Crossing the line - 34. Jumping the Fence

I had been careful with who I invited to the launch party. Amanda, Bill, and Mae of course, as well as Greg and Len who said no as getting away for a second event was too complicated, and there were other friends and acquaintances such as Steve, and Tony and Judith, who were not directly connected to my professional artistic/journalistic life. Martin and Bart had regretfully declined; I’m not sure whether they genuinely had another engagement or simply didn’t fancy The Manor again.

But many more people were more likely to have been at the press launch, and it was probably unsuitable for them to be at this more private event, though of course the scale on which Francis Heyward did things meant privacy was a moot point.

The biggest shock was Mother. I had explained ages ago about helping Francis Heyward buy and hang paintings for The Manor and had tried to be candid about the subject matter. My broaching of the subject of the launch party was done in a rather back-handed sort of way, ‘I’m sure you won’t want be interested but …’. Bad move. The tart response was, ‘Of course I do’, adding that she was familiar with the male appendage, thank you very much, and certainly saw no reason not to enjoy the artistic treatment of it. She would stay in a hotel near the house in Brixton (thank the Lord for Premier Inn) and travel by taxi.

Gran, thankfully said no. I had left Dan to deal with her and she had sharply said that she didn’t need to see any more naked men, she’d seen plenty over the years. Indeed!

I had been undecided about my outfit until the last possible moment, and at Dan’s urging had gone for familiarity and comfort rather than something new and glitzy. So here I was, with some of my usual but dressed up with a fancy silk scarf that I’d found that toned well with my shirt and jacket. All were loose and casual in cut, which meant I didn’t feel hemmed in. Dan had flat out refused to wear his work suit and had chosen a remarkably fancy shirt that I’d bought him a while back and which never seemed to get worn. He looked remarkably sexy in it.

So here I was, standing in the Marble Hall, being nice to people, answering questions, scanning the arrivals for people who needed to be chatted to. Dan was around, generally saying hello to people we knew, and people he was familiar with as visitors to The Manor. But really, I was waiting for Mother. She arrived wearing what I knew to be her best daytime outfit and a new hat. It was very garden party. She greeted me warmly, but it was clear she was impressed both by the grandness of the house now she had finally seen inside it, and by my presence in it. This would be one of the few times I’d done something she could really boast about to her friends. Then she saw the Norman James.

“Well, that young man clearly enjoyed showing off, but he does have a lot to be pleased about”, was her comment. “Is the rest of the exhibition like this?”

“Some of it, the pictures are very varied.”

“But very educational”, she gave me a smile and we both remembered that dance show. “Thank you for warning me, it was very thoughtful. But now I am here, I am going to enjoy myself.”

“Will you be telling Edna all about it?”

“Edited highlights, I think. Ah, Dan, lovely to see you. I need to leave Vaughan to his public; would you escort me please?”

So, Mother collared Dan and they made their stately way round the exhibition. Two of her comments, relayed back to me by Dan, probably suffice. ‘I remember seeing the Epstein sculpture, of Adam was it, I think, at Harewood and thinking that Michelangelo had certainly not been as generous with David’, and ‘Can some men sustain it for a long time or was the painting session one long piece of erotic stimulation, I wonder’. Dan seemed to have stored up her comments with some delight, and he assured me that she had a great time, was gratified at my success, and basked in reflected glory.

Having got my speech over, I was indulging in a glass of champagne when Paola and Tony appeared. Greetings were exchanged and they conveyed Ercole’s apologies, he really did have to work on an important project at the lab. So, he had sent Mamma and Papa, and they too had had an educational time. Paola seemed to have been particularly amused and mentioned that she would have to engage me for a re-hang at the Villa. Politesse or reality? I would no doubt find out.

I managed a quick word with Steve, who dryly commented about us so far managing to keep our heads above in the storms. We didn’t reference Francis Heyward’s affairs directly, but Steve’s congratulations on my achievements were warm and there was a gleam in his eye with his parting comment of ‘I’ve got something for you, I’ll send it’. Clearly more dirt on Heyward.

I had seen Suki arrive with Valentina, the woman with whom she’d come to the Tramshed that time. Suki looked elegant in a striking tunic-style blouse in a fabric emulating Chinese hand-painted wallpaper, worn over a pencil thin skirt in verdant green with nude heels (high) whilst Valentina looked a mess in all-pink ruffles.

I’d not managed to speak to her then, as I was detained by a couple of gallery owners who were intrigued at my having climbed over the fence, so to speak, and managed not to fall flat on my face. The evening was a bit like that, the people that knew me, or knew of me, mostly tried to find a polite way of saying that they’d thought the hang would be a disaster, but it wasn’t. Frankly the most refreshing were the ones who said that to my face. And of course, there were the people that Francis Heyward wanted me to talk to, I had to be shown off.

Donna McKee was someone I had not expected to see, but there she was, large as life and chatting to Francis Heyward. Yet she didn’t defer and bore me off.

“Terrific show. You’ve got a real eye”, she peered at me, “Bet I can tell which ones you bought”, and she proceeded to reel off an alarmingly accurate list of my purchases. She had her arm in mine, so I could not escape easily; not that I wanted to. In the face of all the politesse and being kept at a distance by people who didn’t really know what to make of all the nudes, Donna was refreshing.

“Years since I’ve seen so many willies, but you’ve really caught it. Very arresting. And this lot”, she waved a hand at the assembled guests, “don’t know what to make of it. It’s a real hoot.”

And it was. She was dead right, and I laughed, relaxing at last.

“Some of the stuff’s a bit thin of course, but you’ve got the balance right. Now, what I want to know is how many of these were painted by artists who were queer?” She peered at me, and I shrugged, I genuinely hadn’t thought about it. “See! Missed a trick there. Think about it. Perhaps your next show, gay men paint gay men?” Another wolf-ish grin and she was gone.

As with the way of these things, people quite quickly stopped actually looking. The ones for whom seeing the pictures was prime, simply drifted away. Francis Heyward had stationed himself in the Staircase Hall, and thus was well placed to field those coming and those going, and whilst he was looking trim and dapper as ever, was there also a sense of self-satisfaction? Probably.

The ones who stayed clustered into groups, an excuse to catch up with old friends and enemies. As the guests thinned out, I spotted Suki and went over.

I was going to say something about her outfit, but she plunged right in, “Your big day, Vaughan”, the smiled was brittle. “Mind, I have to say the subject matter is a bit challenging. So many…”

I smiled internally, back to willies. “Well, you get plenty of nudes in the Moroni exhibition.”

She frowned, put her head on one side, considering, “Moroni’s were different, you were less conscious of the sexuality, but here.” She shook her head.

“I’m afraid that the Mitchells are all about that, and so are some of the others.”

A tight smile from her, “Precisely. Something of a challenge, but that does not disguise your achievement. You are very talented.”

“Thank you, but I only played a part, after all they are Francis Heyward’s pictures.”

She gave me an odd, piercing look, “But you chose them?”

I frowned, “A few. Francis Heyward bought the majority; they were all downstairs when I first came to The Manor.”

“Downstairs?” Her voice was sharper, she was getting annoyed. With me?

“In what should be the cinema and entertainment room, I think. Stacked up, waiting for him to finish. That’s where I came in.”

“To do what exactly?”

Now was hardly the time for Suki to give me the third degree, for whatever reason, but I could hardly simply turn tail. “Advise on the hang”, I waved my hand at the pictures around us in the Drawing Room. I looked to see if there was anyone I knew, alas no. “I bought a few pieces to fill in gaps. The Donna McKee in the Long Gallery came through me as she’s a friend.” Stretching it a bit, but two could play at that game.

“That’s a very dark picture.”

I cocked my head, “It’s a very good picture, powerful, of a man in a very dark place. And unique.”

“How so?”

I gave a little smile, “Donna doesn’t do male nude portraits. Greg was special.”

“Those in the Staircase Hall”, it was clear she didn’t approve.

“Francis Heyward bought them, and the hang is his, a bit crowded for my tastes.”

“And that”, she paused, “one in the Marble Hall?” I suspected she had been going to use a derogatory epithet, but then thought better of it.

“Francis Heyward showed me it just after he bought it. I saw it first over dinner at his club.” That got a raised eyebrow. “I said it was certainly worth cleaning and suggested the location”, I shrugged, “He liked the idea.”

I smiled and started to turn away, I thought that I’d gone far enough for politeness. Thankfully I spotted some faces, a couple who collected contemporary art and who often chatted with me at shows. Not surprising that Heyward should know them, and I welcomed the chance. Suki gave me a smile and a half-hearted air kiss and walked away. To find her dear friend Francis, I suspected. I had worked out what the problem was. Suki’s beef was almost certainly with dear Francis. He hadn’t told her about the collection, his plans for the male nudes; my comments about them being downstairs had been a real surprise. If she’d been to The Manor, then she had been entirely unaware of the collection of pictures awaiting their places on the walls. I imagined Suki didn’t like being kept in the dark.

Paola and Tony reappeared and seemed eager to talk. “You have hidden talents, Signor Vaughan”, Paola looked as soignée as ever in a flattering Shantung silk sheath in beige with a toning scarf.

Tony shook my hand warmly, “Francis has been singing your praises, the way you brought his ideas together.”

I was gracious and thanked them and admitted it was a challenge, then Paola smiled and floored me with a question, “How do these compare to the Moronis?”

I smiled, acknowledging the challenge then talked about how Moroni used nudes architecturally, less interested in the body itself, whereas Francis Heyward’s choice had fallen on artists who concentrated on the body or the person or perhaps the conceptual idea.

We seemed all set for a challenging discussion when Suki reappeared. “Francis was telling me about your exhibition.”

So, I explained to them about the concept, sketching in how it came about. When I described the Mitchell sketch of Greg, all three pairs of eyes widened, as I expected the hang at The Manor had been challenging for people in many ways. We were back to the lots of willies.

“And Francis is lending some pictures”, Suki positively glowed.

Paola inclined her head, “From The Manor?”

I nodded, “Two of the large ones of Greg.”

She cocked her head, “In the Staircase Hall.”

“Yes, and two of the photographs of him. Donna McKee is letting us use her portrait, the one in the Long Gallery.”

Tony brought me up short, “That isn’t Francis’s?”

“No. Donna McKee lent it as a favour to me. Greg is also letting us use the sketches of him by Donna as well as the Mitchell. First time that they will have been seen in public. Quite a coup.” I smiled, “Plus others, Rodin and Camille Claudel, for instance.” The three nodded, “and the curator himself.” I was positively gleeful when I told them about the Mirko of Dan and me.

By the time I was able to extricate myself, Mother and Dan were long gone. Thankfully, Francis Heyward did not want to show me off at dinner, so I was able to go home and was greeted by the smell of Italian food being cooked. Mother and Dan were in the kitchen, she seated with a drink and he busy chopping, both chatting about The Manor and its garden. Mother greeted me warmly, congratulated me and left it there. No doubt, I would get a full verdict later. We had a remarkably civilised evening, then she disappeared in a cab to her hotel, thank goodness.

Dan and I settled down with a stiff brandy.

--oOo—oOo—

Steve and I had had a brief chat at the party, and he’d said he had something for me. It arrived in the post a few days later. A couple of A4 sheets, closely printed, from some sort of financial journal, quite a learned one by the looks of it. It was a forensic examination of a recent data leak, a dump effectively as the volume of information was huge, all of it relating to secretive financial activities in the Cayman Islands where many off-shore companies were able to hide their real activities.

I could not begin to understand everything, but Steve had highlighted the salient points, and at the bottom he had scribbled a note, ‘Looks as though those rumours were true, and maybe the party was a last gasp. Terrific though, and congratulations again’,

Essentially the data shed light on, amongst many other things, financial activities related to a series of companies ‘routinely reckoned to be associated with the financier Francis Heyward’ and the story they told seemed to be of money flowing out, not in. I am sure others could get more detailed information out of the article, but it was enough for us. Heyward was clearly in trouble in some way. Downsizing indeed!

After he’d read it, Dan raised an eyebrow, “Likely the doom merchants are right.”

A further note from Steve, on the back, counselled caution, that other interpretations might be possible. True enough, but neither of us were sanguine.