Rose’s concentration began to fray.
‘Faded old rug,’ she jotted, dropping the card on the Aubusson. ‘Half a table’ landed on the demi-lune console, and ‘Fun House Mirrer’ on the large Georgian convex looking glass above the mantel.
But still the larger question wrangled: which was bigger? A knick-knack or bric-a-brac?
Two minutes left. Rose began to panic. ‘Picture Book Bible’ on the large edition of Les Très Riches Heures de Jean Duc de Berry. She frowned. ‘Dirty Pictures,’ she scribbled disdainfully on the signed Helmut Newton photography book. (You’d think he’d have the decency to at least hide them!)
Only one more minute!
Should she switch them?
Her throat constricted, heart raced. All her past failures and missed opportunities distilled into this single task. What was the use anyway? She’d failed the cutlery test. And the one about the silver. Her entire life was one big stupid mistake after another!
And, in the shadow of this sudden, crushing depression, Rose’s standards began to slip.
‘Another fucking chair’ on the Victorian reading chair, ‘Two ugly pillow biters’ on the portraits of Arnaud’s great-great-grandfather and uncle, ‘A bunch of total strangers’ on the cluster of silver-framed family photographs on the piano. And on top of the Steinway, in capital letters, ‘I’LL BET NO ONE EVEN PLAYS!’
And so on it went.
Until Mrs Bourgalt du Coudray herself walked in, followed by Simon Grey.
Now, as is often the way in large households, a great many things were all going on at the same time. So, while Gaunt was busy vetting young hopefuls for the position of junior assistant to the acting assistant household manager, somewhere on a floor above him Simon Grey and Olivia were conducting their own fevered interviews for a replacement for Roddy Prowl. They had scoured the art schools of London for someone daring, original and preferably offensive to take Roddy’s place and were promised that several candidates would appear at 45 Chester Square before the day was out. Indeed, in bedsitting rooms all across London, young artists were gathering together portfolios, throwing on clothes, and gulping down vast amounts of coffee in an attempt to sober up in time to make an impression on this powerful duo.
But they needn’t have bothered.
Because fate had another thing in mind.
Olivia flung open the drawing-room doors.
Her head throbbed from worry and nerves. Never had she imagined that agreeing to become chairman of the gallery would involve so much hands-on interaction. Now all of a sudden they were in crisis and Simon was looking to her, of all people, for help. Already they’d seen dozens of portfolios, none suitable. Hope waned. They would never be able to find a worthy replacement in time.
It was time to face facts.
‘The thing is, Simon,’ she explained, ‘we need an original statement, not just a worthy candidate but an exceptional one, with something daring to say. But the chances of us finding an artist of that calibre at such short notice …’
She stopped. Something above the mantelpiece caught her eye.
‘Fun House Mirrer,’ a small note card read, written in careful, childish writing. Lower down, by the china figurines, was another.
‘Nick Naxs.’
And on top of the collection of snuffboxes, ‘Brick a Brack.’
She turned round.
Little cards were everywhere!
‘Sette.’
‘Pouff.’
‘Half a table.’
‘My God!’ Simon gasped. ‘Your home has been vandalized! Shall I call the police?’
Olivia didn’t answer.
She was staring at the photographs in the silver frames.
‘A bunch of total strangers,’ it said.
A bunch of total strangers!
Who could’ve done such a thing?
What did it mean?
Still, she couldn’t escape the bizarre feeling that she was seeing her relations clearly for the first time.
‘Another fucking chair …’ she murmured, reading the cards out loud. ‘Secret Panel?’ The breath caught in her chest. ‘His and Hers Thrones!’
How ghastly!
How intrusive!
How accurate!
Simon was right: it was vandalism. But it was also something more.
Here was the room, just as she’d left it except for the mysterious cards. Nothing had really changed. And yet suddenly her perspective was irrevocably altered. It was offensive, shocking; subtle.
Simon tried unsuccessfully to suppress a laugh. ‘Look at this one!’ He pointed to the Helmut Newton. ‘That’s hysterical!’
‘I’ve always hated that book.’
‘Really?’ He leafed through it surreptitiously. ‘I think it’s kind of sexy.’
Olivia gripped his arm. ‘This is extraordinary!’
‘Yes. The spelling is atrocious and the handwriting!’
‘You said Mona was sending someone?’
‘Yes …’
‘Do you think?’
His eyes widened. ‘No!’
‘What else could it be?’
‘An installation! My God! How remarkable! The absurdity – like Dadaism!’
‘I’ve never encountered anything like it,’ she agreed.
A small figure was slumped in a corner.
‘My God, the artist,’ Olivia pointed. ‘She’s so young!’
They approached.
‘Hello!’ Olivia smiled brightly.
The girl nodded.
‘What do you call this piece?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The name of this piece,’ Simon spoke slowly, clearly. ‘Does it have a name?’
A large tear rolled down the girl’s cheek. ‘I just don’t see … I mean, what’s the point
