The thought of spending another three days trapped in a villa with a resentful Alice held little appeal. One of them had to go. Because Alice had insisted on paying for everything, Phoebe was the logical choice. She spent a final night in her luxurious room, and in the morning, while the others were still sleeping, she took a taxi to the airport. Her flight to London departed at midday. As the plane gained altitude over the northern coast of the island, she spotted golden Alice lying on the tiny beach of Cala something or other. Then the plane plunged into a cloud and Alice was gone.
2
Devon
If anyone was to blame for what happened next it was Julian Isherwood, a respected dealer of Italian and Dutch Old Master paintings and éminence grise of the London art world, a portion of which convened each afternoon at the bar of Wiltons to celebrate their triumphs or, as was more frequently the case, drown their sorrows. During one such gathering—it might have been early May, though the precise date was of little consequence—Julian lent his ear to Niles Dunham, a learned curator from the National Gallery known for his infallible eye and unfailingly pleasant demeanor. On the afternoon in question, however, Niles was uncharacteristically cross.
“My Botticelli exhibition,” he explained.
“The one you’ve spent six months planning?”
“Yes, that one, Julie. My esteemed director has decided to cancel it.”
“Sir Avery has something against Botticelli?”
“Sir Avery has no money.”
“Deplorable,” declared Julian.
“A sad state of affairs,” agreed Niles.
But such was life in Britain in the age of austerity. Faced with soaring budget deficits and shrinking tax receipts, His Majesty’s Government had slashed funding for the arts to the bone, leavingLondon’s great museums to fend for themselves. A recent renovation of the National Portrait Gallery had been carried out almost entirely with private donations. Small museums in the shires were hanging on by their fingernails.
“Is there no chance he might reconsider?” asked Julian.
“None whatsoever. As far as Sir Avery is concerned the case is closed.”
“And what if you were to raise the funds yourself?”
Niles cast a despairing glance down the crowded bar toward tubby Oliver Dimbleby, a thoroughly disreputable dealer from Bury Street. “I’d rather spend an evening discussing Oliver’s latest sexual conquests than go hat in hand to wealthy donors.”
And there the affair might have ended, with a Botticelli exhibition that was not to be, had Julian not resolved to take matters into his own hands. He broached the subject with his partner, a brilliant American named Sarah Bancroft, and Sarah encouraged the endeavor, though she was confident it would come to nothing. Still, it might provide Julian with a project to occupy his copious amounts of spare time. These days his contribution to the management of Isherwood Fine Arts was largely ceremonial. He rarely set foot in the gallery before noon, and by one o’clock he was sitting down to lunch at one of London’s better tables, usually with female company. The bar at Wiltons was typically the final stop of his busy day. Sarah’s as well.
But how to go about raising the millions of pounds required for the exhibition? Julian supposed he could call in a few favors and twist the odd arm, but like Niles Dunham he recoiled at the very thought. Better to throw a fundraiser, he decided. But not some stodgy affair with lukewarm prosecco and wilted canapés. It would have to be something splashy and perhaps a touch over the top, the art world bash of the season. He had a venue in mind, a grand estate near thesea in Devon owned by a longtime client. Much to Julian’s delight, the client agreed to host the event and foot the bill for the food and drink. All that remained was a bit of eye candy, an art world celebrity who would move the needle and draw a crowd. Sarah already had someone in mind. Julian thought it a marvelous idea, as did Niles Dunham.
“The question is, will he agree to do it?”
“Could be a tough sell,” admitted Julian.
“I hear he bought a cottage out in Cornwall.”
“Gwennap Head, to be precise.”
“Cornwall is rather close to Devon, you know. Right next door, in fact.”
“Don’t worry, Niles. I’ll be sure to include that in my pitch.”
In the end it was Sarah who made the request. As expected it was met with considerable resistance, but she nevertheless managed to break down his defenses. As for the format, she suggested a heavily scripted interview with a friendly reporter. He reminded her that there was no such thing.
“What about Amelia March ofARTnews?”
“I’d feel better if you handled it.”
“I couldn’t possibly.”
“You used to work as an undercover operative for the Central Intelligence Agency. Something tells me you can impersonate a journalist for a few minutes.”
And with that the deal was done. Sarah and Julian drew up the guest list, and the invitations went out. They included the name of the event’s star attraction, all but eliminating the possibility of a last-minute cancellation. He left his cottage near Gwennap Head at four in the afternoon on the third Saturday in June and, accompanied by his beautiful Italian-born wife, set off for Devon. He was confident that one way or another he was making a dreadful mistake. As thesaying went, no good deed goes unpunished, especially where his old friend Julian Isherwood was concerned.
