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“And how do you think your father should dress for the occasion?”
“Dad’s not a problem,” said Sebastian. “He always looks like a shambolic, out-of-work writer, so he’ll fit in just fine.”
“I would remind you, Sebastian, that your father is one of the most respected authors…”
“Mama, I love you both. I admire you both. But tonight belongs to Jessica, so please don’t spoil it for her.”
“He’s right,” said Harry. “I used to get more worked up about which hat my mother was going to wear on speech day than whether I might win the Latin prize.”
“But you told me, Papa, that Mr. Deakins always won the Latin prize.”
“Quite right,” said Harry. “Deakins, your uncle Giles and I may all have been in the same class, but just like Jessica, Deakins was in a different class.”
* * *
“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 Labor 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 anymore,” he added as Emma, Harry and Sebastian walked into the room, and immediately came across to join them.
Giles had never known his sister to 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, watercolors 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.
