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The Artist's History

1988

Dee, short for Dierdre so no wonder she preferred the abbreviation, told her all the time she was spoilt. Her older half-sister viewed her with disdain; her face a permanent sneer whenever Lillian was nearby.

Even at seventeen, Lillian knew this was to do with Dee's mother. Margaret loathed their father. Even with a daughter's prejudice, Lillian knew why. Happily married for ten years, or so she thought, Andrew left her for an air hostess, Lillian's mother. A gigantic leap of imagination on his part then.

Once, when she'd had too much champagne, Lillian's mother told her one of the first things she'd done for Andrew after he begged for it was the flight safety talk, stark naked. She stood in front of him, nipples hard and flesh goose-bumped in the cold, arms held out in front of her. "If we need to evacuate the aircraft, floor-level lighting will guide you towards the exit."

He often told the story at his golf club. Men envied him for it. When they passed the tale on to others, it swelled in detail. She did it while astride him. At the time, she was fully made up, her hair slicked into that chic chignon air hostesses favoured. She wore high heels throughout.

As an eight-year-old, Dee grew into adolescence backgrounded by her mother's bitterness. Spoilt was the mildest of the descriptions she gave her half-sister. Andrew had been generous with his alimony, but Margaret and Dee didn't live Andrew, Lucia and Lillian's lives. Their holidays were to Spain, not Mauritius; their shops were Marks & Spencer, not Harrods and Harvey Nicks.

Fatherhood second time round was different for Andrew too. Margaret followed the pattern of sixties mothers. A man's child was out of sight, out of mind. She changed all nappies and leapt out of bed at night as soon as Dee's cries sounded through the house. Lucia shared the experience with Andrew instead, moaning about heartburn towards the late stages of pregnancy and then telling him about every stage of Lillian's development.

"Look! She crawled today. Crouch down on the floor and hold your arms out. Maybe she'll come to you."

No wonder Lillian grew up, convinced of her special place in the world.

Marlowe agreed with Dee's assessment, but then he would know. If anyone had first-hand experience of privilege, it was Marlowe, a family friend. His father had gone to school with Andrew, and they'd stayed in touch over the years, the perfect old boy network. Andrew ended up in hedge fund investment and Larry headed to tax law. Clients queued up for advice on how best to keep your ill-gotten gains from the public purse.

Marlowe was two years older than Lillian. His mother, Arlene, was Maltese, and he inherited all her European glamour—dark hair, olive skin and brown eyes. Before she recognised it as sexual attraction, Lillian looked forward to the times he came to their house. His parents visited frequently. Marlowe came with them fifty percent of the time. The occasions he made it he'd obviously been dragged along.

At nineteen, though, he suddenly decided Lillian wasn't a write-off. He sought her out, talking to her about music. Lillian listened, enthralled. She'd no idea of music's significance. It was a blessing Marlowe was able to explain the nuances to her. He told her the bands worth listening to. Chart listing, Lillian naively assumed, showed success. Not so, Marlowe said. He despised that kind of thing.

Marlowe spent his formative years at Winchester College, one of the top private schools for boys in the country. There were plenty of ex-public-school boys who fancied themselves as musicians and who could afford to sneer at crass commercial success. Lillian wasn't a stranger to the public-school system, having spent the years from eleven to eighteen at a minor girls' public school.