No one could ever tell from Piper’s face whether he was in a good or bad mood. A sarcastic man at best when he was in a good mood, when Piper was in a bad mood, none of the handful of people who worked for him dared say a word. Not even Robert Kilgore, even though he was well aware he was the one indispensable member of the boss’s team, as well as the most highly paid, by a long margin. Piper had made him an extremely wealthy man.
And at this moment, Piper was in a proper bad mood. They were in the Long Gallery of his mansion, Bewlay Park, a Grade I - listed former stately home. It was a room with a stuccoed ceiling, Wedgwood-blue pilastered walls, and hung with magnificent paintings.
Piper, suited, was pacing along, with Kilgore in tow and not knowing quite where his boss was going with today’s bad mood. Kilgore worked out of converted stables at the rear of the house. The boss had called him at 1.45 p.m. this afternoon saying he wanted to see him, and when the boss called, Kilgore jumped – well, as much as a chain-smoking, albeit slim, seventy-two-year-old man, who’d not done a day’s exercise since leaving the army, other than spirited sex, could jump.
26
Saturday, 28 September
Finally, shortly after 2 p.m., it was the turn of the couple in front of Harry and Freya in the queue, who were holding their watercolour of what looked like an abstract grasshopper. The paintings expert, Oliver Desouta, took their picture, placed it on the easel, securing it in place carefully. A tall man in his late fifties with gelled salt-and-pepper hair, pencil moustache, flamboyant pink suit and lime-green tie, oozing real charm and bonhomie, he examined the front and back carefully. A cameraman stood alongside with the camera trained on him and the young couple.
Then Desouta began to question them about the piece. He clearly liked it and named a watercolour artist neither Harry nor Freya had ever heard of. But both of them eagerly listened for his pronouncement of its value, as did its young owners.
‘Well,’ Desouta pronounced, finally, ‘if I were to put this into auction, I would expect to see it realize between one thousand and fifteen hundred pounds.’
They looked both surprised and genuinely pleased.
He handed it back to them and they went off happily.
‘Time to rock’n’roll,’ murmured Harry to his wife as they stepped forward and a young female assistant asked their names.
As soon as Freya told her, the assistant’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah yes,’ she said, and turned to a floppy-haired man behind her, in jeans and a T-shirt, holding a clipboard. ‘Mr and Mrs Kipling,’ she said and mouthed something that the couple were unable to hear.
Floppy hair nodded and made a note on his board, before turning to Desouta. ‘This is the possible Fragonard, Oliver.’
Telling the cameramen to hold off, Oliver Desouta stepped forward and said, in his almost impossibly posh voice, ‘Aha, Mr and Mrs Kipling – related to Rudyard by chance?’
Both of them, nervous as hell, smiled politely. ‘Well no, but we do get asked that a lot, as you can imagine,’ Harry said.
Desouta took the proffered painting from Harry’s hands, glanced at it admiringly for some moments, then secured it on his easel. He studied the front carefully, then screwed a magnification eyepiece into his right eye socket and looked even more closely. Then he walked around the easel and spent what seemed to them both to be several minutes scrutinizing the back. Finally, he beamed at them and asked them how they came across it.
After they had told him, he responded pleasantly, ‘This looks very interesting. Would you be willing to appear on camera, Mr and Mrs Kipling?’
Harry glanced at Freya, who hesitated for a moment before nodding. ‘Yes,’ she said.
Harry beamed at the expert. ‘Absolutely!’
‘Right, well, I’ll repeat some of my questions when we’re on air. In the meantime, Roger, our runner, will take you to the green room for a little powder on your faces, and some refreshments, if you are happy with that? It will give me a little time to do some research on this remarkable painting.’ He nodded at the young man.
‘Make-up?’ Freya questioned.
‘It’s a hot day, they’ll dab a little powder on to take off the shine, so you look your best on camera, nice and cool, eh?’ the young man said.
The sun had been relentless and both Harry and Freya were wilting. Harry relished the chance of getting out of the heat for a while and Freya the chance to check her make-up before being filmed.
‘Please come with me,’ the young man said.
Extremely self-consciously, acutely aware of the gaze of dozens of onlookers, they followed him across the lawn and into a large striped tent, where the air was almost icy cool. Harry was ushered to a chair, with an array of soft drinks and snacks in front of him, while Freya was taken to the make-up artist. After a few minutes it was his turn.
The pretty female make-up artist chatted to him pleasantly, and it helped soothe his jangling nerves as she dabbed a soft brush over his face, then very carefully rearranged some of his hair.
Back with Freya, who had miraculously acquired a tan during her time in the chair, he said, ‘You look like a movie star!’
‘Really?’ she retorted. ‘I feel like a bag of jelly. What if he humiliates us and tells us it’s a bad copy, like that other guy told the woman behind us?
Harry put his arm out and held her hand, entwining fingers. ‘I don’t think so – did you see Desouta’s face as he was looking at it? He was impressed – proper impressed. And he said it was remarkable.’
‘He also said he needed to do some research on it,’ she retorted sceptically. ‘Which to me means he’s not sure about it.’
‘I’m taking his reaction as a positive.’
She gave him a sideways look. ‘That’s my Harry, ever the optimist.’
27
Saturday, 28 September
Half an hour passed. Then another quarter of an hour. Followed by another. Harry became anxious, his mood swinging from optimist to pessimist. Maybe Freya was right. Maybe they were about to be humiliated, their hopes shattered on camera and broadcast sometime later this year to five million viewers. All their friends laughing at them. Perhaps, he thought, as time went on, and glancing continually at his watch, Desouta would have decided not to have them on camera at all. ‘What time does it finish today?’
‘I think they said six o’clock.’
He glanced at his watch yet again. It was now gone a quarter past four.
Then, suddenly, the floppy-haired runner, Roger, was standing over them. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Sorry to keep you, Mr Desouta asked for a bit more time, and he’s ready to see you now.’
As they stood up, Harry asked, ‘Do you know when this particular programme will be broadcast?’
‘At the moment, no, it might be later in the autumn schedule, but it can change.’
They followed him back over the lawn, behind all the rows of experts and the queues until they were back in front of their painting. Harry’s frayed nerves were very slightly mollified by the broad beam on Oliver Desouta’s face.
Another camera had appeared from seemingly nowhere, and there were now three – two on them and one on Desouta. In addition a bright light was shining on them. Harry was aware there was a crowd gathered around.
‘So, tell me,’ the expert asked, ‘how did you come across this wonderful piece?’
‘Well, actually,’ Harry replied nervously, stumbling on his words, repeating what he had told Desouta earlier, off-camera, ‘we found it in a car boot sale.’