Crossing the line - 8. At the 122 Club

The 122 Club was called that because it was at 122 Savile Street, a fine late-Victorian townhouse in Kensington. It had been extended both downwards and to the rear. But the discreet plaque on the entrance gave no indication of what went on inside.

The invitation from Francis Heyward had come with remarkable speed. It seemed the sidekick whom we’d met at the garden party was called Archie; I did wonder whether he was the boyfriend, but that seemed somewhat unlikely. I could see having your PA as your toyboy or fuck-toy or whatever, but having a boyfriend trailing round after you like that? Anyway, Archie had emailed us with a formal invitation to dinner with Francis Heyward at the 122 Club. Though there was an extra paragraph explaining it would be just the three of us, and dress was smart casual, but neckties were preferred.

It was this latter which caused the most stir with Dan. The last tie that he’d worn had been at a funeral. We’d ended up buying a new one, and a few ‘good’ shirts that he could use for these sorts of occasions. We’d gone to Jermyn Street; Dan had complained but I’d pointed out that it was daft to wear a cheap shirt with an expensive suit. I was learning that I couldn’t just hustle Dan into wearing what I thought appropriate, that there needed to be discussion and compromise.

It pained me when his dress-sense was infelicitous, but I was beginning to understand that it was important for Dan to feel comfortable in his clothes. So, accommodations were made. But this time, it wasn’t me specifying things, a tie was a necessity and, as we had walked along Jermyn Street, Dan had come to understand my way of thinking, invest in a couple of good shirts to go with the good suit. But good did not have to be uncomfortable or boring.

We’d have to be quick, however, Dan got restless when shopping and there was the ever-present danger of him selecting the first thing that came along to get things over with, whereas I would take far too long trying to pick the perfect item and ending up with the thing I first thought of. I told him this as we walked into the shop and he had a good laugh, which got things off to a good start.

The young salesman had taken one look at the suit and steered us in the direction of some very expensive, very tailored shirts. They were definitely for best only; he’d never be able to work in them. So slim fitting were they, they were almost as sexy as the trousers. Looking a bit embarrassed at his image on the mirror, he wryly commented, “They’ll have to be for best, I’d never work in this, probably rip.”

“You’ll need to keep a clean one at work, for emergencies.”

“In case Mr H wants me to look poncey for visitors?”

“Welcome to your world.”

“Yeah.”

But Heyward or Archie’s attention to detail didn’t just stop at sending out the invitation. A letter arrived for Dan, in which there was a copy of a pamphlet written by Heyward’s garden designer and head gardener describing the new gardens. I imagined Heyward going round the party, following up each encounter with dictated notes to his sidekick.

The club was quiet and discreet. Ring a bell and a grey-haired bloke in uniform appeared. No reception desk, the large staircase and hallway retained its elaborate period plasterwork and panelling (19th century evocations of the 17th century, and pretty impressive too). It was, however, furnished in a discreetly modern way, though the pictures were truly boring (past presidents and worthies, painted by second-rate artists, the paintings conventional and unimaginative). The bloke, commissioner or whatever simply asked us to wait. Through one door we could glimpse a nice-looking, faux-18th-century drawing room with hints of sounds of a bar. But another door led to a glass corridor that was pure modernism. We are staring at this latter when another man appeared, well suited, young, dark-haired.

“Welcome to the club, sirs.” He gestured in the direction in which we were looking, “That is our business centre, many club members use it when they are in London, useful for gaps between meetings. That”, he gestured to the drawing room, “is our library and through to the members’ bar and restaurant. Mr Heyward is in one of the private rooms. He asked me to apologise, he is running somewhat late and invited you to have a drink.”

We were led, by a circuitous route, to a small room overlooking the garden, sounds of the bar came from the adjacent room, separated by just an archway. It was pleasant enough, very traditional with some 18th and 19th century prints of London. I ordered a gin and tonic, and Dan followed suit. Beer or wine was more his tipple, but the place had that sort of atmosphere, conform or else.

“It’s quite a rabbit warren”, Dan wandered round the room, “What do you think would happen if we went exploring?”

“A very polite staff member would appear and usher us back. Don’t forget, that bloke made sure we knew that it was the members’ bar”, I put real emphasis on ‘members’.

“Yeah, thought he was going to give us a full sales pitch. What do people do in these places?”

“What Heyward is doing, meet people, entertain people, work between meetings. There’ll be bedrooms upstairs, for the use of out-of-town members coming to London.”

“With discretion and privacy assured.”

“Precisely.”

The drinks when they arrived were strong, Dan almost spluttered into his, “Bloody hell.”

“Nothing weak and wilful here.”

“Who’s paying for this?”

“Francis Heyward, I expect; all on his bill.”

“Settled monthly, I suppose. All right for some.”

The garden was quite formal, and frankly a bit boring. A sort of orangery at the rear seemed to have been expanded and now the building ran on all sides of the garden. The extensions had been traditional, in keeping and boring. The man appeared again, said Mr Heyward was ready, took our drinks and led the way round to the back of the building, another room overlooking the garden. More modern in style, the print on the wall was an Edwin Bawden of a London scene. Nice. Classy. Expensive, if original.

It was a pleasant room, modern furniture with the feel of a well-heeled hotel. A table with three chairs was laid out for dinner, with three more comfortable seats round a coffee table by the window, which was where Heyward was sitting. He was in just a shirt and slacks, the shirt oozed classy, good taste and expense, clearly designer, it was one of those where there were seams and discreet extra details in contrasting colour. It was very striking. His slacks were neat and well fitting, showing off that trim form. He was placed in the middle, between Dan and me. He looked at our drinks and said what a good idea and ordered one.

He apologised for the delay in our meeting, “I came to town for purely frivolous purposes, but business has a way of following me.”

We both smiled, but there was little to add, our business wasn’t in the same league.

“One of my frivolities was to take delivery a picture that I bought last month. It is an intriguing piece but one about which, I admit, I am having doubts. Would you care to see it?” I said I would, not a little intrigued. “I found it by accident, it is in a terrible state, but I have to decide what to do with it. It is a portrait, a male nude. The artist is, Norman James, best known for being an assistant to Gerald Kelly and producing works in his master’s academic style. This work is somewhat different, well I will let you judge.”

Staff brought in the picture and laid it down on the coffee table. It was a good size. Heyward unwrapped it. The frame was horrible, utilitarian, the picture itself in need of good TLC. In style it was early to mid-century, 1930s probably, finely painted, classical almost and matched some of the boring portraits we’d seen coming in. It wasn’t very original in style; you could see the influence on Norman James of a variety of other significant works. Yet…

“Fucking hell”, Dan let this escape under his breath.

Heyward simply smiled, “My thoughts exactly. Astonishing is it not?”

It was a young man, nude, there was a bit of curtain and a full-length window, but the eyes and the light were on him. His eyes challenging us, his hips thrust forward, his penis however was fully erect and magnificently curved. It was challenging in every way.

“It’s not exactly sexy, is it?” Dan looked at me.

I agreed, “More like he’s challenging us, or daring us.”

The corners of Heyward’s mouth twitched, “I rather though he might be advertising his wares, so to speak.” His eyes lit up and we exchanged glances. For the first time I felt Heyward the man, rather than the careful businessperson.

“Quite a pricey advert, I don’t think James’ pictures were cheap.” I cudgelled my brain to remember the little I knew. “Who was it painted for, and who is the subject?”

Heyward shrugged, “That’s what is so intriguing. We don’t know. I’d heard rumours of nudes, but nothing in this category. And it is so finely finished.”

I examined it closely, “Underneath all that grime you can see it is far more than a sketch. All the explicit elements were painted in a superb technique and loving detail, you feel you could almost reach out and grasp that challenging erection. What are you planning on doing with it?”

Heyward looked rueful, “Ah, that is the problem. When I bought it, it seemed it might be a jeu d’esprit. Something a bit kitsch like a Russell Flint.”

“But it’s not, it’s far more serious than that, cooler.”

“And so in your face”, this was Dan’s view. And it was, deliberately so, the painter was revelling in the disjoint between style and subject.

Heyward nodded, “So. I find myself unsure. What do you think?”, he looked at me expectantly, as if I was the resident expert. I looked at pictures, but as for putting them in houses, that was different. But I quickly scrolled through my phone till I found the picture I wanted. I showed it to him, “How about there, instead of the marble relief?”

Heyward looked at the image and burst out into a guffaw, the first time I’d seen him lose control so significantly. Dan looked over.

“The Marble Hall.”

Heyward’s good humour continued, “Facing everyone entering, advertising his wares. I like it.” He nodded to me, “I like your sense of humour, but it might work.”

The painting was cleared away as if staff did that all the time, and perhaps they did. Menus were brought, there were choices to be made.

As we looked at the menus, Heyward continued, “I went to see the Winston.”

“The Arthur Winston?”

“Yes. As you suggested, it was far more powerful in reality, a very strong work indeed. Have you seen much of his early work?”

“The political stuff?”

Heyward nodded, “Yes, I was intrigued as the new pictures seem to return to that style.”

“Up to a point, the early ones were far more figurative, much more like very early Hockney, the new pictures make no such concessions.”

He stared at me, “Mmm. What would you buy, if you could?”

I thought, what would I buy for my own enjoyment. “Some of the mid-period abstract stuff because it is so good, it thrums with energy. And a couple of the new ones, because the political edge is so powerful.”

“Mmm.”

The main courses included a pasta dish and steak. I knew Dan would avoid the pasta, he tended to only eat such dishes if he knew the chefs were Italian. I, however, usually opted for steak as it meant not having to worry about whether the food would be to my rather simple tastes.

I chose something almost at random, mainly because it had pork in it. Dan however chatted knowledgeably about one or two of the dishes. Heyward asked me if I was equally knowledgeable about food. I shook my head, admitting that I couldn’t cook and knew little of food, but that Dan was educating me. Heyward turned to Dan, “And you are a cook?”

Dan went bright red, I stepped in, “He doesn’t like to admit it, because he was trained by his Gran who is evidently expert.”

Dan found his tongue and explained his Anglo-Italian ancestry. Chat about his experience of Italian food, where his Gran’s family came from and so on, took us until the starters arrived. Conversation seemed to take a re-set and suddenly I found myself talking in detail about Donald Mitchell with Heyward.

“I followed his career with interest and have always found his obsession with a particular model somewhat disturbing, given the stories.”

“You don’t credit them?”

“I imagine he does have sex with his models, but I doubt very much if he is quite the amazing lover that legend casts him in. Donald Mitchell is after all a great teller of tales.”

Heyward nodded, “In life as in paint. But surely there is no harm?”

“I know he claims that he can seduce anyone. And being painted is very seductive, someone staring at you in such an intimate manner, over a long period of time.”

“You have been painted?”

“Plenty of quick sketches, but only once properly, formally. And even full clothed there was something intimate about it. And you?”

“Sketches that never came to anything, a boring head and shoulders for a boardroom. I’d like something more, but …”

“Style and artist!”

“Mmm. So, Donald Mitchell has sex with his models. They are grown men; they know what they are getting into.”

“But do they really? He likes ordinary blokes.”

Heyward pulled a face, “Rough trade and such.”

“Ah, not necessarily. Some are just guys he met, boys doing it for a bit of cash.”

I looked at Dan who licked his lips and took up the story, “I knew a bloke in that exhibition.”

Heyward’s eyebrows raised slightly, “At the Tramshed Gallery?”

“Yeah. I went to the PV with Vaughan. There were two paintings of a guy from my first nick, a copper. A sort of before and after image. Clear that it was after too, very explicit.”

Heyward smiled, “I remember.”

“Well, he was 100% straight, saving up for a house with his girlfriend, going to live near her Mum. Had a place in mind. He probably thought it was just taking his clothes off for money.”

“And Donald Mitchell seduced him?”

“I don’t know for certain. It’d be more than once if you believe Mitchell’s stories. Certainly, the pictures suggest it. And that feels a bit like exploitation. I wonder if the money was worth it?” Dan shrugged, “He was a nice, straightforward bloke. Didn’t play around. Fuck knows what it did to him, finding himself in that situation.”

I nodded, “And the deed enshrined in paint.”

Heyward looked thoughtful, uncomfortable almost.

We ate in silence, and I thought that Donald Mitchell was finished as a topic, but then Heyward suddenly started again, “I bought both those pictures, and more that Mitchell did of the man, the complete series.”

“Blimey!” Dan seemed surprised, “Before, during and after!”

Heyward gave a thin smile, “Not quite, but nearly. I bought them because there was something almost vulnerable about the young man. He wasn’t selling his wares.”

“Not a rent boy.”

“No indeed, clearly from Dante’s story, quite the opposite.” He turned to Dan, “Would you be able to get in contact with him?”

“What for?” Dan’s defensiveness made it come out rather abruptly.

But Heyward didn’t seem perturbed, “Oh, I don’t want to meet him or anything, but see how he is doing. Whether life worked out. Whether the pictures have become an unfortunate mistake, a millstone or simply a joke.”

“OK. What if he’s in a bad way?”

“Then we try to help. Discreetly. Anonymously.”

Dan stared at him; you sensed two very different worlds intersecting.

Heyward looked thoughtful, “I dislike being seen as a sort of righteous bounty, a do-gooder, I am not that. I am not good. But I dislike such events, where we, the privileged, cause havoc in others’ lives and by privilege, of course, we can include both wealth, upbringing and such artistic aristocracy as Donald Mitchell.” He held up his hand to stop Dan, “And I am aware that you don’t solve anything by simply throwing money at it. But I have discreet ways, charities I support and other such networks.”

Dan stared at him, “You do this sort of thing a lot?”

“Not a lot. I don’t go round looking. But my Father was”, he paused, wrinkled his nose, “unscrupulous. I inherited wealth, his business acumen and also his messes, the human dramas he left, the ordinary lives he affected.”

“Wow.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m not good. I like the fine things in life, the privacy and privilege that wealth brings. The ability to employ people like you, the luxury of entertaining here.” His good humour returned, there was a slight smile, “So, you will enquire about this man and let me know?”

Dan looked thoughtful, “OK.”

--oOo—oOo—

“What do you think?”

We were in bed, much later. The conversation with Heyward had eventually moved on to other topics, still art, some still knotty topics, but never quite so close to home. An enjoyable, if unnerving evening as I had had to keep myself on a tight rein; this was Dan’s boss that we were dealing with, and his apparently friendly demeanour meant little.

“You mean how did we do, vis a vis Francis Heyward?”

“Well, that…”

“OK. I think. He doesn’t give much away, and I don’t think I went beyond anything I’ve not said in my articles.”

His hand stroked mine, “You were fine. That’s why you were there, ‘cause you talk about stuff Mr. H is interested in.”

“But it did feel a bit like we were on show.”

“Fuck, yea. It was worse than me interview.” We laughed.

“What do you reckon to all that business with Greg?”

“I don’t know. He seemed genuine enough. But I can’t help thinking that it could just have been what he thought we wanted to hear.”

“But why?”

“Dunno. Keep us sweet, part of a bigger plan?”

“Bloody hell. So, what are you going to do about Greg?”

“I thought I’d ask a few of the guys if anyone’s in contact. Try and send him word, say I’d seen the pictures and thought I’d say hi. Not much.”

“And Heyward?”

“I’ll maybe report something. Depends on Greg, where he is and such.”