The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [11]
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