The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [18]
″Oh. Well, all right then,″ Julian said. He was nonplussed.
Best shook hands. ″Thanks for coming in,″ he said.
″Sure.″ Julian turned away and left.
He walked along the narrow street toward Fleet Street, wondering what he had done wrong. Clearly he would have to think again about his plan of calling on all the London art critics personally. He would write, perhaps, and send a little essay on the thinking behind the Black Gallery. They would all come to the reception—there was free booze at that, and they would know their pals would be there.
God, he hoped they would come to the reception. What a disaster it would be if they did not turn up.
He could not understand how Best could be so blase. It wasn′t every week, or even every month, that a new art gallery opened in London. Of course, the critics had to go to a lot of shows, and most of them only had a few inches of space every week. Still, you would think they would at least give the place a once-over. Maybe Best was a bad one. The worst, hopefully. He grinned, then shuddered, at his unconscious pun.
Nothing turned to gold anymore. He went back in his mind to the time when he had begun to lose his touch. Deep in thought, he joined a bus queue and stood at the curb with his arms folded.
He had been at art school, where he had found that everyone else was just as good as he at putting on that ultracool, throwaway hip style which had stood him in such good stead for the last couple of years at public school. All the art students knew about Muddy Waters and Allen Ginsberg, Kierkegaard and amphetamines, Vietnam and Chairman Mao. Worse, they could all paint—but Julian couldn′t.
Suddenly he had neither style nor talent. Yet he persisted, and even passed exams. It had done him little good. He had seen really talented people, like Peter Usher, go on to the Slade or wherever, while he had to scrabble around for jobs.
The bus queue moved convulsively, and Julian looked up to see the bus he wanted waiting at the stop. He jumped on and went upstairs.
He had actually been working when he met Sarah. An old school-friend who had gone into publishing had offered him the job of illustrating a children′s novel. The money from the advance had enabled him to kid Sarah he had been a successful artist. By the time she found out the truth it was too late for her—and for her father.
The winning of Sarah had made him think, for a little while, that he had got his old touch back. Then it had turned sour. Julian got off the bus, hoping she would not be at home.
The house was in Fulham, although Sarah insisted on calling it Chelsea. Her father had bought it, but Julian was forced to admit the old sod had chosen well. It was small—three bedrooms, two recep., and a study—but ultramodern, all concrete and aluminum. Julian unlocked the front door and went in, up the half-flight of stairs to the main living room.
Three of the walls were glass. Sadly, one enormous window looked onto the road in front and another to the brick and pine end of a terraced row of houses. But the rear window had a view of the small garden, kept neatly by a part-time gardener who spent most of his twenty hours per week smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and pruning the postage-stamp lawn. And now the afternoon sun streamed in cheerfully, giving a pleasant glow to the golden brown velvet of the upholstery.
One of the low, wide chairs was graced with the long body of Sarah. Julian bent over and kissed her cheek perfunctorily.
″Good morning,″ she said.
He resisted the temptation to look at his watch. It was about five o′clock, he knew, but she had only been up since midday.
He sat opposite her. ″What are you doing?″ he asked. She shrugged. There was a long cigarette in her right hand and a glass in her left. She was doing nothing. Her capacity for doing nothing, hour after hour, never ceased to amaze Julian.
She noticed