Crossing the line - 31. A little disappointment

To say that Ercole’s reappearance in our lives, however brief it was, was a surprise was something of an understatement. We’d enjoyed his visit to London and there had been vague talk of meeting up again, but I wasn’t going to hold my breath. An invitation to the Villa Torronia without some sort of artistic impetus seemed unlikely and his suggestion of us visiting him in Milan had not developed into anything concrete.

And let’s face it, Dan and I just didn’t move in the same circles as Paola and Tony, for all their apparent friendliness. I was quite clear; people like Ercole’s parents, Francis Heyward and Suki were only friendly to me and Dan because we were useful to them. And as for Ercole himself, Dan and I were both of the opinion that after two encounters, our novelty would have worn off and he’d move on to pastures new.

Yet here he was, having a drink with us. He had been most insistent that we make time to meet up. Having flown into London that morning he was heading up to Manchester the next day for another conference. However, for all his insistence, he wasn’t staying with us but with friends of his parents. By way of a sort of non-apology he explained that he had to stay with the friends as he had an errand for Mamma, delivering a package. We never did find out what exactly the package was or why it was so important, and I wondered if it was valuable and whether Ercole had declared it with Customs and paid duty. I could see Dan’s eyebrows raising slightly whilst Ercole explained, but Dan stayed silent though I suspected he had the same idea.

Dan and I were planning to meet up with Amanda later, not a PV or anything, but a rare occasion to be sociable with Amanda, Bill, and Mae. We had walked into town and duly delivered ourselves to the bar at the top of the Royal Festival Hall. It was pleasant and modern, buzzy and airy, with a great view of the Thames. For all the name harked back to the Festival of Britain, the décor was decidedly modern and corporate, but that didn’t seem to bother people. Dan had never been and neither had I, there had never been a reason to go. The odd time I had been entertained at the Southbank it had been in an anonymous function room; hacks like me rarely warranted being entertained in destination venues like the top-floor bar.

Ercole had assured us that the bar made the best Martinis in London. That was the sort of thing he knew about; for a lowly engineer he had real caviar tastes. However, both Dan and I disappointed him and had wine; a Martini would have knocked us out too early in the evening. He had managed to wangle a table by the window. Not sure whether that was skill, charm, or serendipity, but it meant we had great views of the river, and the tide was even playing ball and was almost fully in.

We settled and exchanged vague news; improvements at the Villa, my buying activities for Francis Heyward, Heyward’s recent party and such. Dan was admirably restrained in the face of Ercole’s patent curiosity about what went on at the party. Dan showed what I thought of as his policeman side, the ability to dead-pan stone-wall, being polite whilst giving nothing away.

This side to him came out in our arguments, though those were thankfully brief as a rule. But I could see that in the face of major disagreement he would likely retire behind the façade, something that rather took the wind out of my more volatile gestures. And with a major disagreement, I worried that faced with this impenetrability I would flounce out and cut my nose off to spite my face. He said that I worried too much, that he would never let it happen, that my nose was too cute &c. Really! Cue smooching session. Perhaps we would be OK.

Ercole was similarly foiled in his probing about the party and conversation rather petered out. Why on earth was he here? Had all this been simply so that he could get gossip about Francis Heyward and the party? Surely not.

“As part of Mamma’s improvements at the Villa, she and Papa have been buying paintings.”

Here was a far more tempting morsel, something very much to my taste, “Really. More Moroni or more Futurists?”

He shook his head and smiled, “Not at all, some older artists; fine pictures that fit the house’s historic style.”

“There hardly seems room for more pictures, where will they put them?”

“Ah, they have sold too. Following the exhibition there was an offer on the early Moronis, a very tempting offer.”

“I see. So, moving the collection around. Always a good thing. What have they been buying?”

He named a list of artists, gave some tempting descriptions and I wondered where they had bought them from. Privately in all likelihood, or through a small auction house; certainly, I didn’t recall that particular group of artists appearing in the recent auctions that I’d followed. Ercole was happily forthcoming.

“They bought them from Francis Heyward, who was selling some of his collection”, Ercole looked at me carefully. If he’d been wanting to find out if I knew about the sale, then he was surely gratified in my surprise. Our surprise, because Dan was equally in the dark. Ercole continued, “A private sale. All very discreet.”

Did he know how much of the collection Heyward was selling? Alas he didn’t. Certainly, more than the handful that Mamma and Papa bought; some were indeed too expensive for their budget. I explained that I was buying pictures for the main rooms and did not have access to the Old Masters in the private collection. I thought of that lovely Pontormo drawing, the Sargents, the Constable and the other delectable things. Were they all going as well, I wondered?

Ercole looked at me sideways, “Papa thinks that Francis is not reorganising the collection but is seeking to liquidise some assets.” He put these last words in sort of inverted commas.

Dan smiled, “He’s short of the readies?”

Ercole returned his smile and shrugged, “Perhaps. Certainly, Mamma and Papa think so. But they are friends, not business associates and Francis rarely talks business away from the boardroom.”

Too right. Despite our meetings with him, we had little idea of his business nor who actually owned all those pictures. As we walked over to meet Amanda, Bill and Mae at a Thai restaurant near London Bridge, Dan echoed my thoughts.

“Do you reckon you’ve been set up?”

“You mean, have a moderately well-known art critic make a noise buying second-rate contemporary pictures for your collection whilst you sell the good ones?”

Dan shrugged, “Fits the known facts.”

I smiled, “Thank you, Mr Policeman, for that reassurance. And unfortunately, I have to agree.”

“You can hardly ask him, can you?”

“Nope. But I can put my ear to the ground.”

--oOo—oOo—

Amanda and I had been going to the same Thai restaurant near London Bridge since we’d first known each other, when its reasonable prices, huge portions and hippy-ish tourist-Thai atmosphere had been big draws. The area had changed radically in the recent years; the hospital was still there of course, but there was the Shard, looming over everything and the whole area had had some sort of upgrade, in one way or another. But the restaurant clung on, and we still went. The cooking was now less hit and miss, the prices higher but the atmosphere with its mixture of bright colours and fake antiquities was just the same, the friendliness was still there. The big round tables seemed to encourage parties, and the menus cried out for sharing.

Each time we went, we agreed we should do it more often but then diaries would get in the way. I had the same dishes each time; that way there were no nasty surprises. But Dan went over the menu carefully and quizzed Amanda and Mae about what was what. Needless to say, it was some significant time before we’d ordered and could relax.

Amanda wanted to know how Greg and Len were, so we brought them up to date on our little trip to Norton Priory with Mother. But I to admit that my contact with Greg had been patchy, apart from emails about the exhibition as I’d been rather busy, and he had been less than forthcoming. She’d rolled her eyes and commented, tell me about it, and soon we were in the thick of plans for the gallery and nefarious doings by various mutual acquaintances in the artistic world. A good old gossip in other words.

Thankfully, the names were starting to mean something to Dan, and I felt less guilty at plunging him into this rather closed world. But he had a good memory, so could pick out information about an exhibition we’d already talked about and was starting to have opinions of his own, and to express them. It was more him adjusting to my world than two worlds merging, but he was happy and seemingly content.

Finally, Mae asked how my own buying for Francis Heyward was going. Amanda’s interest was strong in the area too and she was quite up to date in my buying.

“You bought a couple of Miranda’s pictures?”

“Yep. I’ve not got my Lucien Freud yet, alas. And at this rate, never will”

“Too tight fisted, is he?”

“Well, I thought that at first. But it seems to be more than that. He’s been off-loading some of the Old Masters.”

Amanda’s eyes widened and suddenly she was eager, “Shit. Serious stuff or just moving things around?”

“Serious stuff. The son of the couple who own that villa in Italy we visited”, the others nodded. “Well, he was over recently, made a point of meeting us for a drink. It seems that Mamma and Papa have bought some of Heyward’s paintings, and there were others that were available but were too expensive for them.”

“Bloody hell. Does sound like he’s liquidating stuff. I take it that there’s been no buying as well on a similar scale?” I shook my head.

“And how was it handled?”

I shrugged, “Dunno. Ercole, the son, didn’t say. But he did say that Mamma and Papa reckon that Heyward is trying to liquidise some assets. Things have not been going well.”

Bill pulled up on one of the essential issues, for us at least, “Why buy more pictures if you need to sell some to get your cash-flow going?”

Mae smiled, “Old con trick. Something to distract folk whilst the serious business is going on elsewhere.”

Amanda stared at me and smiled, “You reckon? You’re just the distraction?”

I nodded “We sort of think so. After all, I’m hardly an obvious candidate to act as an agent for Heyward.”

Dan shook his head, “Don’t do yourself down.”

Amanda butted in, “It’s not that, Dan. It’s just, well, the rich do things differently.”

Bill smiled, “Very privately.”

“Precisely. They use a third party; you never know who’s been really interested in what. Heyward buying those Donald Mitchells from us directly was unusual, but they were unusual too. Then he follows it by engaging Vaughan, who is visibly swanning around buying pictures in a remarkably public manner. It almost screams, look at me, I’m still in the business.”

Mae smiled in agreement, “Lots of colour and movement, and plenty of noise.”

“You reckon it was all false? You’re making me feel depressed.”

Amanda smiled, “Not at all. Just the right person in the wrong place. It wouldn’t have been believable if you hadn’t known what you were doing.”

Mae agreed, “And I’m really looking forward to seeing the hang, and the exhibition. You’ve got some exciting stuff happening Vaughan, whatever Heyward does.”

I sighed, “I do wonder whether anyone is every going to see the hang at The Manor, but the exhibition is starting to look exciting.”

We talked about the exhibition plans, which of course brought in gossip about Donna McKee, Donald Mitchell and co.

Towards the end of the meal, Mae returned to the subject of Francis Heyward, “I reckon you will get to show the hang at The Manor. Good smoke-screen. Everything normal here.”

“Hope so. I’ll feel a bit of an idiot otherwise.”

Mae looked more anxiously at Dan, “What about you, will your job be affected?”

Dan shrugged. He’d been admirably laid back about it all, but it was a worry. His first venture out of the Police was turning into a potential dud. “Your guess is as good as mine, but if he’s still got The Manor then it needs security.”

“You think he could get rid of The Manor?”

I shrugged, “Well, as far as I’m concerned, it’s a hideous white elephant, but he did build it.”

Bill’s eyes twinkled, “And designed it, evidently, at least according to an article I read, all about how he’d collaborated with the architect to create the perfect house.”

“Perfect, come on!” I laughed. “Do you think it works, Dan?”

He pulled a face, and moved his head from side to side, “Depends. It’s great for entertaining, showing off with large numbers of people. Works well for his parties, but, well, not sure I’d actually want to live there.”

“Does he live there?” Bill was curious.

“I’m not sure. Dan?”

“A bit. But, well, he comes and goes a lot, even when ‘in residence’. There’s his club in town, and stuff. Probably doesn’t add up to as many days as you think.”

“Quite a pricey bit of entertaining space.”

“Yeah, but where would he put the pictures?”

Amanda gave an evil smile, “You mean the ones he hasn’t sold?”

“Nude men and that.”

Bill looked thoughtful, “There’s some good things there, interesting stuff. Shame it’ll probably all go into store.”

“Hang a few on the walls of his luxury flat and keep the rest for a rainy day.”

Mae, however, was still worried about Dan, “What will you do if Heyward gets rid of you?”

Dan smiled, “Sublet my flat, move in with Vaughan and drive him mad.”

Amanda blinked, “You, Vaughan and all those books! It’ll be a tight squeeze.”

Bill smiled, “Perhaps you should ask Heyward if you can be live-in Guardians for The Manor.” We all had a good laugh at that idea.

“Really, though. It’s OK. We’re going to have a shed in the garden and Dan can live there.” He threw me a mock punch.

“That’s not such a crazy idea. Know someone who has his pottery studio in a shed, complete with kiln”, Mae always knew someone.

Amanda however, had other ideas, “What about the attic?”

Bill pulled a face, “Might work. You’d need to reinforce the joists, and you’d need a dormer or something. But the head room still might not be good enough, you’d have to raise the roofline or lower the ceiling. What are your local council like about planning?”

I stared at him and laughed, “As if I’d know? It sounds a bit complicated.”

He pulled a face, “Might not be. Pretty standard stuff. Worth finding out what your neighbours have had done.”

It was true, various neighbours had had attics rebuilt, but the houses were such a wide variety of shapes and styles that what one did might not work in another.

Mae smiled, “It would make a nice book room up there, cosy and quiet.”

Dan grinned, “You might be right, and somewhere for Vaughan to retire to.”

Amanda laughed, “I can just see it. Dan in his shed, Vaughan in the attic. Look, Bill knows a guy who does that sort of thing, the bloke has done work for a few friends round about.”

And suddenly, things seemed to be getting organised.

--oOo—oOo—

“What do think of the attic idea?”

We were walking back from the tube, having taken the Northern Line to Clapham North.

“I thought we could run with it, see what’s involved. It’s not just the cost, but the mess and upset. If Bill’s bloke responds, we can see what he suggests. But a book room in the attic has its attractions.”

“Would you use it?”

“Would we use it! After all, you read books too”, I smiled. “Well, there’d be a few books in the study. I’d have to be organised, fetch stuff I needed for work, then take them back. Or perhaps use the book room more as a study. Should be OK, and we could fasten the doors downstairs to make the two rooms separate.”

Dan grinned, “His and his studies.”

“What if we’re wrong?”

“Then we’ll have more space for when I come to stay”, he grinned.

--oOo—oOo—

It wasn’t even a rumour, just a little wisp, the odd whisper. Francis Heyward was off-loading some of the good stuff. The Pontormos would have to be sold to a UK collector, they might have their export licence stopped otherwise. But at least two people I talked to reckoned it was likely, and others had heard rumours.

Of course, there were always rumours. But. But. But.

So, I put my head down, wrote my reviews and articles, did the bread-and-butter commercial stuff, and waited. Dan did the same, nothing amazing, nothing alarming, a bit same-old, same-old. Whilst Heyward was entertaining, it was all small stuff and he was away a lot, on business. The hang came together and somehow the exhibition did. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to get excited.

We met Greg and Len for meal, as they came down to London so that Greg could look over plans for the exhibition and OK all the stuff about him. I’d been a bit worried that, faced with it all in black and white, he’d back-track a bit, want to make it less personal, but he and Len looked over everything carefully, made a few factual comments and were content. Phew.

They said they enjoyed Mother’s visit, which was nice of them even if not completely true, and she’d written them a lovely thank you letter. Really charmed them. And somehow the evening with them sped away, the four of us chatting, finding that topics arose naturally out of others. We were an odd foursome, two ex-policemen, a baker, and an arts journalist, but somewhere along the line we’d got closer. Not quite friends, yet; but give it time. And whatever Francis Heyward did, he couldn’t fuck that up, could he?