Nomance (7 page)

Eight
:
Enter the Other Party

On a leafy, prosperous
square in Ladbroke Grove, a clap of summer thunder drew Tamsin to
the balconied window of the bijou apartment.

Her friend, Juliet
Westhrop, looked on with an indulgent smile as the winsome little
creature waited, all aquiver, for the next peal of thunder. But
none came. Instead the wind got up and a light rain began to patter
against the pane.

Tamsin returned to her
seat and asked, ‘Darling, I may have to borrow an umbrella
later.’

‘Yes dear. I bought a
new one Monday.’

Tamsin was stricken.
‘Oh, but I have two of yours already, don’t I? Listen, Jules, I’ll
pop back now and bring them.’ She made as if to move, but Juliet
halted her with a dismissive gesture.

‘Stay here, Tam. People
will be arriving soon and it’ll look strange if I’m on my own.’ As
a matter of fact, Juliet did not mind receiving guests on her own,
but she always tried her best to avoiding making Tamsin suffer.
They had been friends from school, when Tamsin’s hopeless
vulnerability was a large part of her charm, and although those
days were long since gone, Juliet still nursed a protective
instinct towards her.

‘Come to think of it
now, I have one of Phoebe’s umbrellas too.’

Tamsin spoke with a
polished accent. She was the only child of a leading barrister (her
father) and the head of a London-based PR consultancy (mother). It
went without saying they had always expected something remarkable
from their cherished offspring. They had been glad to fund her at
St Martin’s College of Art. But her childhood friend, Juliet, could
have told them from the beginning that their daughter had even less
talent than ambition. Tamsin had gone to St Martin’s for one reason
alone – because Juliet was there.

‘I’m surprised Phoebe
has an umbrella,’ Juliet said.

‘It was still sealed in
the original packaging.’ Tamsin stared at the rain and sighed. ‘She
should try to take more care of herself.’

Juliet tried not to
smile. For some reason the rain always made Tamsin melancholic, and
when Tamsin was melancholic she was at her most ludicrous. ‘No need
to worry about Phoebe.’ Juliet soothed. ‘She’s a real toughie.’

Tamsin took heart from
these words and Juliet was about to tell herself, yet again, that
the girl was such a pathetic and simple soul, when Tamsin said,
‘I’ve just remembered something, Juliet. I’ve won ten thousand
pounds on the premium bonds. Of course, it’s not the jackpot, as
such, but . . . ’

Having taken a moment
or two to swallow this, Juliet hastened to congratulate Tamsin on
her good fortune.

It was then that she
was struck by how often before she had congratulated Tamsin on her
good fortune. Far more often, indeed, than she had ever
congratulated any of her other friends. She had been obliged to
congratulate her, for instance, on her triumphant graduation show
at St Martin’s College of Art. Tamsin’s contribution consisted of a
series of sepia portrait photographs of her friends’ vacuum
cleaners.

It had been
acclaimed.

Tamsin was pleased to
be acclaimed, but she was over the moon about her uncle and aunty
leaving her as the sole beneficiary in their will. She wasn’t quite
rich now, but she had enough to buy a tiny house near the
Portobello Road and lead a comfortable lifestyle off what
remained.

Since then, Tamsin had
no longer taken account of her parents’ high expectations for
her.

‘It’s so nice to be
able to come to a party,’ Tamsin declared. ‘I mean a party like
this one, rather than Helena’s. And when the weather gets gloomy,
it helps to cheer one up thinking about beautiful summer evenings
like this.’

Juliet gave her a
pitying smile. No, Tamsin couldn’t count on being cheered up at one
of Helena Hursborg’s art parties – the only kind of party she
attended on a regular basis. Helena – their mutual friend from art
college – was a decade older than either of them. They had met her
at St Martin’s only because Helena had somehow made her three-year
degree course last eight years. She was a manager rather than an
artist and knew by instinct how to use people. Juliet disliked the
way Helena used Tamsin at her parties as a kind of waitress, and
yet, she also had to admit that perhaps waiting on people with wine
was Tamsin’s true vocation. ‘By the way, Tam,’ Juliet said, just in
case Tamsin got the wrong idea. ‘Philip’s got his orders – he’ll be
taking the drinks round.’

‘Poor man. Anyway, I
wish I could throw a party myself once in a while,’ Tamsin said,
referring to the limited size of her little house.

‘It wouldn’t be safe
for any more than five or six people, dear. Fire regulations.’ But
the issue of safety was on Juliet’s mind for another reason. ‘That
reminds me, I’d better put Phoebe’s candelabra out on the table
now. She might think we’ve flogged it otherwise. You know how
sensitive she is.’

This was one of
Philip’s jobs, but her husband was still out, buying extra salted
snacks from the nearest SevenEleven. Tamsin helped her take the
candelabra from the locked cupboard in the hallway.

This gargoyle of
contorted metal was only ever let out of the locked cupboard when
Phoebe was expected to visit. A versatile artist and welder, the
candelabra was the nearest she had ever come to the homely and
utilitarian. Cautioning each other to take care of the many wicked
spikes, Tamsin and Juliet lugged it to the living room and stood it
on the middle of the dining table, where it squatted, looking
ominous and malign.

The doorbell rang.

Juliet went downstairs
and found Liam waiting outside.

Another friend from
those bygone days at St Martin’s College, Liam was a tall, youngish
man, pale and yet saturnine, who nursed a throbbing core of
rancourous defeat under the long, dingy, old man’s coat he wore
throughout the year. He got about London on a creaking boneshaker
bicycle – his one constant companion in life.

‘Where’s your bike,
Liam?’

‘Stolen.’

‘Oh dear. Come on up.
Only Tamsin’s here so far. When does your show show?’

‘It’s showed. Two weeks
ago.’

Juliet made a fuss of
wondering why she hadn’t been told. And so did Tamsin. Joining
their sympathy up seemed to make it amount to something.

‘All of Helena’s
invitations got lost in the post once,’ Tamsin said, in an attempt
to make Liam feel less alone and worthless.

Liam’s gloom sharpened
into resentment. ‘They were bound to get lost eventually. She sends
them out every fortnight. My show was a virtual one off.’

‘But maybe you ought to
try the same approach to selling your paintings as Helena does,’
Tamsin offered, as a tentative suggestion.

‘The Hursborg
Tupperware Party approach?’ Liam sneered. He understood perfectly
that the true agenda of Helena’s art parties was to flog her
paintings – abstracts that demonstrated that she couldn’t even use
a paint roller right.

Juliet said, ‘It does
seem to work though. She sells everything she makes.’

Liam nodded. ‘That’s
true. But then, everyone’s drunk before they buy anything.’ He let
out a bitter, but feeble laugh, and Juliet and Tamsin answered with
repressed smiles. Liam went on, ‘Actually, I don’t resent her being
such a good salesman. I wish I had her gift for selling. What does
get to me is that her parties really are Tupperware parties. All
her dreadful pictures are nothing but Tupperware still-lives. She’s
got a big collection Tupperware hidden in her attic. She uses them
as her models.’

‘Has she?’ Tamsin
asked, wide eyed.

Juliet laughed at
Tamsin’s naivety. However, Liam’s wall-eyed stare made Juliet
realise he was being serious.

Her laughter petered
out.

‘She’s coming along
later, Liam,’ Tamsin reminded him.

‘Don’t worry, I don’t
actually care enough to tell her what I think about her.’

Juliet and Tamsin
exchanged a look. They had never worried about Liam telling Helena
what he thought about her, and they never would.

Just then, the front
door opened and shut and Philip came clumping up the stairs with a
box full of salted snacks. ‘Hello, you two,’ he greeted them with a
happy smile. He was six foot six and sported a shank of floppy
blond hair that still didn’t look too young for him. He also
boasted endless legs attached to lean, athletic body, and he was
currently enjoying a vibrant City career in the
Centaur
Corporate Investment Bank
.

Juliet always felt like
punching the air when she added it all up.

‘How you doing?’ Liam
asked neutrally. Tamsin went up to bestow a kiss.

‘Fine, fine.’

‘We’d better dish this
lot out as well,’ Juliet said, as Philip put the box of snacks on a
chair.

‘Use scissors,’ Tamsin
said, being the expert. ‘It’s quicker than opening the packets by
hand.’

Juliet went to the
kitchen to fetch the scissors and more plates and came back to find
Philip telling Liam that his bank had recently invested in artwork
to the tune of three million pounds. The doorbell sounded again and
he broke off to answer it, returning followed by Phoebe – a tall
rangy woman in her mid twenties, short-haired and wearing jeans and
a white tee shirt. She was accompanied by a man of her own age, who
was taller even than Liam and Philip. This guy, who boasted a frame
of solid bone and muscle – the bone predominating – and was dressed
in fashionable street-fighting style, evinced an air of physical
menace. Phoebe introduced him as Justin.

‘Hello there,’ he said
in a brisk, impersonal voice. His accent revealed him to be of
purest upper-middle-class origins.

He was carrying a pair
of bongos.

‘I’m afraid you can’t
play those here,’ Juliet told him as soon as she spotted them. ‘The
neighbours.’

Juliet’s crisp command
confounded Justin. As a gentleman, he knew he must do as the
hostess asked, but, you know, the bongos was an important prop in
his current image. He was at a loss. Philip stepped in adroitly and
commandeered him to help Tamsin dish up the salted snacks – the
bongos had to take care of themselves.

Meanwhile, in one
corner, Phoebe launched into an enthusiastic conversation with
Liam. She gushed about the bash she had thrown last week at her
flat in Maida Vale. The lovely, but strange Elspeth Williams had
been there – the Elspeth Williams who was tipped for this year’s
Turner Prize. Phoebe waxed lyrical about how Elspeth was working in
the media of “found” crisp packets.

From time to time,
Juliet, who was listening, but pretending not to, noticed Liam
glancing over towards Justin. That poor devil was busy emptying
little packets of salted snacks onto small, dainty dishes. Perhaps
Liam felt sorry for him. More likely though, his emotion was one of
envy. Liam did not want to hear about Elspeth’s “found” crisp
packets. Those foil bags, whose ostensible function, once, had been
to contain deep fried slivers of potato to be consumed between
meals, were now lacerating his artistic sensibilities, smothering
his own work under a layer of actual garbage. Juliet wondered
whether she ought go over, change the course of the conversation
and relieve his distress a little. But she held back when it dawned
on her that Phoebe was making a play for the boy, despite having
arrived with Justin. Okay, Phoebe was very much going the wrong way
about it. Juliet could all too readily imagine what Liam thought
about Elspeth Williams’ “found” crisp packets. Still, with any
luck, Phoebe would work that out by herself and leave the poor mutt
in peace.

More people were
arriving. Juliet and Philip got them set up with drinks. Soon, that
critical mass was achieved which differentiated a party from a
collection of mere individuals, and at that point, and not a moment
before, Helena Hursborg arrived.

She was wearing a dark
business suit and looked and acted just like a middle-aged member
of some local government interdepartmental committee. Juliet walked
with her to the dining table where the buffet was laid out. Helena
had been far too busy all day to eat – she seemed to attend
meetings more often than she painted.

‘Do you like sushi?’
Juliet asked.

‘Love it.’

‘We ordered it from
Ginko’s.’

‘I adore Ginko’s.’
Helena inspected Phoebe’s hideous candelabra for a moment, and
lowering a voice a little, asked, ‘How is she?’

Juliet checked to see
that Phoebe wasn’t within range. ‘The latest round of therapy seems
to have worked,’ she said in a near whisper.

‘I warned her,’ Helena
said, her rather deep voice adding to her solemnity. ‘Africa – all
those boils.’

‘But they stuck
together at the time, didn’t they? That’s what I find so odd. It
was only months after they came back to Britain before she and Rob
split up.’

‘I’m not exactly sure
the breakdown was about Rob. I sense it was because she simply
can’t make any headway as a working sculptor.’

‘But she won a major
commission not so long back.’

‘Really?’ Helena
couldn’t have looked more surprised if Juliet had told her Phoebe
had won a pair a stuffed giraffe. ‘I didn’t know that. Who was it
from?’

‘Her parents.’

‘Ah.’

‘They asked for a piece
to stand in the forecourt of the family’s gas fire factory in
Portugal.’

‘Oh yes?’ Helena began
to look over the sushi. ‘Did you see it, the piece?’

‘Just photographs. It’s
a spine type thing, with sharp plates of metal instead of
ribs.’

Helena paused to weigh
this information and murmured her conclusion, ‘As if doing twelve
hours in a gas fire factory weren’t bad enough.’

Nine
:
The Art of Exhibition