the hallmarks of someone who quite literally couldn’t boil an egg. She bypassed the burnt toast and said she would grab something from a café on the way to the gallery.

  ‘I drive to work.’

  ‘It’s…’ started Esme.

  ‘I know it’s only a five-minute walk and takes longer in the car but I have a severe aversion to exercise of any kind. Besides, it’s a beautiful day and we can go topless.’ He winked. ‘Are you ready?’

  Bill’s pale-aqua Bristol was parked outside, its two nearside wheels mounting the pavement. A parking ticket was held in place on the windscreen by one of its wipers.

  ‘Fuckers,’ he said, tossing the fine into the road.

  At the press of a button the canvas roof glided back and down, tucking itself into the boot. Petals drifted over them from a nearby tree. How different this was from the luxe but dull top-of-the-range Rolls or standard-issue Land Rover favoured by the landed gentry. This was Monte Carlo glamorous, Grace Kelly classy and only suitable for a driver keen to be noticed. Heads turned as they coasted through Mayfair. When they approached the traffic lights Bill pumped the brake like he was riding a bicycle. It made Esme feel sick.

  ‘You drive like an old woman, Bill,’ laughed Esme.

  ‘And you would know, having been on the road for what? Two years?’

  ‘I’ve driven since I was eight which is why it took three goes to pass my test. Got into bad habits.’

  ‘I’ll wager you have never driven in London? Takes skill.’

  ‘This is like driving a go-kart. No gears, just brake and accelerator.’

  ‘But I drive to be seen not to get from A to B.’

  Bill was certainly visible today. He had adopted Javier’s colour palette from last night but the blues and pinks were deeper, presumably to harmonize with the paintwork of the Bristol. He wasn’t the most handsome of men but he certainly made the best of what little he had, thought Esme. He fed the steering wheel through chubby fingers with the grace of a concert pianist.

  ‘Do you play the piano, Bill?’

  ‘I wish. The cello is my instrument of choice. I started with the violin and when the fat started to stick I went on to its big brother to make myself look smaller. It’s all about visual deception, my darling.’

  Rotund or not, there was an essential grace to the man. He floated. Nothing about him jarred. He appeared to roll through life like a smooth pebble too weighty to be pushed around by the sea.

  ‘We have a busy day today, Esme. Well, you and Suki do. There will be paintings delivered throughout the day. I’ll need you to inspect each one to ensure no damage has been caused in transportation. Bit like hiring a car when the rental company walks around it and notes the condition before and after you have used it. If you are anything like your father, you will spot imperfection. Flaws will leap out at you.’

  ‘Are you having an exhibition?’

  ‘Yes. The kind that will make or break my business. I need something to alleviate the scandal last year when I inadvertently sold a forged Watteau. The asshole who I bought it from had doctored its papers of authentication and even to me it looked like the real thing. It taught me a lesson. Never deal with those who have nothing to lose. This bullshitter walked in off the street with no prior appointment or connection to me in any way. My fault for being greedy and rash.’

  Esme felt the weight of responsibility. What would happen if she failed to notice a blemish?

  As if reading her thoughts, Bill said, ‘Don’t worry, angel, you are not looking for forgeries – just scratched paint or an obvious dent. I found all these works through my network of ambulance chasers so I know their pedigree. People die and their children have to pay for the funeral or need the cash to split between siblings. I ferret these families out. Rather grubby, if you think about it, but by helping others sell, I make my own money in taking a hefty percentage. Sometimes I have a private individual who is looking for a particular
work. I’ll find it and sell directly. My gallery is my shop window but essentially I am a common dealer like the lizard who brought the supposed Watteau to me.’

  They arrived at the gallery, just as Suki was opening up.

  ‘Suki the Sloane is late. Would have fired her months ago but her parents are good friends and I’ve grown fond of her. And anyway, I have you now to whip things into shape.’

  Esme wished his confidence had been in her and what she’d studied rather than his faith in an instinct he supposed she had inherited from her father. But still she felt a rush of adrenaline at the thought of adding value to Bill’s make-or-break show.

  ‘Morning,’ said Suki, handing Bill a Styrofoam cup. ‘I would have got you one, Esme, had I known you weren’t sleeping here.’ There was a slight edge to her voice.

  ‘Put your talons away, Suki. She only stayed because Toots and I want to adopt her and I plan to sack you so she can take your place.’

  Suki laughed, seemingly put at ease by this insult.

  ‘You see, Esme? She’s too thick-skinned to take umbrage.’

  There were three locks on the door and as the door opened, a high beep startled a group of pigeons waddling aimlessly hoping for non-existent scraps. Bill swung his briefcase at them.

  ‘As bad as rats.’

  They flapped lazily into the air only to land back where they had set off.

  Suki sprinted in to turn the alarm off and returned exclaiming, ‘I remembered the code!’

  ‘Incredible, Suki Su. And after three years of doing that every day. You’ll be given a scholarship in higher maths at Imperial soon,’ said Bill. ‘I did offer to pay for the number to be tattooed on her hand but she declined saying “tattoos are for sailors”.’

  ‘Tattoos are common. Imagine what Daddy would say if I turned up with one. Be almost as bad as bringing home the wrong type of boyfriend.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of variety, I can assure you. Your father, much as I love him, is from the stone age. He is a racist pig. And a homophobic one. He’s the only person who isn’t aware of my sexual persuasion – his brain is simply incapable of even imagining let alone acknowledging such a thing, despite going to an all-boys school.

  ‘Right girls. Enough chatter, there is work to be done. Suki, I need to switch off the alarm in the strong room. Most of the paintings are arriving today. You can take delivery of them and make sure all have the correct paperwork. Esme will inspect them for damage.’

  ‘Have I got time to change?’ she asked.

  ‘Quickly, and I suggest you stick to trousers as you will be on your hands and knees for most of the day.’

  Esme bounded up the stairs and threw on a fresh shirt. It was an old one that had belonged to her mother; faded navy blue with frayed cuffs and patch pockets on the front. All but two strategic buttons were missing but it still held a faded glamour; St Tropez, circa 1958. It could have been a man’s shirt but for the hint of a tailored waist and narrow shoulders. The collar was small, the fabric soft and still intact at the seams. Her mother would have worn it in her twenties too.

  In the bathroom, she tied her hair back in a ponytail, splashed some water on her face and swiped a film of moisturizer over her skin. No time for make-up. But then she rarely wore any except going out in the evenings.

  Bill did a double-take when she reappeared.

  ‘My God, I thought you were Diana for a second. I remember that shirt – I never forget an outfit. I was staying with the Guinnesses in Gassin. There was a fabulous shop called Chose. Brigitte Bardot and Roger Vadim made it famous. St Tropez was just a fishing village then. We always bought things there, your pa too. It had the best ice creams next door. Pistachio and chocolate combo was your ma’s favourite.’

  Esme had seen the photo albums of those days. Her parents had had a tiny dolls’ house in Gassin, which sat in the hills behind St Tropez. Apparently, they’d spent the whole month of August going to the beach, catching sardines from the side of their little fishing boat called the Pistou. Her mother was film-star stunning back then. Every photograph showed her smiling or laughing. Hard to imagine today.

  The first of the day’s deliveries had arrived. A Munroe truck was double-parked on the street and a familiar figure was climbing out of the back. Of course, she should have known her father’s delivery firm would be along sooner or later. The art world was a small community, and even in his absence, his firm was the gold standard for dealers and their best customers. Her father might summer in the south of France but the Munroe business never stopped.

  ‘Norman! What are you doing here?’ said Esme, delighted to see her father’s warehouse manager.

  ‘Miss Esme, hello! I wanted to come and see how you are getting on. Thought I’d surprise you. A familiar face in the big old city. Don’t tell Mr Munroe.’

  ‘It’s so lovely to see you.’ And it was. She adored this man with his sing-song Caribbean lilt and freckly nose. ‘I was going to get in touch with you – I hoped I could come and collect some stuff for my new flat.’

  ‘Have you found somewhere to live already?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m staying here at the moment, but as soon as I do I’ll come along for a raid.’

  ‘You do that, choonkoloonks. Norman is always there to pick the best pieces for his Esme.’

  Esme laughed. ‘I don’t want anything too good,’ she said, and felt an arm around her shoulder.

  ‘Surprised to see our Norm?’ said Bill. ‘He insisted on bringing the Poussin I needed collecting himself. How was the drive from Paris?’

  ‘Not a problem, Mr Cartwright. I drove through the night. You might have warned the mistress of the house I was collecting. She thought I’d come to burgle her. The lorry saved the day. Nothing like putting these rich lolos at ease.’

  Bill burst out laughing.

  ‘Good for you, Norman. Right, we better take this painting off your hands so you can get some well-deserved rest.’

  Norman went inside the mouth of the vast lorry holding its solitary cargo. The painting was cloaked in a rough fire-proof blanket and lay some six feet along one side tied in place with fabric tape. Nothing had been left to chance. Everything transported by Esme’s father’s company was insured to the full and guaranteed to arrive as it had left.

  The heavy artwork was placed on a trolley and wheeled into the gallery.

  ‘I’ll take it out of its crate, Mr Cartwright.’

  ‘That would be marvellous, Norman. And if you wouldn’t mind removing the wood.’

  ‘Might be wise to do this on the pavement,’ said Norman, holding a cleaver. He then proceeded to loosen the nails that held the crate together. With tender strength, he drew out each nail with surgical care.

  The contents told a different story to Esme’s painting. Colour shone from the canvas.

  ‘Crying shame the family have to sell this,’ said Norman, propping the painting like a cricket player holding his bat at the crease.

  ‘That’s death duties for you,’ said Bill. ‘Collections get broken up all over the country. Let’s hope our new prime minister shows favour towards our national treasures. Did you vote for her?’

  ‘Did indeed. True blue to the core, I am, Mr Cartwright.’

  Esme was surprised. She knew a little of Thatcher’s views on immigration and her brand of Britishness didn’t always include the likes of Norman. Maggie Thatcher spoke for the majority, people like her father included. But unlike lots of her parents’ generation, Esme felt no hostility towards ‘foreigners’ – after all, some of the best times of her life had been when she was the foreigner, at art school in Brussels, but like Norman, Esme had still voted Tory because it seemed the better option – and to be honest, because that was what everyone around her did. She swore to herself next time she’d try to make sure she was making up her own mind, not just ticking the same box on the ballot her family always had.

  ‘Esme, why don’t you show Norman your painting?’

  ‘I’m not sure you
’ll want to see it when you find out the state it’s in. It’s in my bathroom.’

  ‘You oughtn’t to be keeping it in the bathroom, lovely, damp is no good for pictures. You know that.’

  ‘It can’t get any more wrecked than it is already.’

  Norman followed Esme through the gallery to the stairs and Esme caught Suki’s expression: surprise at letting ‘the help’ up to her rooms, she supposed.

  Upstairs, in front of the canvas, Norman bent down and took a closer look. There probably wasn’t a single major artist’s work he hadn’t handled before.

  ‘I think there’s a fine picture under there. Don’t be worried by its discolouration. A good restorer can easily fix that.’

  Esme felt a frisson of excitement. If Norman said it was a fine picture, then it most probably was.

  ‘I’m taking it to Max Bliss.’

  ‘I don’t know him well, but if Mr Cartwright has recommended him then he will be your man.’

  ‘I’m so glad you’ve seen it. Once it’s repaired I’ll bring it to the warehouse and show you.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to collect it. Just give me the nod.’

  As Norman headed downstairs, Esme glanced back at the blackened canvas. For the first time she could look at it as a mystery, a riddle to solve – rather than a threat or the cold hand of the past trying to clamp itself around her. Norman’s optimism was infectious. Maybe this Max Bliss really could reveal the colours beneath the soot. And, she realized, she was ready to go in search of them.

  Chapter Four

  Esme had left her wallet at Bill’s house and returned to collect it at the end of the day. He was off to some function and said Javier would be at home.

  The front door was wide open and Esme could see right through to the back of the house to the garden. She tiptoed through and found Javier sitting outside with a sweating glass of rosé. He was in a tiny pair of Speedos and slippery with oil. He kissed the air either side of her face, his arms behind him like he was about to dive into a pool. He smelt of Earl Grey tea.