Lampeth forced another smile, but deigned to reply to the jocular insult. The journal was a left-wing one, he remembered, and it felt the need to be disapproving of anyone who actually made money out of culture.
He saw Willow easing through the crowd toward him, and felt gratitude toward his junior partner. The journalist seemed to sense this, and excused himself.
″Thank you for rescuing me,″ Lampeth said to Willow in a low voice.
″No trouble, Lampeth. What I actually came to say was, Peter Usher is here. Do you want to handle him yourself?″
″Yes. Listen, I′ve decided to do a Modigliani show. We′ve got Lord Cardwell′s three, the sketches, and another possibility came up this morning. That′s enough for a nucleus. Will you find out who′s got what?″
″Of course. That means Usher′s one-man has had it.″
″I′m afraid so. There isn′t another slot for that sort of thing for months. I′ll tell him. He won′t like it, but it won′t harm him all that much. His talent will tell in the long run, whatever we do.″
Willow nodded and moved away, and Lampeth went in search of Usher. He found him at the far end of the gallery, sitting in front of some of the new paintings. He was with a woman, and they had filled a tray with food from the buffet.
″May I join you?″ Lampeth said.
″Of course. The sandwiches are delicious,″ Usher said. ″I haven′t had caviar for days.″
Lampeth smiled at the sarcasm, and helped himself to a tiny square of white bread. The woman said: ″Peter tries to play the part of the angry young man, but he′s too old.″
″You haven′t met my mouthy wife, have you?″ Usher said.
Lampeth nodded. ″Delighted,″ he said. ″We′re used to Peter, Mrs. Usher. We tolerate his sense of humor because we like his work so much.″
Usher accepted the rebuke gracefully, and Lampeth knew he had put it in exactly the right way: disguised in good manners and larded with flattery.
Usher washed another sandwich down with the wine, and said: ″When are you going to put on my one-man show, then?″
″Now, that is really what I wanted to talk to you about,″ Lampeth began. ″I′m afraid we′re going to have to postpone it. You see—″
Usher interrupted him, his face reddening behind the long hair and Jesus beard. ″Don′t make phony excuses—you′ve found something better to fill the slot. Who is it?″
Lampeth sighed. He had wanted to avoid this. ″We′re doing a Modigliani exhibition. But that′s not the only—″
″How long?″ Usher demanded, his voice louder. His wife put a restraining hand on his arm. ″How long do you propose to postpone my show?″
Lampeth felt eyes boring into his back, and guessed that some of the crowd were now watching the scene. He smiled, and inclined his head conspiratorially, to try and make Usher talk quietly. ″Can′t say,″ he murmured. ″We have a very full schedule. Hopefully early next year—″
″Next year!″ Usher shouted. ″Jesus Christ, Modigliani can do without a show but I have to live! My family has to eat!″
″Please, Peter—″
″No! I won′t shut up!″ The whole gallery was quiet now, and Lampeth realized despairingly that everyone was watching the quarrel. Usher yelled: ″I′ve no doubt you′ll make more money out of Modigliani, because he′s dead. You won′t do any good to the human race, but you′ll make a bomb. There are too many fat profiteers like you running the business, Lampeth.
″Do you realize the prices I used to get before I joined this bloody stuffed-shirt gallery? I took out a bloody mortgage on the strength of it. All the Belgrave has done is to lower my prices and hide my pictures away so nobody buys them. I′ve had it with you, Lampeth! I′ll take my work elsewhere, so stuff your fucking gallery right up your arse!″
Lampeth cringed at the violent language. He was blushing bright red, he knew, but there was nothing he could do about it.
Usher turned theatrically and stormed out. The crowd made a gap for him, and he walked through it, his head held high. His wife followed behind, running to keep up with his long-legged stride, avoiding the eyes of the guests. Everyone looked at Lampeth for guidance.
″I apologize for ... this,″ he said. ″Everybody, please carry on enjoying yourselves, and forget about it, would you?″ He forced yet another smile. ″I′m going to have another glass of wine, and I hope you′ll all join me.″
Conversation broke out in scattered places, and gradually spread until it filled the room with a continuous buzz, and the crisis was over. It had been a bad mistake to tell Usher the news here in the gallery at a reception: there was no doubt of that. Lampeth had made the decision at the end of a long, exciting day. In future he would go home early, or start work late, he resolved. He was too old to push himself.
He found a glass of wine and drank it down quickly. It steadied his shaking knees, and he stopped sweating. God, how embarrassing. Bloody artists.
III
PETER USHER LEANED HIS bicycle against the plate-glass window of Dixon & Dixon′s gallery on Bond Street. He took off his bicycle clips and shook each leg in turn to let the creases fall out of his trousers. He checked his appearance in the glass: his cheap chalk-stripe suit looked a little crumpled, but the white shirt and wide tie and vest gave him a certain elegance. He was sweating under the clothes. The ride from Clapham had been long and hot, but he could not afford Tube fares.
He swallowed his pride, resolved again to be courteous, humble and good-fiempered, and entered the gallery.
A pretty girl with spectacles and a miniskirt approached him in the reception area. She probably makes more per week than I do, Peter thought grimly—then he reminded himself of his resolution, and quelled the thought.
The girl smiled pleasantly. ″Can I help you, sir?″
″I′d like to see Mr. Dixon, if I may. My name is Peter Usher.″
″Will you take a seat while I see whether Mr. Dixon is in?″
″Thank you.″
Peter sat back on a green leatherette chair and watched the girl sit at her desk and pick up a telephone. He could see under the desk, between the drawer stacks, the girl′s knees. She shifted in her seat, her legs parted, and he looked at the smoothstockinged inside of her thigh. He wondered if ... Don′t be a fool, he told himself. She would expect pricey cocktails, the best seats at the theater, Steak Diane and claret. He could offer her an underground movie at the Roundhouse, then back to her place with a two-liter bottle of Sainsbury′s Yugoslav Riesling. He would never get past those knees.
″Would you like to go through to the office?″ the girl said.
″I know the way,″ Usher said as he got up. He went through a door and along a carpeted corridor to another door. Inside was another secretary. All these bloody secretaries, he thought: none of them could exist without artists. This one was older, equally desirable, and even more remote. She said: ″Mr. Dixon is terribly busy this morning. If you′ll sit down for a few moments, I′ll let you know when he′s free.″
Peter sat down again, and tried not to stare at the woman. He looked at the paintings on the walls: watercolor landscapes of no great distinction, the kind of art that bored him. The secretary had large breasts, in a pointed bra, under her loose, thin sweater. What if she were to stand up and slowly pull the sweater over her head ... Oh, Christ, shut up, brain. One day he would paint some of these fantasies, to get them out of his system. Of course, nobody would buy them. Peter would not even want to keep them. But they might do him some good.
He looked at his watch: Dixon was taking his time. I could do pornographic drawings for dirty magazines—I might make some money, too, that way. But what a prostitution of the gift in these hands, he thought.