The Improbability of Love - Hardcover

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HANNAH ROTHSCHILD is the author of The Baroness: The Search for Nica, the Rebellious Rothschild. She is also a film director whose documentaries have appeared at such festivals as Telluride and Tribeca. She has written for British Vanity Fair, Vogue, The Independent, and The Spectator, and is vice president of the Hay Literary Festival, a trustee of the Tate Gallery, and the first woman chair of the National Gallery in London.

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***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof***

Copyright © 2015 Hannah Rothschild

THE AUCTION (3 JULY)

It was going to be the sale of the century.

From first light a crowd had started gathering and by the late afternoon it stretched from the monumental grey portico of the auction house, Monachorum & Sons (est. 1756), across the wide pavement and out into Houghton Street. At noon, metal barriers were erected to keep a central walkway clear and at 4 p.m. two uniformed Monachorum doormen rolled out a thick red carpet from the fluted Doric columns all the way to the edge of the pavement. The sun beat down on the crowd, and the auction house, as a gesture of good will, handed out free bottles of water and ice-lollies. As Big Ben struck six mournful chimes, the police diverted normal traffic and sent two mounted officers and eight on foot to patrol the street. The paparazzi, carrying step ladders, laptops and assorted lenses, were corralled into a small pen to one side, where they peered longingly through the door at three television crews and various accredited journalists who had managed to secure passes to cover the event from inside.

“What’s going on?” a passer-by asked a member of the crowd. “They’re selling that picture, you know, the one on the news,” explained Felicia Speers, who had been there since breakfast. “The Impossibility of Love.”

“The Improbability of Love,” corrected her friend Dawn Morelos. “Improbability,” she repeated, rolling the syllables slowly over her tongue.

“Whatever. Everyone knows what I’m talking about,” said Felicia, laughing.

“Are they expecting trouble?” asked the passer-by, looking from the police horses to the auction house’s burly security guards.

“Not trouble—just everyone who’s anyone,” said Dawn, holding up her smartphone and an autograph book that had the words “Rock and Royalty” embossed in gold lettering across its front.

“All this hullaballoo for a picture?” asked the passer-by.

“It’s not just any old artwork, is it?” said Felicia. “You must have read about it?”

At the top of the broad steps of Monachorum four young women in black dresses and high-heeled shoes stood holding iPads waiting to check off names. This was an invitation-only event. From certain vantage points, the crowd outside could just glimpse the magnificent interiors. Formerly the London seat of the Dukes of Dartmouth, Monachorum’s building was one of Europe’s grandest surviving Palladian palaces. Its hallway was large enough to park two double-decker buses side by side. The plaster ceiling, a riot of putti and pulchritudinous mermaids, was painted in pinks and golds. An enormous staircase, wide enough for eight horsemen to ride abreast, took the visitor upstairs to the grand salesroom, an atrium, its walls lined with white and green marble and top lit by three rotunda. It was, in many ways, quite unsuitable for hanging and displaying works of art; it did, nevertheless, create a perfect storm of awe and desire.

In a side room, two dozen impeccably turned-out young men and women were being given their final instructions. Luckily, on this hottest of nights, the air-conditioning kept the room a steady eighteen degrees. The chief auctioneer and mastermind of the sale, Earl Beachendon, dressed for the evening in black tie, stood before them. He spoke firmly and quietly in a voice honed by eight generations of aristocratic fine living and assumed superiority. Beachendon had been educated at Eton and Oxford but, owing to his father’s penchant for the roulette table, the eighth Earl was the first member of his illustrious family to have sought regular employment.

Earl Beachendon appraised his team. For the past four weeks they had rehearsed, anticipating all eventualities from a broken heel to an attempted assassination. With the world’s media in attendance and many of the auction house’s most important clients gathered in one place, it was essential that events were managed with the precision of a finely tuned Swiss clock. This evening was a game changer in the history of the art market: everyone expected the world record for a single painting to be smashed.

“The attention of the world’s media is on us,” Beachendon told his rapt audience. “Hundreds of thousands of pairs of eyes will be watching. One small mistake will turn triumph into disaster. This is not just about Monachorum, our bonuses or the sale of one painting. This event will reflect on an industry worth over $100 billion annually and our handling of this evening will reverberate across time and continents. I don’t need to remind you that this is an international arena. It’s time that our contribution to the wealth and health of nations is recognised.”

“No pressure, my Lord,” someone quipped.

Earl Beachendon ignored his minion. “According to our extensive research, your respective charges will be the highest bidders—it is up to each of you to nurture, cajole and encourage them to go that little bit further. Convince them that greatness lies in acquisition; excite their curiosity and competitive urges. Use every weapon in your arsenal. Bathe them in a sea of perfectly judged unctuousness. Remind each of them how unique, how indispensable, how talented, how rich they are and, most importantly, that it is only here at this house that their brilliant eye and exquisite taste are appreciated and understood. For one night, forget friendship and morals: concentrate only on winning.”

Beachendon looked along the line of faces, all flushed with excitement.

“You are each to make your assigned guests feel special. Special with a capital ‘S.’ Even if they don’t succeed in buying what they are after, I want these Ultra-High-Net-Worthers to leave this evening longing to come back, desperate to win the next round. No one must feel like a loser or an also-ran; everyone must feel that some tiny thing conspired against them but next time they will triumph.”

Beachendon walked up the line of employees looking from one to another. For them the evening was an exciting experience with a potential bonus; for him it boiled down to penury and pride.

“Now remember, particularly the ladies, you are expected to serve and delight. I leave the interpretation of ‘serve and delight’ entirely up to each of you, but discretion is the name of the game.” Nervous laughter rippled through the ranks.

“As I read out the names of the guests I would like their minders to step forward. You should all be familiar with your charge’s appearance, likes, dislikes and peccadillos.” Beachendon paused before offering his well-practised, deliberately politically incorrect joke: “No offering alcohol to Muslims or ham sandwiches to Jews.”

His audience laughed obediently.

“Who is looking after Vlad Antipovsky and Dmitri Voldakov?”

Two young women, one in tight-fitting black taffeta, the other in a backless green silk dress, raised their hands.

“Venetia and Flora, remember, given the chance, these two men will rip each other’s throats out. We have managed to keep their personal security to a minimum and have asked them to leave their firearms at home: prevention is our best policy. Keep them apart. Understood?”

Venetia and Flora nodded.

Consulting his list, Beachendon read out the next name. “Their Royal Highnesses, the Emir and Sheikha of...