Photo-Finish

He recognized his mistake as soon as it escaped his lips and began to gabble. Perhaps because he was on his knees and literally at her feet the Sommita who had looked explosive leant forward and tousled his blond hair. ‘My poorest!’ she said. ‘You are quite, quite ridiculous and I adore you. I haven’t introduced you,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘I’ve forgotten your surname.’

‘Bartholomew.’

‘Really? Very well, Rupert Bartholomew,’ she proclaimed, with an introductory wave of her hand.

‘…d’you do,’ he muttered. The others nodded.

‘Why does he do it? He does it,’ Montague Reece said impatiently, reverting to the photographer, ‘for money. No doubt the idea arose from the Jacqueline Kennedy affair. He’s carried it much further and he’s been successful. Enormously so.’

‘That’s right,’ Ruby agreed. ‘And the more he does it the more – ‘ he hesitated – ‘outrageous the results become.’

‘He re-touches,’ the Sommita intervened. ‘He distorts. I know it.’

They all hurriedly agreed with her.

‘I’m going,’ she said unexpectedly, ‘to dress. Now. And when I return I wish to be given an intelligent solution. I throw out, for what they are worth, my suggestions. The police. Prosecution. The Press. Who owns this – ‘ she kicked the offending newspaper and had some difficulty in disengaging her foot – ‘this garbage? Who is the proprietor? Attack him.’ She strode to the bedroom door. ‘And I warn you, Monty. I warn you, Benny. This is my final word. Unless I am satisfied that there is an end to my persecution I shall not sing in Sydney. They can,’ said the Sommita, reverting to her supposed origins, ‘stuff their Sydney Opera House.’

She made her exit and did not neglect to slam the door.

‘Oh dear,’ said Benjamin Ruby quietly.

‘Quite,’ said Montague Reece.

The young man called Rupert Bartholomew, having reinstated his portfolio, got to his feet.

‘I reckon I’d better – ?’

‘Yes?’ said Mr Reece.

‘Take myself off. I mean to say, it’s a bit awkward.’

‘What’s awkward?’

‘Well, you see, Madame – Madame Sommita asked me – I mean to say, she said I was to bring this – ‘ he indicated, precariously, his portfolio.

‘Look out,’ said Ben Ruby. ‘You’ll scatter it again.’ He did not try to suppress a note of resignation. ‘Is it something you’ve written?’ he said. It was more a statement than an enquiry.

‘This is right. She said I could bring it.’

‘When,’ Reece asked, ‘did she say it?’

‘Last night. Well – this morning. About one o’clock. You were leaving that party at the Italian Embassy. You had gone back to fetch something: her gloves, I think, and she was in the car. She saw me.’

‘It was raining.’

‘Heavily,’ said the young man proudly. ‘I was the only one.’

‘You spoke to her?’

‘She beckoned me. She put the window down. She asked me how long I’d been there. I said three hours. She asked my name and what I did. I told her. I play the piano in a small orchestra and give lessons. And I type. And then I told her I had all her recordings and – well, she was so wonderful. I mean to me, there in the rain. I just found myself telling her I’ve written an opera – short – a one-acter – sort of dedicated to her, for her. Not, you know, not because I dreamt she would ever hear of it. Good God no!’

‘And so,’ Benjamin Ruby suggested, ‘she said you could show it to her.’

‘This is right. This morning. I think she was sorry I was so wet.’

‘And have you shown it to her?’ asked Mr Reece. ‘Apart from throwing it all over the carpet?’

‘No. I was just going to when the waiter came up with this morning’s papers and – she saw that thing. And then you came. I suppose I’d better go.’

‘It’s hardly the moment perhaps – ‘ Mr Reece began when the bedroom door opened and an elderly woman with ferociously black hair came into the room. She held up a finger at Rupert, rather in the manner of summoning a waiter.

‘She wanta you,’ said the woman. ‘Also the music.’

‘All right, Maria,’ said Mr Ruby, and to the young man, ‘Maria is Madame’s dresser. You’d better go.’

So Rupert, whose surname was Bartholomew, clutching his opera, walked into La Sommita’s bedroom as a fly, if he’d only known it, into a one-way web.

‘She’ll eat that kid,’ Mr Ruby said dispassionately, ‘in one meal.’

‘Half way down her throat already,’ her protector agreed.

II

‘I’ve wanted to paint that woman,’ said Troy Alleyn, ‘for five years. And now look!’

She pushed the letter across the breakfast table. Her husband read it and raised an eyebrow. ‘Remarkable,’ he said.

‘I know. Especially the bit about you. What does it say, exactly? I was too excited to take it all in. Who’s the letter from, actually? Not from her, you’ll notice?’

‘It’s from Montague Reece, no less.’

‘Why, “no less". Who’s Montague Reece?’

‘I wish,’ said Alleyn, ‘he could hear you ask.’

‘Why?’ Troy repeated. ‘Oh, I know! Isn’t he very well off?’

‘You may say so. In the stinking-of-it department. Mr Onassis Colossus, in fact.’

‘I remember now. Isn’t he her lover?’

‘That’s it.’

‘All is made clear to me. I think. Do read it, darling. Aloud.’

‘All of it?’

‘Please.’