Crossing the line - 9. Out and about

Amanda had a new exhibition at the Tramshed, no nudes this time, and no politics. It was a group show, rural artists, a mixed bunch but some sounded promising, and besides, Amanda always put on a good party. Dan was coming straight from work but would change into one of his new fancy shirts. I think he’d even started to enjoy having some different and interesting clothes to wear, even though the cut of the suit still came in for comment. I’d decided to go ‘full art critic’ with an old tweed jacket and long scarf that I had recently dug out of the cupboard after goodness knows how many years.

We’d wandered round the show, though Dan wasn’t very taken and kept muttering, ‘remind me why we are here’, but with a glint in his eye. I couldn’t even say it was paying my wages, as the most I’d do is put a short note on my blog.

“Because Amanda throws a great party.” I grinned.

We headed over for refills and to pick up some nibbles when who should come into view but Francis Heyward with two or three people. His ‘Ah, Dante’ was almost comical. It was what he’d said both times previously, as if it was quite natural that his head of security be at the private view. Perhaps in Heyward’s world, it was.

Introductions were made, though it wasn’t really clear what connections the other people had with Heyward. I recognised one man, we’d seen him at the party; I think he was the guy in the walled garden, writing, though his name escaped me.

The two women were introduced by first name only, as Francis Heyward’s friends. That was it. We chatted vaguely and politely about the pictures. Both women, Suki and Valentina, were a certain age, well preserved glamour. Suki was very stylish, simple shift-dress, heels to die for, little make-up. Valentina had a halo of fluffy dark hair and was all rich flowing fabrics and bangles; but all very expensive. It seemed they were interested in the artists. I forbore saying much but perhaps my lack of enthusiasm told, and eventually the two went to look at the pictures. Dan ended up chatting to the writer, about history, I think. No doubt I’d find out later.

Heyward looked at me assessing, “Your presence, Vaughan, is an unexpected pleasure; I had not thought the show would be of much interest.”

I gave a nervous laugh, the guy unnerved me, “Truth to tell, there is little of interest, though one or two pieces I’d rate.”

“Valentina was keen to come, though I admit that I will be disappointing Miss Halton”, I noted his rather formal address of Amanda, “though I am sure Valentina will indulge. If you had to choose, what would you recommend?”

I raised an eyebrow, “I can’t speak for an investment, but the two pieces that stand out are…”, and I detailed the two works which seemed to reinvent the pastoral tradition rather than produce chocolate box.

He thanked me and apologised, saying he needed to attend to his friends, but as he left, he turned, “I took your advice, the startling nude young man is being cleaned and restored, a suitable frame created, and it will be hung in pride of place in the Marble Hall.” He gave me a smile which was almost impish, certainly wicked, “I would like your thoughts on hanging my new Winstons, Archie will be in touch.”

Archie was the side-kick’s name; I was pretty sure but would have to check my emails. But what? It seemed I was being co-opted as art advisor. Would there be a fee, I wondered?

“I’m surprised to see you here sweetie, not your sort of thing, is it?” Amanda brought me a new glass of wine and was smiling.

“Not really, but you give such good parties and I think you can’t simply ignore stuff you don’t like. Besides, there are a couple of good pieces, like the Frank Dunbar over there”.

She sighed, “I think I might be getting a sale. That’s Dan’s employer, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Bit of a surprise him being here, not his style at all. I gather one of his friends was keen and he came along to give advice.”

She was amused, “Which he has managed to extract from you.”

I nodded, “I am in danger of becoming Mr H’s unofficial art advisor.”

I told her about the nude, which led to raised eyebrows. Then her assistant called her away. “Must dash.” She leaned over, confidential, “It might not be great art, but it sells, and that pays the bills. Stick close to Heyward if you can, you might be able to steer him my way occasionally.”

I wandered over to Dan who was still talking to the writer, Tim, that was his name. Dan turned to me, “Tim teaches history at the OU, and we’ve been talking about my favourite writers.”

Tim turned to me, there was a wary look in his eyes, but a strength too. He might retire to write in the walled garden rather than attend a party, but you felt that his opinions might be strongly held.

“Dante was telling me about your Father’s library.” His lips twitched. “It sounds rather impressive.”

“My Father was very proud of it, though I’m afraid I don’t use it much. Dan’s probably told you, and Father would be pleased that someone is reading his books now.”

Dan was quiet, and Tim nodded; I noted he’d called Dan by his full name, so Francis Heyward must have been talking about him. Interesting.

“My flat is entirely taken up with books that I need for work and for my writing, so there is little space for wonderful old books like yours. I keep suggesting to Francis that he have a library in that mansion of his, but so far have not succeeded. He is a very visual person.”

“Are you here for the show as well, I gather that Francis’ friend Valentina is thinking of buying a picture?”

Tim smiled and shook his head, “No, not this time. I’m simply here to make up numbers; we’re going to dinner once Valentina has done her stuff.”

I wondered again, who Tim was and glanced over at Dan, and could see he was intrigued too. But Suki came striding over, apparently determined. And striding she was, despite the heels, and she managed to still look elegant. Tim went over to join Francis and Valentina whilst Suki made a beeline for me, barely registering Dan.

“Vaughan, I was wondering if you give lectures and talks?”

Not quite what I expected, but still; I nodded, “Certainly, though I have to emphasise that I am not an academic, my talks tend to be more anecdotal and historical. Though I did once run an art appreciation class.”

Her eyes lit up, “Oh, where was that?”

Bugger, my big mouth, I’d doing hated the class. I’d hated the subject and hadn’t got on with the woman running the course. It had seemed to pay well but the amount of work needed barely made the talks viable, and certainly having such demanding recipients was not pleasant. Suki stared at me, I’d been silent too long.

“At a women’s club in Hampstead, in all truth they were an experiment that wasn’t entirely successful, I’m better at history and anecdote!”

Her mouth moved into a slight smile, “My, my Vaughan. Anyone would think that you were talking yourself out of a job. I run a little enterprise, quite small but for charity”, I would learn that this was typical Suki understatement, no enterprise of hers was little. “A dinner lecture series, people come, mingle with a drink, there is a talk by an expert then dinner, at some exclusive venues with good food.” She stared at me. “These are not adult education classes; my friends expect experts in their field who can be entertaining. The events are exclusive”, the second time she had used the word, “and not cheap. But all profits go to charity.”

“Indeed, and you wish me…”

“Yes. Francis told me about your blog and there are some interesting articles and issues. I think that this could be of interest to my friends. Would you be willing to do a talk, perhaps about the blog, what you do and mention some of the issues, the politics and the policeman.” Here she looked quickly at Dan, so she was fully briefed, “Donald Mitchell on his models, perhaps bring in the rivalry between Mitchell and Freud.”

“Well… It’s different to what I’ve done before but certainly sounds possible, if you think it of interest?”

She was decisive, “Yes, I do. And if it goes well, and I think it will, then we can perhaps talk about a series, four or five, each linked to a forthcoming exhibition, a sort of mix of history, anecdote and what to look for.”

“Mmm…”

She smiled, and it was brief but dazzling, “Nothing like art appreciation classes.”

From across the room, Valentina could be heard calling, ‘Suki darling’.

“Excuse me. Here is my card”, and I fumbled and found mine. We shook hands and agreed to be in touch to firm up details. As she strode away, she turned back, “My friend Fiona was at those art appreciation classes, and she enjoyed them immensely”, another small smile and she was gone.

I looked at Dan and he smiled, “Wow, she’s quite a powerhouse. You doing it?”

“If she gets in contact, and if the money’s OK. I do wonder at the whole thing; is it a serious business proposition, do enough of these ‘friends’ cough up enough money?”

Dan nodded and was about to comment when another voice answered my questions, “Oh, she will be in contact, and she pays fairly. Quite an operator is Suki”, Mae had appeared silently at our side.

“You’ve done stuff for her?”

Mae smiled, “No, she’s not interested in struggling artists. Only the successful, the fashionable and the grand; you are in exalted company”, and she recited some names.

“Blimey. So why me?”

Mae shrugged, “She is canny too. And all the money goes to Francis Heyward’s pet charity.”

Dan stared at her, “How do you know all this?”

“My friend Nancy is Terence Peters’ ex!” She turned to Dan and kindly filled in the background, “Painter who has a big line in etching and book illustrations, very, very popular. Well, he dumped Nancy for a younger model. When they were still an item, he did a couple of gigs for Suki. He’s a terrible speaker, but a name.”

“A big name!”

Mae laughed, “But a terrible shit”, she shrugged. “Nancy did all his paperwork, so she had all the gen.”

“One of Heyward’s pet charities, you say?”

“Oh, you won’t find his name anywhere. It’s all very discreet.”

“Interesting.”

“Don’t let Suki’s glamorous exterior fool you, she’s a tough cookie and sharp with it, a high-powered career in education ending up leading Overton College in Cambridge. Stood down when she remarried, to devote herself to charitable purposes, but she’s still an achiever. Impressive.” I liked Mae, there was a directness to her along with a dry wit, but on this topic, there seemed an underlying bitterness, perhaps because none of Suki’s glitter had come her way.

Valentina did buy the two pictures, the ones I’d highlighted. Heyward and party left as soon as the deed was done, but not before he’d said goodbye and that he’d be in touch. When things quietened down, Amanda managed to come over for a final chat.

“I gather that Heyward bought some Donald Mitchell’s from you?”

She laughed, “Seems so. You don’t always know who’s buying the big stuff really”, she turned to Dan, “most patrons don’t want it known that they are in the market for something. They have a fixer who does all the work.”

“And takes a nice cut.”

She smiled, “That’s our world.”

“So, you knew it was Heyward?”

“Oh yes, no secret at all. It was odd though.”

“What?”

She looked at us, “Keep this to yourselves, OK”, we both nodded. “Usually, you get money as a transfer from a financial services type firm, the people who look after the money. Sometimes it can be direct from the fixer, but that’s rare for me. This time it was from a whole selection of financial people, all over. I don’t know who actually owns the Mitchells now, but it almost seems as if Francis Heyward is rather spreading out his assets.”

“Or hasn’t got the money for an impulse buy and has to cast around for it.” She smiled and I could see she thought the same thing but didn’t want to say anything.

As we walked home, we talked about money. Francis Heyward’s money and how him being potentially skint was all a relative term. He’d still have plenty to live on, cutting back meant something entirely different when you lived life at his level. And, as Dan pointed out, he’d probably still need a security man.

--oOo—oOo—

Suki did follow things up, and we pencilled in a date for me to talk at her dining club. Just an hour, and all it needed was visuals, not handouts or anything, which was a bonus. The money was Ok, not great, but I did get my dinner and rather gathered that I would have to work for my supper, telling amusing stories and such round the dinner table. I would have to polish my repertoire of anecdotes. But there was another curious corollary to the evening, when I met Ron and Peter, another mutual friend, for a dinner. We’d met through a charity that Ron and I had volunteered for, and for which Peter worked. He came from a fairly ordinary background, but an Oxbridge degree and the right connections had given him a pukka old-boy manner.

Any event involving him included plenty of alcohol and this evening wasn’t different. An Indian restaurant in East London where the range food was limited but of fabulous quality, and you brought your own wine. The restaurant had surface glamour, but the loos were dodgy, and you just hoped the kitchens were a sight better.

“Dan not with you?” Peter’s question was eminently polite but next to him Ron looked positively gleeful.

I shook my head, “He’s working tonight, an evening event for his boss.”

“Ah, the famous Mr Heyward!”

Ron and Peter looked at each other and Ron smiled, “Go on Peter, it’s your story.”

“Story?”

“Ah, my dear chap. As you might remember, I do a bit of work for a charitable outfit that helps ex-offenders. Help them get on their feet again, training, advice, someone to talk to. The thing is, all the grunt work is done by people like them, their own milieu. The nobs keep in the background. Your Mr Heyward is one of the donors, a big one at one time. Most generous, though always with strings attached.”

“Strings?”

Peter smiled, “Mr Heyward does not like to simply give money away, he likes to know where it is going. A canny man is Mr Heyward. “

Ron rolled his eyes, “More like he wants to ensure the charitable giving suits the image he wants to project.”

I shrugged, “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Come on. Someone like Heyward with all those rumours of underhand business, insider dealing and downright fraud.”

“Fraud?”

Ron shrugged, “Over-stating the worth of assets to get better financial terms.”

Peter shook his head, “Oh, come, come. Surely this is all hearsay.”

Ron gave one of his gnomic smiles, “I assure you that the information comes from reliable sources”, but as usual he wasn’t giving anything away. Ron liked playing oracle sometimes. Mind, if you pressed him, you’d find probably that it really was just hearsay.

Peter sighed, “Anyway, it’s a shame really.”

“Shame?”

“Well, the money seems to be drying up. Perhaps we are no longer in favour, and he is supporting other causes.” He shrugged, “Not that anything has been said. Not at all. And all existing commitments are being generously honoured.”

“But nothing new?”

Peter smiled, “Precisely.”

Ron smiled, “Or he feels his image doesn’t need polishing anymore.”

But I wondered about those rumours of his being financially overstretched. However, there wasn’t anything more; it was little more than a gossipy story, fun but not especially revealing. I left rather curious about Francis Heyward’s financial dealings. Not that I understood much about how all these things worked and didn’t really have anyone I could ask.

Ron phoned me a few days later, returning to the subject of Heyward’s finances, “I’ve finally remembered. I’m pretty sure it was Norman who knew about it.”

“Norman?”

“You remember, Norman and Pat, he was a big bear of a man with a beard.”

“And bad teeth?”

“That’s it, and Pat was a tall gangly thing.”

“So, you’re still in touch.”

“I was. He died earlier this year, heart-attack.”

I forbore to make the comment about size, “That’s a shame. He knew about Heyward. He was a Labour councillor, wasn’t he?” Norman was part of a group of Ron’s cronies who I knew vaguely, had met at rallies and marches, but whom I remembered in very little detail. Ron, by contrast, had every item in his memory and assumed that they were as close friends to me as to him.

“Yes, but he’d been a journalist and kept up the contacts. We met up late last year, and he was mentioning the way Heyward had been inflating the worth of assets to get over financial restrictions or something.”

“Any details you remember.”

“Sorry, he brought the matter up to emphasise a point about the regulation of financial markets, rather than Heyward himself. Sorry.”

“And he’s not around to quiz.”

It was all just clouds of rumour. Supposedly reliable sources, but nothing concrete. You could easily write it off as disgruntled middle-aged activists having a good chunter, but there was something about the miasma around Heyward that just wouldn’t quite clear.