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“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 center 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 check 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 check 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 toward 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.
22
“I DO LIKE your parents,” said Clive, “and your uncle Giles is something else. Even I could vote for him, not that my parents would approve.”
“Why not?”
“Both of them are dyed-in-the-wool Tories. Mother wouldn’t allow a socialist in the house.”
“I’m sorry they didn’t come to the exhibition. They would have been so proud of you.”
“I don’t think so. Mum didn’t really approve of me going to art school in the first place. Wanted me to go to Oxford or Cambridge, and just wouldn’t accept that I wasn’t good enough.”
“Then they probably won’t approve of me.”
“How could they not approve of you?” said Clive, turning over to face her. “You’re the Slade’s most award-winning pupil ever and, unlike me, you’ve been offered a place at the RA. Your father’s a bestselling author, your mother is chairman of a public company and your uncle’s in the Shadow Cabinet. Whereas my father’s the chairman of a fish paste company, who’s hoping to be appointed the next High Sheriff of Lincolnshire, and that’s only possible because my grandfather made his fortune selling fish paste.”
“But at least you know who your grandfather is,” said Jessica, resting her head on his shoulder. “Harry and Emma aren’t my real parents, although they’ve always treated me as their daughter, and perhaps because Emma and I even look alike, people assume she’s my mother. And Seb’s the best brother a girl could ever have. But the truth is, I’m an orphan, and have no idea who my real parents are.”
