Praise for Susannah Constantine

‘Thoughtful and dark’

THE TIMES MAGAZINE

‘Captivating’

WOMAN & HOME

‘Beautifully written … with a dramatic, thrilling conclusion’

HELLO!

‘Fans of Downton Abbey will love this’

DAVINA McCALL

‘A tenderly absorbing tale, shades of Dodie Smith’

YOU MAGAZINE

‘A modern-day Nancy Mitford’

SIR ELTON JOHN

‘Brimming with secrets, scandal, shame’

THE SUN

‘This touching, atmospheric story … has echoes of I Capture the Castle about it’

THE SCOTTISH DAILY MAIL

‘Frank and thrilling’

S MAGAZINE

SUSANNAH CONSTANTINE is a television presenter and journalist. She lives in West Sussex with her husband and three children. She has co-written nine non-fiction books with Trinny Woodall. Summer in Mayfair is her second novel.

Also by Susannah Constantine:

After the Snow

Summer in Mayfair

Susannah Constantine

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Susannah Constantine 2020

Susannah Constantine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © June 2020 ISBN: 9780008219703

Version 2020-06-06

Note to Readers

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 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008219727

For Prue and Peder

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Extract

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Chapter One

June 1979

Culcairn station was tiny, barely the length of a carriage. The platform was deserted and a light veil of summer drizzle fell, cobweb-fine yet saturating. The mist of tiny droplets crept into the creases of her collar and settled everywhere. Esme Munroe felt her skin was weeping. It ought to be. She was going. Her parents and sister had already gone so she had been left no option but to do the same and it broke her heart. She was leaving home and her beloved Mrs Bee for the next chapter in her life. London. A place teeming with strangers, lives and loves and languages she knew nothing about as yet. She told herself that boarding this train had to be about more than the sorrow that wreathed her family home. It had to be about her future and whatever lay ahead, a voyage of discovery of the city and herself.

In the end, the decision to go to London had been a quick one. Esme knew that once she had accepted she must leave The Lodge – her childhood home, where all her yesteryears were buried deep – it had to be a swift uprooting. The move had filled her past with a rose-tinted glow, nostalgia papering over any bad memories and turning the years gone by into a safe but unreachable land, while her future seemed hazy and unknowable from up here in the Highlands.

As she’d shut her bedroom door that morning, she’d known she was leaving something of herself behind, ready for her to find again when she returned. She reasoned that everybody had to leave home at some point and when she came back she would see The Lodge with fresh eyes and love it again for new reasons. But it was time for her to go. Time to change and time to leave.

Leave. She rolled the word around her tongue for a bit. A beautiful and definite word; strong and forceful, the way she had always wanted to be.

The process of packing had been simple for her and frustrating for Mrs Bee. The woman who had devoted her life to the Munroe family as beloved housekeeper wouldn’t let her youngest charge leave home without enough luggage to last a lifetime. There were two suitcases on her bed. One with the bare necessities and the other piled high with the entire contents of an airing cupboard and a supermarket aisle’s worth of toiletries and cleaning supplies.

‘You’ll need sheets and a hot-water bottle, at least. Things to make you feel at home.’

Esme had told Mrs Bee not to worry about her as she packed her bag of basic belongings. The housekeeper kept trying to add more things. But Esme insisted that the less she took the easier it would be to move around.

‘Don’t be so dramatic, love. You’re not going to be sleeping on the streets.’

Indeed, Esme had her sister Sophia’s godfather to thank for that. Bill Cartwright had come to her rescue. Having no qualifications in anything that might lead directly to a job, Esme had slowly realized it was assumed that she would follow the example of her mother and marry well. When she left school, her father had patted her hand and humoured her when she expressed a desire to follow her passion and study art. But now Bill Cartwright had given her a chance, offering temporary lodging and a job in his London gallery. It had become a standing joke that she wanted a job, so she felt slightly vindicated that she had done her history of art course and now deserved her position at the gallery. She was to be that lowest rung of the art-world ladder: a receptionist sitting prettily front-of-house filing her nails in between making tea and coffee. No matter. Perfectly shaped nails would pay just enough for her to survive on for a while, especially since the job came with the bedsit above the gallery. She had allowed her father to pay for her train ticket but refused his offer of a weekly allowance. It would have been too easy to rely on family funds, and if she was going to become independent she would have to be frugal and spend her salary wisely. And anyway, the money her parents had gained from selling their London residence had now been mostly eaten up by overdue bill payments, or her father’s addiction to antiques meant it was hanging on walls or lying unworn in her mother’s jewellery box. But there was no need to worry about money until she had to move out of the gallery and pay proper rent, and that wouldn’t be for a few weeks. Instead, her first priority was to find and make friends, to live the real London life and frequent the niteries she hadn’t read about in social columns, while spending her salary on essentials. She didn’t want so much to become a better person but a cooler, more independent one. Someone who had the courage of her convictions, once she had discovered what those were.

‘Don’t worry, love. Everything will be here when you get back. Just the same. It will be you who will have changed,’ Mrs Bee had said as they drove to the station.

Esme opened the carriage door now. Mrs Bee was right. The Tuesday sleeper was almost empty. Just a few scattered passengers inhabited the berths in second class. The housekeeper helped Esme board with her small bag and one extremely large wooden crate.

‘Och. Where on earth are we to put this thing?’

The cubicle was a womb of tartan and plastic wood panelling, and contained everything a passenger required for an overnight stay. Leather straps ran from the top bunk base to the ceiling so it could be flipped up for day travel when it became a regular compartment for first-class customers. The beds had been turned down and gifted with a packet of shortbread. It was compact to the point of being claustrophobic, especially with a socking great wooden packing case crammed in.

‘You’re the one who insisted I bring it, Mrs Bee.’

Esme was still reeling from the death of the Earl of Culcairn, and the fact that he had left her a painting in his will. The Earl and his family lived at the castle – and as neighbours to the Munroes at The Lodge, it was natural the families became friends. But the Earl and her mother, Diana, had become much more than friends. News of their affair had been discovered when Esme was too young to understand what infidelity was. Her father had yelled for a couple of hours and then like anything that would crack the façade of respectability, it was swept under the carpet and never spoken of again. And now the Earl was gone, and her mother might as well as have been too, her body nearly as fragile as her spirit.

Esme’s eyes felt heavy with unshed tears but she’d walked out the door without putting a handkerchief in her pocket again. The letters the Earl had written to her at boarding school and his words of advice and encouragement still resonated today: ‘Fear is just a feeling and when it comes, ask for more.’ It took her many years to understand that. ‘Hate is a weakness that can be used against you’ and the most pertinent, ‘never believe you are better than anyone else’. When her mother was ill, with her father holding vigil, it was the Earl who had come to cheer her on at sports day. He who taken her for Welsh rarebit at the local tearoom to celebrate her winning the swimming cup.

She hadn’t wanted to expose the painting, let alone bring it with her. She felt that once the packing crate had been opened, her last physical contact with the Earl would be gone, the final essence of him escaping the container for good. Now he was dead, his wife, the Contessa, had made it very clear that she was no longer welcome at Culcairn Castle. Her loathing of Esme went beyond being simply the daughter of the woman her husband had loved illicitly. It was a cancerous hatred that mutated towards anyone who was fond of Esme, including the Contessa’s own children. Growing up, their friendship had been intense but the secrets and lies had pulled them apart over the years.

Esme ended her reverie, aware that Mrs Bee had offered a response.

‘Well, you don’t want your father getting his hands on it. It could be worth a wee fortune.’

Esme knew Mrs Bee meant this kindly but art was her father’s drug of choice and he wouldn’t think twice about commandeering it as his own.

‘Or not. I can’t imagine the Bitch would let something valuable slip through her bony hands. Especially if she knew that the Earl was leaving it to me.’

Esme knew Mrs Bee wouldn’t react to her name-calling of the Earl’s wife. The housekeeper had tried to temper her resentment of the woman but it was a waste of time and quite frankly, given half a chance, Esme would call her something far, far worse.

‘I guess we can shove it on the bottom bunk and pray no one gets on at Edinburgh,’ suggested Esme.

The two women lifted the crate and pushed it back against the compartment wall but the overhang jutted out leaving barely enough room to squeeze by. Unfortunately, it was Mrs Bee who got hemmed in.

‘I’m stuck!’ she laughed. ‘Looks like I’m coming to London with you. We’re going to have to try again, darling.’

Esme took the window side this time and they repeated the manoeuvre.

‘Ah, look at you, you wee thing. Slim as cotton thread. It’s been a few years since I could have wheedled through that gap.’

Esme used to hate being as skinny as she was. She loathed her stick-thin legs to the point of padding them out with two pairs of thick tights under her jeans. Since leaving school, her pins had garnered enough compliments for her to believe they were good enough to show off without the extra layers.

‘Right, love, I’d better skedaddle or I really will be coming with you and you don’t want your old Mrs Bee cramping your style.’

The whistle blew – a staccato accompaniment to Mrs Bee’s soft-shoe shuffle along the narrow corridor. Standing on tiptoes she reached up from the platform and gave Esme a hug.

‘I love you, darling. Look after yourself and be careful. There are all kinds of strange folk in London.’

This was exactly what Esme hoped but she said, laughing, ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Bee, it’s not like I’m heading off to war or exploring sub-Sahara.’

Esme had lived in the capital until she was four years old when her parents relocated to Scotland. They had kept the South Kensington house she was born in and continued to use it on a regular basis for some years. School holidays had kicked off with a few days in the city before journeying back up to the Highlands until their crumbling finances had forced them to sell. Esme’s knowledge of London was hazy, thinking back to those childhood years, but she knew how the buses and Tube worked. She’d find her way, she was sure.

As the train heaved out of Culcairn station, Mrs Bee stood alone and silhouetted against the platform lamp like some Eastern bloc infiltrator. Esme pushed away the lump of sadness rising in her throat, as she continued to wave until the old lady melted into the darkness. She would miss the one person who had been a constant source of love. Her dear Mrs Bee. Time for her to put her feet up but Esme worried that she would be lonely now both her parents had vacated The Lodge and her sister Sophia was living in New York.

Esme closed the window and she leant against the berth wall eyeing the painting in its crate. She tried to visualize the Earl adding her name to his last will and testament and sticking on the label with her name written in his hand. Part of her wanted the picture with her more than anything else in the world; it represented all the truths he had taught that she considered valuable and professed he really cared about her. It was a piece of him. A talisman for a safe passage. The rest of her screamed to throw it onto the tracks, be rid of anything from her past that could reach out to hold her back.

She climbed up onto her bunk without bothering to change into her nightclothes and listened to the wheels on the track. The noise was deep and secure. Metal grinding on metal in perpetual, rhythmic motion. The train was in no rush to reach its destination given its twelve-hour journey. But sleep was miles away, back in her bedroom at The Lodge. A combination of excited anticipation and abject fear churned in her stomach confusing pangs of hunger for nausea, the kind she felt before riding a new horse. Mrs Bee’s chiding tapped at her brain. ‘I’ve made you a wee picnic. You must eat. Keep your strength up. You don’t want to start this new life of yours on an empty stomach.’

Esme rifled through her bag to find her supper. When she looked at the contents of the Tupperware box – the kind Mrs Bee stacked and hoarded – she was touched by how some things never changed. Marmite sandwiches, crusts off, quartered apple, Wagon Wheel and a packet of roast chicken flavoured crisps all wrapped in grease-proof paper. Exactly the same as the packed lunches Mrs Bee made for her as a child.

She remembered an occasion when Mrs Bee had gone on holiday to Skegness. It was bad timing as her mother was just emerging from an extended period of depression and the beast of mania was awakening. Her ‘reward’, as her mother put it, was in some ways even more torturous than her depressive state, for those living under the same roof. Wildly erratic and unpredictable, she was at once an innocent child and all-knowing demon. Vicious in parts and helpless in others, Esme preferred the pitiable mute to the volatile moods of the upswing. She was easier to ignore. Riding up the crest towards full-blown delusion, her mother had made a packed lunch for her youngest daughter’s journey back to boarding school down south. Comprising an uncooked chicken thigh, a teabag in a thermos of cold water and baked beans still in their tin, Esme was too ashamed to show it on the school bus or ask the teacher for a sandwich and went hungry instead.

Esme felt her father had sentenced his wife to a colourless existence compared to the homeliness of The Lodge and grandeur of the castle. An affordable care home was never going to have the luxuries of The Savoy. But it did have the advantage of being close to The Lodge and Mrs Bee promised she would visit regularly: ‘Don’t you worry, love, she’ll be well taken care of and I’ll make sure she always has a wee slice of cake to nibble on.’

It had been left to Mrs Bee and Esme to drop her off. The nurses had been kind and the place was pristine but the accommodation was basic, to say the least. A bare room with wood-chip walls and a pine furniture. It had an en-suite shower room with a red emergency cord.

Esme and Mrs Bee had done their best to cheer the place up by hanging some of her father’s paintings and replacing the plywood furniture with antique pieces from home. Mrs Bee had made up her bed in linen sheets and goose-down pillows. Nothing was too small and easy to steal and once they had finished the mini makeover, her mother’s room was quite cosy. Not that Diana noticed. Most of the time she was too sedated to even recognize Mrs Bee.

Esme was sure her soul had already flown with the Earl’s and that they were finally united in heaven. Looking back, Esme realized that her mother’s heart, the only piece that had remained unaffected by her depression, had broken that horrible Christmas of 1969. Esme remembered overhearing her mother pleading with the Earl not to leave her, when they thought they were hidden from view in one of the many rooms at Culcairn Castle. Just like that, her mother disappeared into herself never to return. Esme never again felt her unconditional love and the abrupt shock of emotional abandonment had wreaked havoc on Esme over the years. She still had morning terrors but had come to accept them as a kind of haunting that would pass as soon as she got out of bed. Now that she was older, she was grateful to the Earl for giving her mother some happiness and the kind of love her father had never shown her, beyond an obsessive admiration of her beauty.

She could have blamed the Earl and her mother for so much – not least the emotional bullying inflicted on her by the Contessa, when she had had to stay at Culcairn Castle. Maybe this was why the Earl had left her a painting. By way of apology. A guilty conscience placating itself before death. The Culcairns had three children, one boy, Rollo and two girls, Bella and Lexi, who was the same age as Esme and had been her best friend throughout her childhood. Often when her mother was sent away to a mental facility, sometimes for weeks at a time, Esme was sent to stay with Lexi. There she was a target for the Contessa’s bitterness, using Esme to vent her spleen. She did it subtly, bullying Esme with silence and instructing staff to ignore her, too. There was never a place laid for her at meals and the Contessa acted as if she was invisible during her incarceration at the castle. Frankly, she understood why the Earl had strayed from the Bitch, as Sophia referred to her. Who would want to be tied to a woman so filled with hatred and poison? But even when the Contessa had finally physically attacked Esme and the Earl promised his wife he was leaving her, he’d only got as far as moving out of their marital bed and into the adjoining dressing room. Esme wondered whether the Earl had been more afraid of his wife than he’d ever admitted.

Esme was woken by a knock on the compartment door and realized that she must have fallen asleep.

‘Rise and shine. We’re coming into Euston,’ said the guard cheerfully, through the opaque glass.

She looked at her watch: six thirty. The train hissed and spluttered to a halt and Esme tugged at the blind which snapped open to reveal a landscape of grey. Bin bags banked against metal girders and the weak rays from the rising sun trickled through the grubby roof of Euston station, illuminating the grime. It occurred to Esme that unlike rural dirt, which was a working layer of earth, suburban dirt was nothing to be respected. The farmers liked dirt whilst city dwellers got rid of it, or at least they did in residential areas. Here in a grand public gateway to the city decades of grease and soot coated the glass roof and clung to its beams. Sparrows and pigeons pecked at crumbs of bread and flies caught in abandoned spiders’ webs that wafted in high corners.

Gathering her belongings, Esme wondered how the hell she was going to get the crate off the train. She looked down the platform to see if there was a porter but aside from her few fellow passengers and early male commuters with big hair and sideburns, Euston station was quiet. She had readied herself for the onslaught of mass human bedlam, pushing and shoving to begin their day but the city still slept. A homeless man with a shopping trolley was checking pieces of litter strewn across the platform. He picked up a beer can and drained what was left, wiping his mouth with a dirty sleeve. Sensing Esme’s gaze, he turned to look at her and she blinked, turning away and embarrassed by her luck of the draw in life. Mrs Bee never let her forget that life was a lottery and, despite her mother’s mental health, she was fortunate in so many ways.

With no choice, she dragged and tugged the crate out of her compartment and pushed it onto the platform. It clattered to the ground causing the wood to split down one side. She felt her throat thicken signalling the onset of tears. Telling herself to get a grip, she grabbed an abandoned trolley and heaved the picture aboard, smiled at the homeless man and headed for the taxi rank.

Compared to the nostalgic romance of Culcairn station, Euston appeared vast and hostile; even more so given its lack of people at this time in the morning. She felt tiny and insignificant and clutched at the bar of the trolley as a couple of early commuters charged past. A wave of longing for The Lodge made her want to get back on the train and she dragged her feet as she forced her way forward through the cloying urban air, pretending to feel confident and grown up. The last thing she wanted was to be pitied.

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.

After giving her a one-second tour of the amenities, Suki left Esme to unpack. A Louis Vuitton trunk that had seen better days doubled up as a bedside table. She would put her clothes in it. Added to that she had a total of two plug sockets, a rickety bed and a hook on the back of the door with three coat hangers. At least she had a bathroom to herself. It was bigger than the bedroom with a panelled tub and skylight. Ancient bottles of Floris bath oils lined the edge of the bath. She picked one up. It was sticky with age and smelt more of cooking oil than the Rose Geranium printed on its label. But since there was no room for the painting in her bedroom, she set it down next to the loo. Appropriate place for the wretched thing, since it was now likely to be worth nothing more than the loo paper next to it.

She opened the window. There was no view, just a redbrick wall that looked like it needed repointing. Pockets of moss grew from cracks in the brickwork. Subsidence maybe, given Jermyn Street was built on an incline. The curtains were dated but she recognized them as classic David Hicks, a geometric design in varying shades of brown and orange. Not what Esme would have chosen but they were lined and thick enough for total blackout.

The bedcover was in the same fabric and reminded her of a ploughed field. Lying down, the mattress felt like it looked; a lumpy, unyielding pad of knotted horsehair that was more like sleeping in a ditch than on a divan. The springs no longer sprung but screeched like a crying baby. Oh well, she wouldn’t be in it much.

‘All settled?’ Suki came back in carrying a desk lamp. ‘Thought you could use this. Save you getting out of bed to turn the light out.’

The thing she held resembled no lamp she had seen before. It had a spaceship sphere aboard a reedy little stem which bent according to the desired angle.

Esme plugged into the wall. ‘Well, it works.’

‘It’s horrid, I know, but I thought we could nip out and buy a few things to brighten the place up.’

‘There’s not much point. I’m going to be sleeping here for such a short time and I’ll bring more stuff from Scotland once I’ve found somewhere permanent to live.’

Esme began the sentence to cover for having no money and then realized it was in fact true. And if she did end up staying here longer than planned, she may not have cash to splash but she knew she could ‘borrow’ some bits and pieces from her father’s business. Surplus furniture and objects from her parents’ former London home sat in profuse quantity at a warehouse in Peckham along with the countless shelves of antiques and collectables he was supposed to be selling on. Their London house in Pelham Place was the only one of her parents’ assets that her father had been willing to relinquish to pay for the school fees, domestic bills at The Lodge and his continued antique collecting. He had more than enough furniture and artwork to stock ten houses but flatly refused to put any of them up for auction saying they would always increase in value. He was a hoarder not through necessity but possessiveness and not a little pride. He liked being known for his brilliant eye and had to continue his charade with dealers that he was still flush with cash.

Esme had been ‘Christmas shopping’ at the warehouse a few times with her mother, who filched presents for her sisters and godchildren. ‘Daddy won’t notice, darling. He bought one chandelier only to buy an identical one a week later. He doesn’t care what he buys, just so long as he is spending. Far better to give these pretty things a happy home.’ Esme had seen the sad look in her mother’s eyes and realized she too was one of the pretty things left to linger unseen and unloved – little wonder she’d sought solace with the Earl.

Norman the warehouse manager was, like so many men, half in love with her mother. He had worked in the storage depot – part of the Munroe family business – for years. The warehouse and affiliated fine art transportation company housed and moved works all over the world. Her father joked that the humidity- and temperature-controlled Munroe lorries would keep a body in perfect condition for decades. If Diana decided she wanted a Raphael in holding for the National Gallery, Norman would have turned a blind eye as she popped it into the boot of her car. He adored Esme too, so surely having a few bits on loan would be no problem.

When she’d finished unpacking, she went back downstairs to set to work. The phone didn’t stop ringing from the moment she sat down. Unfamiliar with the flashing extension buttons she’d cut the first caller off.

‘Cartwright,’ she said as she’d tried again.

‘What happened?’ said a strong accent. ‘Is Bill there?’

‘I’m so sorry,’ apologized Esme, grateful the caller couldn’t see her blush. ‘I’m afraid not. May I take a message?’

‘It’s Serge. I’ve got news on the Claude.’

Esme scribbled his name and the time. It was ten thirty and a stack of messages had already built up.

‘May I take a surname?’

‘Très amusant, Suki…’

‘It’s not Suki. My Name is Esme. I’ve just stated working here.’

‘Ah. OK. If you could ask Bill to ring. Etienne is my surname.’

Esme reckoned she spoke to six different accents from around the world that first morning. Each individual must have been a multi-millionaire, considering the easy way they spoke about snapping up masterpieces and artists that commanded hundreds of thousands of pounds on their price tags. At one point there were three customers holding on the line and she felt like queen bee of a hive she had no control over. It wasn’t till noon that things calmed down and she was able to leave her desk.

‘Esme?’ shouted Suki.

‘Hang on, I’m just on the loo. Haven’t been since I arrived,’ she yelled back.

‘I’m coming up. It’s nearly one o’clock. Shall we grab some lunch?’ said Suki, a little breathless after the stairs.

‘Yes. I feel faint with hunger,’ said Esme, hanging a dress behind the door.

‘Let’s see that.’

Suki held up a floral printed frock.

‘Oh my God, Esme. You can’t possibly wear that. It’s so dated. Fine for tea with the vicar’s wife but not for London. Bill will have a coronary if he sees you in this sack. Fire you on the spot. We better go shopping at the weekend. I’ll bring some things of mine in until then. We’re about the same size.’

‘What’s wrong with it? I got it from Laura Ashley.’

‘Exactly,’ said Suki, tossing it on the bed. ‘Come on. We better go out now as we have to be back by two. You can wear my coat.’

Suki set the gallery alarm and locked the door.

Jermyn Street had filled up. A mass lunchtime exodus of office workers and gallery owners. They looked like pupils leaving school all in a uniform similar to Suki’s. A gaggle of big hair and navy blue. Esme was grateful for Suki’s mac.

The restaurant was a small Italian cliché, like the ones Esme had seen in films. Red-and-white check tablecloths and hurricane lanterns burning moodily despite it being the middle of the day. They were shown to a tiny table above which lopsided photographs littered the walls. A smell of thyme and wine wafted through the air. The Italian owner posed with friends in all of them. Esme recognized Francis Bacon in one and Michael Caine in another.

‘Do these people really come here?’ she asked Suki, pointing to another photo where the owner stood grinning next to Bill Wyman.

‘Not so much at lunchtime but during Wimbledon all the tennis players come here. Look. There’s Vitas Gerulaitis and I saw Roscoe Tanner in here once. Did you know his serves reach over 150 mph, 153 actually?’

‘Wow,’ said Esme, having no idea who the girl was talking about.

‘He’s divine too. So, handsome in a preppy kind of way,’ she dug her grissini in the butter.

Esme did the same. If there was one thing she would never be able to give up, it was butter.

‘I love it, don’t you? Specially this cheap salty stuff.’

‘What do you mean cheap?’ said a deep Italian voice. ‘Lorenzo!’ shrieked Suki.

It was the man in the photographs.

‘Ciao, bella!’ bellowed Lorenzo giving Suki a double kiss. ‘And who is this?’ The grey hedgehog-haired man with a matching beard looked at her with kind eyes and a big smile.

‘Lorenzo, this is Esme. It’s her first day at the gallery. She’s Bill’s goddaughter.’

‘Well, my sister is. Nice to meet you, Lorenzo.’

The proprietor took her hand, kissed it then stroked her face in a paternal way.

‘Bellisima signorina. Welcome to my humble ristorante. I am at your service.’ Esme flushed.

‘What’s the special today?’ asked Suki.

‘Lasagne, amore. It’s always LASAGNE! Food of the working man… and woman.’

Lorenzo winked at Esme. ‘You like?’

‘That would be lovely.’

‘I’ll have tomato, mozzarella and avocado, please, Lorenzo.

With extra basil.’

‘Perfezionare. And to drink I’ll bring you peach bellini. On the house, to celebrate Esme.’

‘Are the white peaches in yet?’ Turning to Esme, Suki was almost dribbling as she described the pale fruit with a pink blush that Lorenzo got sent from his farm in Calabria. ‘It’s hotter there so they ripen earlier.’

Lorenzo reappeared with the said fruit cut into slices, then proceeded to mash them up with a fork. Juice seeped from the flesh. Using his hand to dam the pulp, he poured the nectar into two champagne glasses and topped them up with sparkling wine. It was a far cry from the Buck’s Fizz concoctions Esme had tasted before.

‘Oh my God! This is literally the best thing I have ever tasted.’

‘Isn’t it?’

The sweetness of the peaches coated her tongue as the alcohol hit her empty stomach with a tide of reassurance.

‘So,’ said Suki. ‘Tell me more. Which school did you go to?’

Esme wiped the froth from her upper lip. ‘St Anne’s in Glamorgan. A convent run by sadistic nuns. I hated it.’

‘Oh, I loved mine.’

You would, thought Esme. She imagined Suki was the kind of jolly hockey sticks Hooray Henrietta who had been sent away at six years old and developed the stoicism of a Land Girl. Had this been the nineteenth century, she would have had skin thick enough to thrive in some far-flung British colony. But Esme admired her forthright approach. And she was kind and not only interested in herself.

‘How old are you? Actually, let me guess. Twenty? I’m twenty-four and you look way younger than me but maybe it’s the bumpkin clothes you are wearing.’

‘Oi! I’m twenty-two and I’ll thank you to know that my jeans are from Fiorucci. My sister will kill me when she realizes I’ve borrowed them.’

‘The jeans are OK. It’s the sweater that lets you down. I’ve kept mine for my children.’

Esme knew her sweater was dated and regretted wearing it. She desperately wanted a new image, one that was cooler and less Highlands or Home Counties, the two categories all her clothes currently fell into.

‘I know and as soon as I get my first paycheque I am going shopping.’

‘And I’m coming with you,’ said Suki.

The kitchen doors swung open as Lorenzo came through them backwards carrying a double draw of plates.

‘There you go, my ladies. Your lunch.’

Esme had to ask three people directions to Bill’s road that evening. Tucked away near the American Embassy, the little mews house had a chic exterior with glossy black door standing stark against the white façade. A pair of box trees flanked the entrance. She rang the bell. From inside she heard a high-pitched, ‘I’m coming, Esmeee.’ Must be Javier, she thought. Then an equally shrill bark followed.

The door flung open and out rushed a squeaking, clipped Shih Tzu. Framed in the doorway was a man standing barefoot and in what appeared to be nothing more an apron with the words ‘Choke n Puke’ printed on the front. His olive skin gleamed and smelt of sandalwood and citrus.

‘At last. The famous Esme. I’m Javier. But you probably worked that out. Come in. Come in.’ He looked her up and down, making a not altogether positive evaluation, judging by his arched eyebrows.

‘Let me take your… um… coat,’ he said, pulling it off her shoulders and discarding it on a chair with two fingers, like it was contaminated. So much for Suki’s taste in clothes, thought Esme.

Javier had an American accent, with musical undertones. Spanish or Portuguese, she guessed. His slick black hair was salted with grey flecks that grew in density on his unshaven chin. The deep furrows on his forehead served as guttering to prevent sweat running into his eyes and his rugged good looks gave him a kind of sexual magnetism that she imagined all ages and genders would find hard to resist. Her parents had never mentioned Bill’s boyfriend but clearly he knew all about her.

‘It’s divine to meet you finally. Bill isn’t back from his meeting yet. Work, work, work. That’s all he does while little Javier cooks, cleans and fucks. A whore in the bedroom and goddess in the kitchen. That’s what all men want, darling Esme.’

Esme laughed. She liked him at once.

Music blared, an echo that was trapped and condensed by the marble hallway. Unlike his gallery, Bill’s house was monochrome and modern. Black, white and grey created a cool atmosphere that was masculine and immaculate. Not a thing was out of place. Everything was perfectly arranged with precise symmetry and unpretentious good taste. A huge black-and-white image of an orchid hung above the hall table. Powerful in its stark simplicity, it was one of the most beautiful photographs Esme had seen.

‘Wow. This is stunning,’ she said.

‘My friend, Robert Mapplethorpe. Bill collects him. He’s photographed both your parents, you know. I met Diane the Divine and your handsome father many times. Adore them both…’

The sentence was interrupted by the ecstatic barking.

‘Bill is here. Tinky recognizes the engine, don’t you, clever girl?’ said Javier, giving her a pat. Tinky was hypnotized by the door, too focused on keys in the lock to react. She sat ears cocked, whining, her little body shivering.

‘Sorry I’m late, darling.’ Bill said, pecking Javier on the cheek and gently kicking Tinky out of his path before hugging Esme.

‘You found us no problem?’

‘I got a bit lost. I never knew this street existed nor did my A-Z. It’s not on the map.’

‘Don’t you love that? It’s like we don’t exist. Our hidden gem.’

Bill put his arm around Javier.

‘I see you have put some underpants on in honour of Esme’s arrival.’ And then to Esme, ‘You are lucky. Or unlucky. Depending on your broadmindedness, he normally wanders the house starkers.’

‘Oh, don’t worry. I’ve seen it all before,’ lied Esme.

She wasn’t accustomed to such open displays of emotion and she didn’t want to appear gauche.

‘Toots, do you need any help?’

‘No. Give the girl a drink, please. I’ve made pisco sour. Ice in the bucket. I couldn’t find limes, I’m afraid so it’s lemons.’

‘Delicious. Have you had pisco before, Esme, darling?’

‘Is it a cocktail?’

‘Yes, from South America. Like Javier. He whooshed into New York from Puerto Rico. Sit down, darling.’

Esme did as bid and sat on a stylish but uncomfortable sofa. The west-facing windows captured the evening sun, stealing the contrast from her vision. She shaded her eyes from the light to get a better look at the first-floor drawing room; a highly polished oak floor and an Aubusson rug in almost pristine condition. A low glass table was stacked with coffee table books and three ashtrays, although neither Bill nor Javier appeared to smoke. An enormous arrangement of freshly cut flowers filled a Chinese vase confusing a fat bumblebee collecting pollen from one of the blooms. Another photograph hung above the fireplace, a portrait of a messy-haired woman with a big nose and intense stare.

‘Patti Smith. Beautifully ugly,’ Bill said.

‘The singer?’

‘Yes. Amazing woman. Super bright and with a highly evolved sense of rebellious creativity.’

‘Do you know her?’

‘I do. Give me a writer, singer, artist any day over the upper classes. Don’t get me wrong, there are – like everything – exceptions to the rule but most of them are bores and their offspring messed-up wastrels. Look at your friend, Lexi. Did you see the way she threw herself on Henry’s coffin?’

The hideous scene was one no one would forget. As the Earl was being lowered into his grave, Lexi, sobbing hysterically, tried to join her father. It would have been heart-wrenching were it not so melodramatic. This attention-seeking drama had astonished Esme, but she went to comfort her friend, nonetheless. As had been the case ever since they had gone to different boarding schools, her kindness was rejected. As children, they had been more than friends and closer than sisters, pledging eternal love and comfort through thick and thin. Their bond had seemed unbreakable but returning from her first term away, Lexi had changed. She was cold and snipey – like an ex-girlfriend. Esme was confused and hurt but Sophia told her to move on. ‘She’s jealous of you, Es,’ she had said. But Esme, grieving for the friendship, was unable to imagine a single reason for that jealousy.

‘I know she adored her father to the point of obsession, but really it was beyond the pale. We are all devastated and no one more than your dear mother. Now she really loved Henry, unlike that ghastly wife of his.’

It had been the perfect day for a funeral. Cold, grey and drizzly. Hundreds of people had turned up to the service at Sellington Church, from the great and the royal to tenant farmers whose families had worked on the estate for generations. It was probably why she hadn’t spotted Bill among the mourners. That and the fact she’d been too busy keeping an eye on her mother. Diana, composed but withdrawn, stood regally like a head of state. It had been a long time since Esme had witnessed the kind of self-possession her mother held that day. Almost as if she wanted the Earl to be proud of her. A quiet ‘Goodbye, my love,’ heard only by Esme, were the last articulate words she said.

All through her childhood, covering for her mother had been second nature to Esme, and only now, finally an adult herself, did she see how much it had cost her in tears, loneliness and confusion. Whilst it upset Esme that her mother was now in an institution, and that she couldn’t visit as often as she would like, she knew that she was in the best place and cared for in the way she had needed for a long, long time.

Her mother’s decline had been rapid after the Earl’s death. Whilst she still possessed a ghostly beauty, it was now like a sapped peach deprived of sun. Esme’s father could no longer cope and despite Mrs Bee and Esme and to a lesser degree Sophia’s objection, he had elected to send her to a local care home. Esme had wanted her to stay at home and hire a carer but the Munroe funds didn’t stretch to that, thanks to her father’s continued extravagant antique collecting. Esme often felt like her mother had been one of his greatest acquisitions. Beautiful, brilliant and funny, she’d shone brighter than any of her father’s ornate vases or diamond brooches. But, as time went by, her cracks had begun to show.

‘You know Mum is…’ she faltered over the words, fearing Bill would judge her ‘…in a home now?’

‘No, I didn’t but it doesn’t surprise me, darling. She has been ill for so long and your poor father has been on the end of it. To be honest I think he was quite relieved that Henry took her off his hands and now he can enjoy himself without the guilt.’

‘But to send her away like a retired greyhound? Talk about death in the fast lane. He might as well have put a bullet in her head.’

The words just tumbled out – she’d barely even acknowledged to herself that that was how she felt. She’d been too busy putting on a brave face. But now, here on her own in London, she could let rip. She felt a wave of gratitude for Bill – he knew all the people in her family and their circle, yet somehow had escaped their rules and suffocating expectations. After so many years of hidden meanings and things unsaid, his directness was wonderfully refreshing.

‘I imagine she doesn’t know where she is, dear girl. Most of the time, anyway. Terrible thing, manic depression when it’s as severe as hers. Nigh on impossible to manage at that level, and it really took its toll on your father, and you and your sister, I imagine.’

Esme was grateful that she remembered her mother before the illness took got a real grip when she was ten or so; before that she was up or down but never in between.

‘In truth, I feel like Mum died years ago but I’ve never lost hope that she might return. In her mind, I mean.’

‘It is so sad but you must remember she would be happy to know you are here making your own way in life. You were her favourite, you know.’

She did. And her sister’s jealousy had been made blatantly clear by years of persecution when they were young. Once Sophia got her first boyfriend, everything changed, though. They were now great friends and each other’s main source of support. With both parents notoriously unreliable, the girls had come to rely on each other.

‘And Sophia is Dad’s favourite. By the way, do you know who he’s staying with in France?’

‘Yes. Francis Burn.’

Of course it was Francis, thought Esme, the kaftan-wearing extrovert who loved antiques as much as her father.

‘He has an exquisite house near St Remy. Colin has always maintained the best light is to be found in the Alpilles… He and Cezanne both. Lovely place to spend the summer. I know your father needs to get away sometimes, take solace in his painting.’

Bill looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Let’s go down for dinner. We don’t want a tantrum.’

The house had a formal dining room, but they were to eat in the kitchen, being just the three of them. Javier had replaced the apron with a flamingo-pink shirt and pale-blue trousers. He was a beautiful man. There was a clarity about him. The sharp relief of his features and the brilliance of his eyes made him cry out to be put on show and admired.

The kitchen table was set for three courses. Esme sat between the two men. She shook her napkin and laid it on her lap.

‘It maybe a kitchen supper but we never drop standards here,’ laughed Bill. ‘I only write thank you letters to a hostess who uses real napkins that need to be washed and ironed. It is the surest sign of respect for their guests.’

Esme made a mental note.

The first course was a fishy mousse with diced tomato and cucumber dressed in oil and lemon juice with buttered brown bread cut into triangles. Javier sprinkled a bright red sauce over his starter. ‘Careful, it’s very spicy,’ he warned. ‘Like me—’

‘Like you,’ Bill and Javier said in unison, taking each other’s hand.

The affectionate bickering and bitching that ping-ponged between the two was a refreshing relief to the stony silence she was used to at the dining table at home. Esme couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed so much. There was no sense the couple were putting on a show by being on best behaviour for public eyes. This relationship was genuine and made her feel completely at home. Warming to their outrageous indiscretions, Esme found herself matching their gossip with stories of her own. She told of the time the Contessa had tried to kill her dog by locking him out on the castle terrace in the sub-zero winter of 1969. And how Princess Margaret had asked her to collect a knife when they had gone to powder their noses at the Culcairn Hunt Ball.

‘A knife?’ said Bill.

‘Yes. She put it in the loo and started chopping. “It simply won’t go down,” she said.’

The two men – or the Boys as she now thought of them – howled with laughter. ‘That is the funniest thing I have ever heard!’ said Javier. ‘They always say think of the Queen on the toilet—’

‘Loo, Toots—’ Bill gently corrected Javier.

‘—on the loo when you’re nervous. But this! I will never get stage fright again.’

‘She’s amazing,’ said Esme. ‘Incredibly dignified when she wants to be – but she knows all the best stories too.’

‘Indeed, she does. You must invite her to the gallery. If she’s anything like her mother, she will love us queens,’ Bill replied.

‘I grew up knowing her but I don’t feel I could invite her to anything. I mean she’s not my friend as such. More of a fairy godmother. Like you are to Sophia.’

‘And now to you too, my darling girl.’

In the end, the Boys had insisted she spend the night. ‘Far too late for you to walk back to the gallery. Our ladies of the night begin their shift around now.’

They put her in the guest bedroom which was no bigger than a broom cupboard but decorated in a splendour worthy of Versailles. It was like walking into a womb of pink-and-white toile de jouy. The floor, walls, ceiling and bed cover were all illustrated pastoral scenes of the Orient. She got undressed to her bra and pants and listened out for the Boys to finish up in the bathroom. Their hushed voices were punctuated by screams of laugher. Eventually, Javier poked his head around her door and told her they were done.

‘I’ve left a toothbrush out for you. And a flannel.’

‘Thanks, Javier. Sleep well.’ She gave him a kiss. ‘That was a delicious dinner. You are an incredible cook.’

‘I know. You will probably have left before I get up but I will be in touch. We will go out. Bill is too old and fat…’

‘I heard that! And I would never, even if my life depended on it, go to the cesspits you like to frequent. Horrible homosexual dives!’ shouted Bill from his bed. Esme caught sight of naked belly rising from the sheets like a molehill in snow, a chubby leg slung over the white linen.

‘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.

‘Piz Buin tanning oil. Not for an English peach like you but perfect for a cactus like me.’

‘You are lucky. I never go brown. I get heat rash if I get too much sun.’

‘Then I hope you’re being careful, it’s so scorchy hot today. Mind you don’t get it on that pretty face.’

Esme’s skin prickled at the thought of it and she held out one pale arm against Javier’s burnished skin. ‘Look at you after just one tanning day!’

‘Oh, but think what beautiful skin you will keep. You’ll never become a cracked leather sandal like me.’

‘You are gorgeous, Javier.’

Javier’s modesty was false but with the confidence of one born beautiful, he made light of it and regularly put himself down with great humour.

‘I’ve come to get my wallet. I left it in the guest room.’

‘Stop and have a glass of wine with me. I bet the gallery is like a sweat shop today. And your attic room! Unbearable. Stay until it cools down.’

He was right. Her room was stifling and it would take the darkness of night to blot the sticky heat.

‘That would be lovely.’

Javier padded off to collect her a glass and poured the pale-pink liquid into it. It was delicious. Ice cold over her tongue, warming nicely down her throat and emitting a different, welcome kind of heat as it hit her stomach. Her parents had always chosen the drinks at home. When it was hot, the Pimm’s had always come out, which she found sickly. But this was more refreshing; strong and clean. She felt the flush of alcohol spread to her skin in little beads of sweat.

‘How was day two at the gallery?’

‘Oh, you know, a bit of a whirlwind! Deliveries all day. The running of such an amazing place is all new to me and I feel a bit out of my depth. But Suki is sweet and while she shows me the ropes, I can help her out with the art history side of things. For once, I actually feel like I know something useful. I just want to drink it all in and earn my keep.’

‘As I have learnt, carina, you will only truly succeed in this game if you are born with an artistic parasite in your gut, one that feeds off beauty. Your father has one so I’m sure it’s found a host inside you, too.’

‘Javier, that’s disgusting! But it’s true – between my father’s business and the treasures at Culcairn, I have been surrounded by art since I was born. Sometimes so much so I felt like I was drowning in it – but I look back and see it was the opposite. It’s probably what saved me and I love it for that. I feel a state of grace when I see something really beautiful.’

Javier clapped his hands.

‘See? You have the instinct. You can’t buy that at a fancy school.’

Esme thought of what she had learnt in Brussels. She had found the endless lists of names and dates dull and dry, compared to the analysis and comparisons of paintings, but now she saw that all aspects of her formal qualification had helped her get the job she so wanted. She might not be able to answer the phones properly yet or find her way around the files like Suki, but she was familiar with the artists whose works were to be on display at the gallery, opening each delivery had been like a piece of a puzzle she could slot together.

‘Bill knew what he was doing when he hired you. I knew it from the moment he told me about you. He is never wrong about people.’ Javier smiled.

‘How long have you and Bill been together?’ Esme asked.

‘A long time.’

‘Was it love at first sight?’

‘No. Truth be told, he was my ticket out of my sleazy life in New York. There I had many men wanting me. Beautiful, rich and famous ones. But Bill was the only who wanted more than sex. He was prepared to invest his time – and money – bringing me to London, building a home together. He said he knew we would be a perfect fit, and what did I tell you? Bill is never wrong about these things. He was patient, he was funny, he was honest. My gratitude eventually turned into love. Now I can’t imagine life without him. And of course, he is generous. He knows I get my sex elsewhere.’

Like my mother, thought Esme.

‘Doesn’t he get jealous?’

Javier laughed.

‘No! We have loyalty of mind and heart. Our bodies have a will and life of their own, though. Anyway, Bill likes to watch.’

‘Oh.’ Not wanting to appear prudish, Esme quickly changed the subject.

‘Did Bill tell you about my painting?’

‘Briefly. Henry Culcairn left it to you, no?’

She nodded.

‘I never met him but I know all about that deliciously poisonous wife of his.’

‘Lucia? How do you know about her?’

‘Only her reputation and the legend of her background.’ He made a face of gleeful revulsion. She is no more Italian than I am Scandinavian. You British are too stupid and insular to distinguish one accent from another. In London, we all know she is Uruguayan. An air hostess who helped a Scottish earl join the Mile-High Club.’

‘She’s South American? I thought she was from a noble Spanish family.’

‘You look surprised, Esme. Didn’t you know she’s a gold-digging hustler?’

Esme found it hard to imagine the Contessa – that tall column of granite devoid of empathy – coming from poverty. But it was new information she relished. How had her parents not known? Or maybe they did and because of her acquired title chose to ignore it. She couldn’t wait to tell Sophia.

‘That’s amazing. She comes across as being grander than royalty.’

Javier shrugged, stroking his bare chest then stretching his arms up, arching his back until his spine gave a satisfying crack.

‘Just an act that has now become her reality. I know many people like her. Very few remain true to themselves,’ he said.

Esme thought about this. How could she be true to herself when she had yet to become the person she wanted to be? Or was that the point? To remain the same inside and adapt by decorating the façade to fit in. She definitely didn’t want to put herself in a position to be judged too quickly. She was used to people having decided who Esme Munroe was before they even met her. It was easy to make assumptions that turned out to be false – she’d done it herself, after all.

Javier shared the last of the wine between them and said, ‘I’m going out tonight. Why don’t you come with? Do you have any plans?’

‘Um…’

‘You are trying to think of some excuse because you look a mess and have nothing else to wear.’

Esme laughed. It was true. She didn’t want her first night out on the town to be ruined by scruffy jeans.

‘Can I go like this?’

‘Absolutely not. Sure, it’s chic in a retro way but the gays like glitz. What have you got underneath that shirt? Anything?’

She looked down her cleavage.

‘Just a camisole.’

‘Perfect! Let’s see.’

Esme slipped her shirt off to reveal a pretty antique lace and satin vest.

‘Heaven – but the bra has to go. I’ll lend you my Gucci belt and we’ll ransack the safe for some of Bill’s mother’s jewellery. She’s too tight to pay for the insurance herself, so she keeps it here, luckily for you.’ He stepped back and appraised Esme. ‘Earrings, I think.’

Javier bounded upstairs and returned with a box. She recognized it from the kind her own mother had, navy leather with a gold crest embossed in the centre. Inside were a pair of fabulous pearl and diamond clips.

‘I can’t wear those,’ she said. ‘They’re far too good.’

‘Not for my friends they’re not, and anyway they’re insured for being worn as well as just cluttering up our safe. Just don’t take them off, even if they pinch like witch’s fingers.’ He handed them to her. ‘Wonderful! All a girl needs is some diamonds and fewer clothes. My friends are going to be dazzled by you.’

‘By the earrings.’

As she put them on and looked at her reflection in the glass of the window, she realized she felt cool for the first time ever. Expensively casual. Then she wrapped her arms around herself in embarrassment – her nipples were visible through the fine satin.

‘Don’t worry about that. It’s testicles not tits the boys there want,’ Javier said as he went to dress.

Still, Esme felt extremely exposed and draped her shirt over her shoulders – ‘In case I get cold,’ she said, although with London baking in a heat wave, her excuse was as transparent as her top.

When Javier reappeared, he was wearing a matching outfit but with a white vest in place of her camisole. Esme took a deep breath and followed him out into the summer night.

They took a taxi to Soho. The club was hidden away down a cobbled cul-de-sac. The street was dimly lit by lamps that flickered as moths divebombed the glow in constant frenzy. She had hated moths ever since one had got caught in her hair as a child. The memory made her skin crawl. She shivered.

‘I thought you’d be immune to the cold coming from Scotland. It’s not exactly Arctic tonight,’ said Javier.

‘I’m not cold, just revolted by all those moths.’

Javier followed her gaze. ‘You should see the ones we have in Puerto Rico. The size of eagles and bloodthirsty too.’

‘I am never going there,’ she laughed.

The stairwell into the basement was steep and drab. It smelt of beer and yesterday’s cigarette butts. But it was exactly what Esme was after; the underbelly of a London her peers would never see. At the bottom two men were kissing. They parted to let Javier and Esme through the door.

‘Javs!’ said the blond of the two. ‘Great to see you, girlina. Where have you been hiding?’

‘Chained to the stove.’

‘Lucky you. I have to go to Charing Cross for that,’ said the other, smart in his expensively cut pinstripe suit. They both lit a cigarette.

‘Want one?’ said Blondie, proffering his packet to Esme.

She extracted an elegant gold-tipped Sobrani from the packet. She didn’t smoke often but didn’t want to seem inexperienced.

‘Let me present Esme Munroe. The new hottie in town,’ said Javier, pushing her forward like he was introducing her to a dance partner.

‘Lovely to meet you, lovely Esme,’ said City Boy. ‘I’m Ben. You should go in and grab a table. It’s filling up fast. We’ll come and join you after I’ve found Gary’s tonsils.’

Gary was the younger of the two and undoubtedly from what Esme’s father would call ‘the underclass’. She smiled at him. He was incredibly handsome and looked closer to her age than City Boy.

‘He’ll be searching for hours. Had them taken out when I was a kid.’ Gary laughed as he returned his attention to Ben’s mouth.

Esme was delighted by their sense of fun and acceptance. It was the same warmth that emanated from Javier. This was who he was, what he was and he wore his sexuality with pride.

The club bore little resemblance to its exterior. As a private members’ bar there was a faded splendour to the small space. Large ornate mirrors dominated the walls. The banquette seating was buttoned leather with low glass tables straining under crowded bottles and glasses. Cigarette smoke curled around an overbearing chandelier, its weak fingered glow casting shadows in recessed booths.

The company was eclectic and predominantly male. Men of all ages were coupled up dancing to Barry White, chatting or locked in intimate embrace. Not so different to any other club Esme had been to but there was definitely more emotional freedom here. No one was judging.

Javier led her to a bench. The carpet was sticky underfoot and she placed her shirt under her bum to stop sliding about on the shiny upholstery.

‘Easy to clean. Things get a bit heated in here later,’ said Javier.

‘It’s already boiling,’ thought Esme.

A tall waiter appeared with a notepad in his hand and a biro behind his ear.

‘Javier!’

It took Esme a second to realize he was in fact a she. The waitress was striking with cropped auburn hair and pale skin. A large dragoon tattoo breathed fire across her shoulder, emerging from the man’s vest she wore. Esme was surprised to hear an Australian accent.

‘Where the hell have you been, you old bugger? It’s been, what, two months?’

‘Work, work, work, Cece.’

‘Oh fuck off, Javs. You’re a kept woman. All play and no work for you,’ she laughed and turned to Esme. ‘Hi, I’m Cecelia. Cece to my friends.’

‘This is Esme. She’s just arrived from Scotland. A country girl and new to London,’ said Javier putting an arm around her.

‘Throwing her in at the deep end, eh, Javs?’ Cece put out her hand. ‘Great to meet you, Esme. Now, what will I be getting you two lovebirds to drink? Your usual, hon?’

‘Si. And Esme will have the same. They make the most divine champagne cocktails here.’

‘Lovely. Thanks,’ said Esme.

She watched Cece navigate her way across the small dance floor to the bar, giving and receiving kisses along the way.

‘She’s a great girl, Cece. Balls of steel and a heart of gold. And funny. So funny. She doesn’t care who she offends.’

‘She’s very pretty,’ said Esme, watching the Australian lean over the bar and give their order to the bartender. She turned to wave at them and rolled her eyes as a short fat man came to talk to her.

‘The only girl who could turn me straight,’ Javier said, ‘and now you too, carina.’ And kissed her on the cheek.

Cece returned with the drinks tray expertly balanced on one hand. She put their champagne down, along with two small bowls of nuts. She sat herself next to them.

‘That dag Clement is giving me grief tonight. Someone’s been dipping their fingers in the till and he accused me. It’s bullshit. And you know, it’s not like it’s much that’s missing. Just a few pounds. I make more than that in tips.’

‘Ignore him, silly old queen,’ said Javier, rising. ‘Just nipping to the little boys’ room. Save my place and look out for Gary and Ben.’

Esme took a sip of her cocktail. Bubbles fizzed from a sugar cube resting on the bed of the glass. It was sweet and bitter at the same time with a hint of something much stronger than champagne.

‘So, Esme. What brought you to London?’

Esme paused. She badly wanted to impress this girl who was so cool and at ease with herself.

‘I’ve got a job and I’m looking for somewhere to live. Where do you come from in Australia?’ she tried shifting the focus back to Cece.

‘A Hicksville town called Maryborough. Close to the Gold Coast. Noosa and all that. I miss it, the beaches and outdoor life. But I don’t miss the claustrophobia of the place. Nothing to do but drink, fuck and surf. Gets boring after twenty-five years of it.’

Esme would have put her as being older. She felt like a schoolgirl who’d sneaked out for the night compared to her.

‘Don’t you miss your family?’

Her question was automatic, and now she dreaded being asked it in return. Any mention of her family still sent her emotions into overload – a whirling mix of anger, guilt and grief – everything she was trying to escape in her new life.

‘Shit, yeah, but it’s not forever and Mum’s sister lives Cardiff. She’s old now and on her last legs, so I expect Mum and Dad will be over for the funeral when she cops it.’

Esme drained her drink and reached for Javier’s. ‘I’d buy him another one but…’

‘No need. He gets them on the house, courtesy of Clement. Must have something on him because he’s a tight bastard. What about you? Where’s your family?’

Was she going to lie or tell this girl the truth? It seemed not much would shock her and perhaps her dysfunctional parents would seem glamorous.

‘Well, my mother’s in a nuthouse and my father has pissed off to France. Sophia, my sister, is living in New York. She got on a plane as soon as she could afford to escape.’

Esme immediately felt disloyal.

‘Crikey. That sounds very aristocratic. Are you from a posh family? Are those heirlooms?’ she said, fondling one of Bill’s earrings.

‘The jewellery’s borrowed! And in answer to your other question: no, or rather, sort of. My mother had a long affair with an earl and I had to live in his castle with his horrid wife, the Contessa, when my mum had her “episodes”. All in all, I’ve had enough of the upper classes; they’re not as glamorous as you might think.’

‘Hang on, hang on. You actually know an earl and a contessa and lived in an actual castle?’ Cece let out a slow whistle.

‘It sounds more exciting than it was, trust me.’

With a wave of embarrassment, it occurred to Esme that she had never really thought what her life at Culcairn must seem like to those on the outside. Until now, practically everyone she met knew her family’s background and took it for granted. Now she was having to explain it out loud, she heard how eccentric it sounded.

‘Have you been to Scotland?’ she asked Cece.

‘Nah. The furthest north I’ve got is Camden Lock.’

‘I don’t even know where that is.’

‘You don’t? Christ, Esme, it has the best market in the world.’

‘I don’t really know London well. Just Kensington and Chelsea. My parents used to have a house in South Ken. I’d be living there if my father hadn’t spent all his money.’

‘How about this: you can take me to Scotland and show me your fancy pants castle and friends and I’ll show you Camden?’ Cece’s grin was infectious.

‘I’d love that. It’s a date.’ Esme smiled back.

A sudden commotion erupted from behind the bar. Everyone sat at it turned to look in their direction.

‘Oh God, Clement is flapping his hands at me. Better get back to work. I’ll call you.’

Cece gave Esme a quick hug and sauntered back to an irate Clement.

The champagne cocktail was doing its work. Esme had an urge to dance and before Javier had a chance to sit back down, she pulled him onto the dance floor. Whether it was the music, the drink or the fact that she might actually just have made a friend, she felt something she’d missed for a long while. She felt joy.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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