Summer in Mayfair

There was no queue and a line of taxis sat idly waiting for custom. Esme double-checked the address of the gallery, scribbled on a piece of paper that she unfolded from deep within her pocket.

‘Jermyn Street in St James’s, please, sir.’

The taxi driver was generous and didn’t turn his meter on until they had managed, after multiple attempts, to get the giant crate at the right angle to fit inside.

She sat down on the leather seat, wedged between the crate and the door, and closed her eyes for a moment.

‘Oh gosh. Thank you so much.’

‘Happy to help, love. Don’t know how you managed this far.’

The man’s kindness caught her heart and if there hadn’t been the glass screen dividing them, she would have leant over and hugged him.

The traffic was slow but not yet nose to tail so it didn’t take long to get to Mayfair. Even so, the expensive fare left her with little remaining cash, which she knew she should use to tip the friendly driver.

‘Don’t worry, love. You can tip me next time.’

‘Thank you so much, sir. Are you sure? I will be able to because I’m starting a new job. Here. At this gallery. It’s my first day,’ she said.

‘I’m sure, sweets. Looks very fancy,’ said the cabby.

Getting the painting out of the taxi was less difficult but left splinters of wood all over the interior. Esme went to sweep them out.

‘Oh don’t you worry about that. It’s the end of my shift, anyway.’

‘But it’s made so much mess,’ said Esme. ‘I don’t mind. Really.’

‘Not a problem. I’m ready to go home to a nice hot breakfast from the missus,’ he said. ‘I haven’t slept for eighteen hours.’

‘Oh, well if you’re sure then, thank you. I hope you get home soon,’ she said, then waved him off.

The gallery hadn’t opened up yet. It was too early and she didn’t have enough money for a cup of tea, let alone breakfast. Mayfair and St James’s wasn’t an area she knew well, apart from the Ritz hotel. Her grandfather had moved into a suite there when he retired and only left in a coffin. She had joined him for tea once; an ostentatiously English cliché down to potted shrimps and a tea menu longer than the wine list. Nowhere else in this part of town would be open this early and anyway, she couldn’t exactly lug her bags and the blasted painting around town. She would have to wait for nearly two hours on the step.

The pangs of nerves in her stomach had now been overthrown by a gnawing hunger. She felt uncomfortably empty as she parked herself on the gallery step using the pallet to protect her bum from the cold. Stretching her legs out, she leant back against the door. Thankfully it wasn’t raining and the street was still deserted apart from the dustbin men.

All around her the shop windows were so clean, catching the light of the sun as it rose over the rooftops. St James’s was surely the most salubrious borough in London. Everything displayed in the gleaming windows was of the highest quality and had a price tag to match. By comparison she felt shoddy and out of place. As a teenager, Esme had immersed herself in the Regency world of Georgette Heyer and she felt the author’s vision come alive as she looked up and down the street. It was nearly 300 years since Jermyn Street had been built by the Earl of St Albans but it had not lost its quintessentially British character: wealth and extravagance.

Many of the gentlemen’s shops had been there for decades as had their private members’ clubs, most notably, White’s. She knew this section of St James’s had always been very much a male domain, where a woman’s reputation could be ruined in minutes if she so much as set foot on a flagstone of the street at the wrong hour or in the wrong company. Tucking herself further into the doorway, she hoped times had changed, on that front at least.

The noise of emptying rubbish bins reverberated down the street. Esme heard the clash of glass and thud of paper being chewed by a truck. The bins at home were at the end of the drive and their gardener took the bags down on the tractor for collection. She was going to have to get used to city living. The sheer density of people, the sky reduced to a strip of blue above the street, still felt alien to her. People drank a hell of a lot of wine in this part of town, she thought, as she caught sight of a flash of green emptying out of the bins, followed by the crunch of breaking glass. Mind you, she knew selling art was all about networking and networking involved oiling prospective art buyers with alcohol. Despite the early hour, her mouth watered at the thought of a large glass of burgundy. Things were looking up.

Up at the Piccadilly end of the road, she saw a man walking with purpose. A fellow early riser? But as he approached, his attire came into view. Black tie suit, sans bow tie. He looked bleary and dishevelled. Bit old to have partied all night, she thought. As he passed, he dropped a fistful of coins at her feet without even looking at her. The gesture was deliberate and unquestionable. Shame flamed into her reddening face.

‘No… I’m not…’ Esme called but the man had already turned the corner. He clearly thought she was homeless and taking refuge in a posh doorway. Did she really look so incongruous against the opulent surroundings? she wondered, looking down at her jeans and a Fair Isle sweater. She stood up and leant against the doorframe to avoid any further confusion but still slightly guiltily pocketed the four pounds the man had tossed at her feet.

‘Hello? You must be Esme,’ said a crisp voice out of nowhere.

‘Er, yes. Hello?’ said Esme, turning around and quickly taking in the young woman standing in front of her.

Navy court shoes, matching fifteen-denier tights, navy pinstripe skirt, pale-pink frilled shirt and minimal make-up on an incredibly pretty face that looked at her with a huge grin.

‘I’m Serena but everyone calls me Suki. Come on, let’s get you in. Looks like you could do with a cup of coffee.’

‘I’m dying for one.’

Suki bent down. ‘Help me move this wood thing. We can put it by the bins for collection.’

‘Oh no! That’s mine.’

‘Really? You came all the way from Scotty with that? What is it?’

‘A painting. I think. It was left to me by someone who died and Mrs Bee insisted I bring it.’

‘What do you mean, you think it’s a painting?’

‘I haven’t opened it yet.’

Suki looked surprised.

‘Well, you’re at the best place to get it looked at if it is a painting. Bill will be excited. He loves an unexpected treasure turning up.’ Suki unlocked the door and rushed inside to a loud beeping noise. ‘Just turning the alarm off,’ she shouted over her shoulder.

‘There we go,’ she said, coming back and bending down by the crate. ‘Here, you take the other side.’

They lifted the crate into the gallery and leant it up against a wall. Esme looked around the room. It was small and decorated like a Napoleonic salon. Ormolu wall sconces, ice blue silk covered the walls and a three-piece set of Empire sofa and chairs. A fine pair of neo-classic candelabra embraced the fire surround. Suki switched the lights on and four paintings sprang to life, the bright colours revitalized from their slumber.

‘Oh, wow,’ sighed Esme. ‘Who are these by? They are beautiful.’

‘Someone French, I think,’ replied Suki, without bothering to look.

‘You don’t know?’

‘No idea. To be frank, I know nothing about art but I can type sixty words a minute. And cook a super avocado mousse. Learnt both at finishing school in Switzerland. Both equally useful, I’d say.’

‘So why did you choose to work in an art gallery?’

‘I’m here because Daddy knows Bill and begged him to give me a job. Old boy network and all that jazz. I’m just passing time until I get married and have a stately home full of children. A duke would be ideal but a lord will do. As long as he’s tall, rich and handsome I don’t mind if he’s one of those fake European aristos. I have a boyfriend who’s stinking but its new money. At least he’s got a posh name. Johnny. And he’s in the army.’ She blew a strand of hair from her face. ‘Must get my hair cut. I want a Heather Locklear flick. I’d love to get it done by Leonard but Mummy says it’s common.’

Esme knew nothing of Leonard or Heather what’s-her-face or a flicky hairdo. She felt dowdy and provincial. Suki pushed her hair back with a velvet headband and twizzled one of her pearl earrings.

‘Have you got your ears pierced?’ she asked, lifting Esme’s long hair from her ear. ‘No. That’s something we can do one lunch hour. But first, coffee.’

Esme followed her into a kitchenette at the back of the showroom. Dirty mugs piled up in the sink. Suki rinsed two, leaving a brown ring in both.

‘Sugar? Oh yes. Three, I think. We want to fatten you up. Like the Christmas turkey.’ Suki laughed, a deep gurgle coming from her core.

Over a weak brew, Esme gave Suki a potted history of her life – leaving out some of the parts she felt she barely understood herself, or which hurt her too much to admit. There was an odd liberation in telling her version of her story to someone new – someone who didn’t already know her family or was just keen to get juicy gossip on the notorious Munroes. Yet it made her realize that while she could talk about where she came from, she didn’t yet really know where she wanted to go or who she wanted to become.

‘Well, now you have given me your life story, I feel we are already friends.’ Suki smiled.

‘Sorry,’ said Esme, feeling flustered. She found it hard meeting new people and shyness brought on verbal diarrhoea.

‘Don’t be silly. It’s good to get to know you. But you’ll find I like to cut to the chase,’ said Suki, laughing. ‘Are you looking for a husband? Is that why you have come to London? Apart from having nowhere else to go.’

‘I haven’t given that much thought, really,’ said Esme. ‘One day, maybe. But certainly not in the imminent future. I’m happy being single. And it’s not that I have nowhere…’

‘Well, you’ll meet someone soon enough. Our kind of London is a small place. Once you’ve met one person, you’ll meet everyone. And you now know me. So, there we go.’

But Esme wasn’t sure she wanted to meet Suki’s kind of everyone. She’d had enough of privilege and the lies stitching high society together at the seams. She wanted to meet people who had worked hard to get somewhere, not just been born with the right surname. One thing she was sure of, for her this job at Cartwright Fine Art wasn’t just to pass the time – or simply because Sophia was Bill’s goddaughter. She loved art – and while everyone always told her she shared her father’s eye, art meant more than just the Munroe family business to her. Growing up in a world where everyone seemed to speak in double meanings, paintings seemed to speak a language she felt she could understand. And now she hoped it would give her a career. She knew she wanted to make her own money, not just marry it. Ever since she could remember she was coming up with ideas and schemes, but in her father’s eyes she’d always been labelled as the ‘pretty one’ and Sophia the ‘clever one’. Both sisters had been furious. But Esme was determined to prove him wrong even if she had no idea how to do so yet. But swimming purely in the sea of silver spoons was going to get her nowhere.

‘Thanks, Suki,’ said Esme, draining her coffee and going to wash her mug.

‘Oh, don’t do that. We have a cleaner for that. The bloody woman didn’t come in yesterday. Fake flu.’

Esme ignored her, rinsed out the mug and put it back in the cupboard.

‘Right. I had better show you the ropes. Bill will be in soon.’ Taking Esme by the arm, she led her to a fine mahogany table with turned legs and gilt finish.

‘This is your desk. Pride of place in the window. Lucky you’re pretty as here you basically double up as the shop mannequin. Passersby might be lured in by your looks. Not stupid, our Bill. He knows how to attract the big fish.’

Suki picked up the telephone receiver.

‘You press nine for an outside line and push whichever of these buttons are flashing when the phone rings.’ She picked up a notepad – ‘This is for messages’ – as her eyes swept the table. ‘Yikes. No pen! God, I’m thick. I’ll get you one.’

‘What do you do here, Suki?’

‘Oh, you know, typical secretarial stuff: paying invoices, typing letters, arranging meetings,’ she said. ‘Then the slave jobs like taking Bill’s dry cleaning and parking his car. He’s always telling me I’m useless but I know he wouldn’t survive without me,’ she laughed.

‘Do you have your own office?’

‘In the room at the back. Held prisoner by filing cabinets and a typewriter. And of course, stacks of paintings. The less valuable ones, anyway. The priceless ones are in a strong room along with the treasure.’

‘Treasure?’

‘Yes, you know. Booty. Bundles of cash, small sculptures and jewels of every description and carat. There’s probably literally millions worth of stuff in there. Perhaps your painting will join it.’

Esme had forgotten all about the picture. She wasn’t sure she was ready to open it just yet, for fear of what lay inside. All the notable paintings at Culcairn were catalogued and had mostly hung on the castle walls for centuries. She knew that hers must have been one gathering dust in a distant tower, and despite her curiosity opening it would still symbolize a kind of farewell to the Earl. She swallowed as she remembered her other fear – the thought that the Contessa might have found out and switched the painting for something terrible.

‘Esme. Darling!’

Esme swivelled around.

It was Bill, just as she remembered him, a bird of paradise, resplendent in a plum suit and turquoise shirt, polished loafers and no socks. Time had thickened his waistline and thinned his hair, which was slicked back in a pomaded cap. His bottle-thick glasses were as round as he was.

‘Hello, Bill!’ Esme went over to him, unsure how to greet him. A peck? Or a hug. The last time she’d seen him a decade ago, he had just been Godfather Bill. Now he was her boss.

Before she had time to decide, she was swept into the solid bulk of the man, his thick arms encircling and squeezing the very breath from her. He released her and waved his hand in front of his nose.

‘I can tell you have had a coffee! Oh, my. Here. Have a Polo. Still, there are those far greater than either of us who have worse than coffee-breath. My father’s halitosis? Urgh. Smells like a badger shat in his mouth. And there’s a principal Royal Ballet dancer… Well, you wouldn’t understand the source of his foul breath.’

Suki burst out laughing, ‘Bill! That’s no way to greet a lady. Poor Esme, you have embarrassed her.’

Esme crunched the mint. Forcing aside her awkwardness, she lifted her arm and sniffed her sweater ‘At least I don’t have BO.’

‘Ha! We are going to get on famously. We always did, when you and Sophia were girls. Do you recall the time we hid your hamster in the laundry basket? Poor Mrs Bee nearly had a heart attack.’ He pressed a fist against his wide grin and stood back. ‘How are you, my darling girl? Let me look at you.’

He spun her around, patting her down like a champion breed at Crufts.

‘My, how you have grown. What’s it been? Eight years?’

‘Probably.’

‘How do you like the gallery? Has Suki Su been looking after you? When did you get in?’

‘Seven thirty,’ she said. ‘And yes, the gallery is beautiful.’

‘Goodness, you’ve been loitering for hours. Have you seen your lodgings?’

She shook her head.

‘They’re not much, I’m afraid, but you can stay until the next waif blows in. I’m sure it won’t take long for you to find something more permanent, once you’ve sorted that death breath.’

Esme laughed. She could see why her father loved this man. And why Sophia worshipped the shag-pile carpet he walked on. Everything about him was over the top. Flamboyant, fabulous and warm. She was instantly in love.

‘So, where are your things? I’ll show you upstairs as Suki has clearly been too busy deciding if you are going to be competition for my affections.’

Suki looked at Esme and rolled her eyes. ‘You’re an evil queen, Bill.’

‘And that, my dear, is why I rule supreme on Jermyn Street. The gayest, and most expert eye in the art world.’

‘I’ve hardly brought a thing. Just a few changes of clothes. And my toothbrush, you’ll be happy to hear,’ said Esme.

‘Want to start afresh eh? I completely understand, my darling. All those useless toffs. Time for you to be introduced to the real world. My Javier is longing to meet you. He wants to take you on as a “project”, whatever that means. You will come for dinner with us tonight. We can catch up. The house is walking distance from here. Come at six thirty, we can have drinkies whilst Javier slaves over the hot stove.’

‘Sounds lovely. Thank you.’

‘Suki, was that delivered this morning?’ asked Bill, pointing at Esme’s wooden pallet.

‘It’s Esme’s.’

‘Yours? You brought that huge fucking thing all the way down from Scotland? I’m impressed by your tenacity. What is it?’

‘She doesn’t know,’ answered Suki.

‘Darling Suki, you wouldn’t know the Mona Lisa if it slapped you in the face.’

‘True,’ she said, no offence taken.

Esme realized you’d soon grow a thick skin working for Bill – and that his astonishing rudeness was matched by an equal warmth and joie de vivre. She felt instantly accepted and suddenly the thought of opening the painting didn’t send a chill through her. Still, she wondered how much Bill knew of the depth of the relationship between her family and the Culcairns. Her father might have been too ashamed to tell him of her mother’s affair with the Earl or the subsequent fall-out. She also knew Bill had curated an exhibition which included some of the castle’s equestrian paintings a few years back and that he and the Earl had a shared interest in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century portraiture. They had become friends in their own right so he might have heard a different story to her father’s.

‘Well, we better open it up and take a look,’ said Bill. ‘Your room can wait.’

Bill disappeared into the office and came back with a crowbar. Contrary to his camp demeanour, he attacked the wooden shell with the force and expertise of a lumberjack.

‘Your testosterone is off the chart today, Bill,’ said Suki.

Clearly, she and Bill had a thriving understanding and appreciation of each other which allowed them to get away with personal verbal assassinations. Esme chuckled.

Bill dropped his voice several octaves and growled.

‘C’mon, ladies. Don’t just stand there. Help me lever this thing open. You too, Esme, my honeypot.’

The three of them pulled and forced the planks to break apart.

‘There she is. Now careful. We don’t want to damage the canvas.’

They eased the picture out.

‘Deliver it like a baby. Forceps please, nurse,’ said Bill, taking hold of the crowbar that Suki handed to him.

Gently, he slid the picture from its protection. Esme held her breath. Bill lifted the painting up.

‘Christ alive,’ he breathed.

Chapter Two

No one spoke. The painting Bill held up was barely recognizable as a painting. Were it not for the frame, it might as well have been a piece of blackened chipboard.

‘This looks like a set piece from The Towering Inferno,’ Bill said, eventually.

Although Esme’s expectation had been low, her hopes had rested on something she could at least hang and admire. This made no sense. Why would the Earl bequeath a picture so damaged? One thing she knew for certain was that there was more to this picture than the charred wreck in Bill’s hands. There had to be. She hadn’t expected to get anything when he died but she was certain he wouldn’t have left this mess unless there was meaning to it. It wasn’t in his nature to play games. Unless this was all a cruel joke by the Contessa. Esme stood by Bill who was looking closely at the picture through a magnifying glass.

‘You see here?’ he said, pointing to a spot at the top of the canvas.

Esme could just make out the vague relief of brushstrokes.

‘It’s not beyond repair. The actual canvas is still intact. Looks more like smoke damage than anything sinister. Wait…’

Now inspecting the bottom right corner, he said in a whisper, ‘It’s been cut. Look.’

He stood back and gave Esme the glass. ‘Is that a signature?’

‘Could be, but whoever did this – and believe me it was deliberate sabotage – wanted to ruin the picture’s most obvious sign of authenticity. Very amateur. There are more subtle ways of ruining a work of art. And look at how fine and precise the cut is.’

Esme looked and said, ‘The edges are clean.’

‘Exactly. This was done after the fire damage discoloured it. My reckoning would be a Stanley knife. They didn’t have those in the eighteenth century.’

‘How do you know it’s eighteenth-century?’ asked Suki.

‘The frame. Classic French but still, that doesn’t mean the picture is by a French artist or indeed of the same date.’

Suki sighed. ‘Well, at least you won’t have to lug the thing around London anymore. There’s a skip in St James’s Square.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Suki. Have you learnt nothing since you’ve been here? Of course, it’s not going to the junkyard. Esme, you are going to take this painting to my dear friend, Max Bliss.’

‘The restorer?’ said Suki.

‘Well, I’m not suggesting Esme take it to the bloody fishmonger,’ said Bill and turned to Esme.

‘Max is the most talented picture restorer working today. Rescued paintings by you name it – Leonardo, Gainsborough, Corot. He’s a genius and frightfully nice with it. A bit scatty but brilliant. He owes me a favour. If anyone can save your painting, it’s him.’

‘But what if it’s a dud underneath all that smoke? I’ll just be wasting his time,’ said Esme.

‘Anything with the Culcairn provenance won’t be a dud. As you know, that gloomy place holds one of the best private collections in the world.’

Esme had studied the castle’s paintings at all hours of the day and night, padding down the long corridors in the moonlight, the eyes of Culcairn ancestors watching over her. There was a painting to reflect and deflect every emotion. Where there was rage, Madonna gazed peacefully down at her newborn. Where there was sadness, Turner’s strokes frothed a sunlit sea into joyous life. Ugliness could be brushed away with the delicacy of Tiepolo’s luminous execution of form with colour. In the paintings, Esme was able to escape from the muddle of her family life and the toxicity doled out by the Contessa. In them she found calm. Some of the sitters had become friends to whom she could express herself without fear of judgement or reprisal. Forget about the famous ‘Munroe eye’, it was the collection at Culcairn which had instilled the love of art that ran in her blood.

Bill handed her the painting.

‘Keep it upstairs for now. I don’t want clients being put off.’

Bill flicked a flashy watch from his shirtsleeve.

‘Unfortunately, I have a meeting now that will most likely take all day. Suki, help Esme take her things up to the garret. Don’t expect too much. It has that dank, unlived-in feel but it’s cosy; barely big enough to swing a cat. And remember, you’re coming for supper with Javier and me this evening. See you tonight.’

Suki took Esme to her room. They climbed a narrow staircase, past a small landing with a closed door and red-wine stains and cigarette burns on the threadbare carpet outside.

‘Some people have no bloody respect. Uncouth guests come up here to smoke when there are too many people in the gallery.’

In sharp contrast to the spotless showroom, paint cracked and peeled away from the walls leaving the stairwell moth-eaten and derelict, so the faded charm of her top-floor room was a relief.