Having delivered this almost Old Testament curse, the girl moved very close to the artist and spat the next words out at him.
‘You know what you are, Denzil Willoughby? You’re just like your art – full of shit!’
And, with that parting shot, Fennel Whittaker picked up an almost full bottle of red wine and stormed out of the Cornelian Gallery.
EIGHT
No one could completely ignore what had happened, but the outburst did not put an end to the Private View. The speeches by Giles Green and Denzil Willoughby had been a kind of natural break in the proceedings, and as soon as Fennel was out of the gallery, Zosia and her staff moved into assiduous glass-filling and canapé-offering mode.
There were some murmured comments among the Fethering invitees, but few of them had met the Whittaker family before. The general opinion was that they’d just witnessed the effects of too much alcohol. And, although it would have been embarrassing had the incident involved anyone they knew, the moment of confrontation had actually been quite exciting. Some of the locals, unsure what to expect from the art world, even thought that the scene had perhaps been part of the exhibition. Since the Tate Gallery’s purchase in the 1970s of ‘a pile of bricks’, Fethering folk affected a sophistication incapable of being surprised by anything that went under the name of ‘modern art’. After all, you never knew.
Denzil Willoughby himself seemed the least fazed of anyone there. In spite of what Fennel had said about guilt, he appeared to be immune to it. As soon as she had left, he had turned back to a group of younger people whom no one from Fethering recognized, but whom they had already marked down, from their flamboyant manners and clothing, as the ‘art college crowd’. On their fringes, trying to look part of the group, lingered Gray Czesky, with his dumpy hausfrau wife, Helga, in tow.
Carole Seddon accepted a top-up of her glass from one of Zosia’s helpers. She was glad they were serving the Chilean Chardonnay that she particularly liked from the Crown and Anchor’s wine list. And it was refreshing not to have to worry about driving. Only a three-minute walk from the Cornelian Gallery back to High Tor.
‘Good evening.’
She turned and was surprised to see that the words had come from Spider. Given the framer’s shyness, she hadn’t expected him to be at the Private View. In fact, she thought he had only just put in an appearance. Surely she would have spotted his bulk and distinctive hairstyle if he’d been there earlier. Perhaps he’d been lurking in his workshop.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘I recognized you. You came to get that photo framed.’
‘Yes. Of course I remember . . . Spider, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right. Spider.’
‘I’m Carole.’
‘Carole. Right.’
There was a silence. The conversational sally seemed to have exhausted him. From across the room Ned Whittaker saw Spider and gave him a wave of recognition.
‘You know the Whittakers?’ asked Carole.
‘Yes, I’ve been over Butterwyke House. Delivered some stuff they’d wanted framing. Posters of Eastern geezers.’
‘Buddhas,’ said Carole, remembering the pictures she and Jude had seen inside the yurt Chervil had shown to them the previous Saturday.
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Spider.
‘Did you deliver them to Butterwyke House?’
‘No. To some place in the grounds with lots of, like, huts.’
‘Yurts.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The place is called Walden.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Spider again. ‘They gave me a full guided tour of the whole place, but I didn’t take it all in.’
Once more their conversation was becalmed. Carole racked her brains for something to say, finally coming up with, ‘Did you do any of the framing for this evening?’
It took him a moment or two to understand her question. ‘Oh, you mean, like, for the exhibition?’
‘Yes.’
‘No. I frame pictures, prints, photographs. I wouldn’t touch garbage like this.’
Carole grinned. ‘I’m afraid I agree. Denzil Willoughby isn’t my cup of tea either.’
‘It’s rubbish, that’s what it is, just rubbish.’ He leant forward, overwhelming her by his proximity. ‘If Giles brings in more rubbish like this,’ he went on earnestly, ‘the Cornelian Gallery will be, like, closed within three months. And what’s going to happen to Bonita then?’
What’s going to happen to you then? Would it be easy to find another job as a picture-framer? Carole’s thoughts were instinctive, but she didn’t voice them.
‘I think Giles bullies her,’ Spider confided. ‘She can’t stand up to him. Bonita never wanted this exhibition, but Giles bullied her into having it. Then he insisted on it being on a Friday, and Friday’s, like, Bonita’s day off, her special day when she goes to London. She never misses that, but Giles just doesn’t listen to her. He needs someone to tell him to, like, stop meddling in his mother’s affairs.’
‘That someone being you maybe?’
‘I might at that,’ Spider replied, and then looked almost embarrassed at having said so much. Big speeches didn’t come naturally to him.
At that moment Ted Crisp lumbered up to join them. Carole introduced the two men, who to her surprise seemed instantly to get on and start talking. Or, that is to say, Ted started telling his stock of old jokes and Spider seemed more than happy to listen to them. Carole Seddon would never understand masculine conversation. She slipped away unnoticed into the throng.
In the confusion at the end of Fennel Whittaker’s tirade, no one had noticed that Jude had been one of the few people who left the Cornelian Gallery. Outside the warmth held the promise of summer evenings not too far ahead.
While the other departing guests went on their way, Jude lingered, looking along the line of shops for Fennel. But in vain. There was no sign of the girl. For a moment Jude was about to go round the back of the parade, suspecting that Fennel might have taken her sorrows down to the beach. But then she noticed some movement from inside a Mini parked along the road.
She moved towards it. In the passenger seat sat Fennel Whittaker, the bottle of red wine tipped up, pouring its contents into her mouth. When Jude tapped on the driver’s side window, the girl appeared not to hear her. She tried the door handle, but it was locked.
That sound made Fennel Whittaker look towards her visitor. After a moment’s hesitation, she clicked a button which released the central locking. Jude opened the door and slipped into the driver’s seat.
‘Didn’t realize it was you, Jude. Thought it was my parents. Haven’t got the energy to have another boring heart-to-heart with them.’
Though the girl was undoubtedly very drunk, she was still in control. Her words were not slurred, just a bit faster and louder than normal.
‘So you had a relationship with Denzil Willoughby?’ asked Jude.
‘Yes. Dreadful word that, isn’t it, “relationship”? Sounds like a purely business arrangement. Some bank managers these days are called “Relationship Managers”. Did you know that? I think the word should be kept for people like them, to refer to professional dealings, not to cover all the messy business of living with someone and having sex and making plans and being disappointed. There ought to be another word for that.’
‘Was your . . . whatever this new word is . . . with Denzil Willoughby particularly messy?’