‘Uncle Giles, I’d like you to meet my boyfriend, Clive Bingham.’
‘Hi, Clive,’ said Giles, who had taken off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt within moments of entering the room.
‘You’re that with-it MP, aren’t you?’ said Clive, as they shook hands.
Giles was lost for words as he looked up at the young man wearing an open-necked yellow polka-dot shirt with a large floppy collar and a pair of drainpipe jeans. But the mop of unruly fair hair, Nordic blue eyes and captivating smile made him understand why Jessica wasn’t the only woman in the room who kept glancing in Clive’s direction.
‘He’s the greatest,’ said Jessica, giving her uncle a warm hug, ‘and he should be the leader of the Labour Party.’
‘Now, Jessica,’ said Giles, ‘before I decide which of your pictures—’
‘Too late,’ said Clive, ‘but you can still get one of mine.’
‘But I want an original Jessica Clifton to add to my collection.’
‘Then you’ll be disappointed. The show opened at seven, and all of Jessica’s pictures were snapped up within minutes.’
‘I don’t know whether to be delighted by your triumph, Jessica, or cross with myself for not turning up earlier,’ said Giles, giving his niece a second hug. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you, but you must take a look at Clive’s work, it’s really good.’
‘Which is why I haven’t sold a single one. The truth is, even my own family don’t buy them any more,’ he added as Emma, Harry and Sebastian walked into the room, and immediately came across to join them.
Giles had never known his sister wear anything that wasn’t extremely fashionable, but this evening she looked as if she’d just come out of the potting shed. Harry looked positively smart in comparison. And was it possible there was a hole in her jumper? Clothes are one of a woman’s few weapons, Emma had once told him. But not tonight . . . and then he worked it out. ‘Good girl,’ he whispered.
Sebastian introduced his parents to Clive, and Emma had to admit that he wasn’t anything like his self-portrait. Dishy, was the word that came to mind, even if his handshake was a little weak. She turned her attention to Jessica’s pictures.
‘Do all these red dots mean—?’
‘Sold,’ said Clive. ‘But as I’ve already explained to Sir Giles, you’ll find I don’t suffer from the same problem.’
‘So is there none of Jessica’s work still for sale?’
‘None,’ said Sebastian. ‘I did warn you, Mama.’
Someone was tapping a glass at the far end of the room. They all looked around to see a bearded man in a wheelchair trying to attract everyone’s attention. He was scruffily dressed in a brown corduroy jacket and green trousers. He smiled up at the assembled gathering.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘if I could just have your attention for a few moments.’ Everyone stopped talking and turned to face the speaker. ‘Good evening and welcome to the annual Slade School of Fine Art Graduate Exhibition. My name is Ruskin Spear, and, as chairman of the judging panel, my first task is to announce the winners in each category: drawing, watercolours and oil paintings. For the first time in the history of the Slade, the same student has come top in all three categories.’
Emma was fascinated to discover who this remarkable young artist might be, so she could compare their work with Jessica’s.
‘Frankly, no one will be surprised, other than possibly the winner herself, that the school’s star pupil this year is Jessica Clifton.’
Emma beamed with pride as everyone in the room applauded, while Jessica simply bowed her head and clung on to Clive. Only Sebastian really knew what she was going through. Her demons, as she called them. Jessica never stopped chattering whenever they were on their own, but the moment she became the centre of attention, like a tortoise she slipped back into her shell, hoping no one would notice her.
‘If Jessica would like to come up, I will present her with a cheque for thirty pounds and the Munnings Cup.’
Clive gave her a little nudge, and everyone applauded as she made her way reluctantly up to the chairman of the judges, her cheeks becoming more flushed with every step she took. When Mr Spear handed over the cheque and the cup, one thing became abundantly clear: there wasn’t going to be an acceptance speech. Jessica hurried back to join Clive, who looked so delighted he might have won the prize himself.
‘I can also announce that Jessica has been offered a place at the Royal Academy Schools in September to begin her postgraduate work, and I know that my colleagues at the RA are all looking forward to her joining us.’
‘I do hope all this adulation doesn’t go to her head,’ Emma whispered to Sebastian as she turned to see her daughter clutching Clive’s hand.
‘No fear of that, Mama. She’s about the only person in the room who doesn’t realize how talented she is.’ At that moment an elegant man sporting a red silk bow tie and a fashionable double-breasted suit appeared by Emma’s side.
‘Allow me to introduce myself, Mrs Clifton.’ Emma smiled up at the stranger, wondering if he was Clive’s father. ‘My name is Julian Agnew. I’m an art dealer and I just wanted to say how much I admire your daughter’s work.’
‘How kind of you to say so, Mr Agnew. Did you manage to buy any of Jessica’s pictures?’
‘I bought every one of them, Mrs Clifton. The last time I did that was for a young artist called David Hockney.’
Emma didn’t want to admit that she’d never heard of David Hockney, and Sebastian only knew about him because Cedric had half a dozen of his pictures on the wall of his office, but then Hockney was a Yorkshireman. Not that Sebastian was paying much attention to Mr Agnew, as his thoughts were elsewhere.
‘So does that mean we’ll be given another opportunity to buy one of my daughter’s pictures?’ asked Harry.
‘Most certainly you will,’ said Agnew, ‘because I’m planning to hold a one-woman exhibition of Jessica’s works next spring, by which time I’m rather hoping she’ll have painted a few more canvases. Of course, I’ll send you and Mrs Clifton an invitation to the opening night.’
‘Thank you,’ said Harry, ‘and we won’t be late this time.’
Mr Agnew gave a slight bow, then turned and headed towards the door without another word, clearly not interested in any of the other artists whose work peppered the walls. Emma glanced at Sebastian, to see he was staring at Mr Agnew as he crossed the floor. Then she spotted the young woman by the dealer’s side, and understood why her son had been struck dumb.
‘Close your mouth, Seb.’
Sebastian looked embarrassed, a rare experience that Emma relished.
‘Well, I suppose we’d better go and have a look at Clive’s paintings,’ suggested Harry, ‘which might also give us a chance to meet his parents.’
‘They didn’t bother to turn up,’ said Sebastian. ‘Jess told me they never come to see his work.’
‘How strange,’ said Harry.
‘How sad,’ said Emma.