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varied…actors, writers, politicians, journalists, ‘And,’ as he often said, ‘nobodies who I absolutely adore.’ He fancied himself as Jack the Lad–Jack the Bad Lad. He enjoyed carousing and creating a stir, constantly referred to himself as a rabble-rouser. However, she had come to understand in the three months she had known him that much of this was a bit of an act. In point of fact, he drank very little, hardly anything at all, mostly nursed a Stolichnaya over ice all night, simply made a big noise about his consumption of booze. She was well aware that the men in the Harte family drank much more than Dusty. But then he needed a very steady hand the next morning in order to do his work. His style of painting was Classical Realism, and notable art critics around the world had hailed him right from the beginning of his career as the new Pietro Annigoni, proclaiming that he had inherited the mantle of the famous Italian painter who had died in 1988. They called Dusty a genius, and with the same awe and reverence they had called Annigoni a genius. Dusty’s paintings were classical in style, very much in the manner of the great artists of the Renaissance, with precise attention to detail in the subject matter and background, whether these were interiors or exteriors. His portraits of the famous, and his paintings of landscapes and seascapes, were so detailed, his use of colour so breathtakingly beautiful, people simply stood and gazed at them mesmerized, unable to tear their eyes away.
    Anybody who painted as precisely as he did could hardly afford to booze it up; she had said that to him once and he had grinned and winked at her. She felt the same way about his so-called rabble-rousing; even this was merely a form of jovial boisterousness, with much laughter, loud voices, arm-punching, back-slapping. Much ado about nothing, something which was totally innocuous but which the press played up. As he hoped they would. He loved his reputation as a wild hard-drinking hell-raiser, and did much to foster this characterization of himself. Especially in the papers.
    When she had first understood his reputation was something of a myth she had burst out laughing. She had been walking through Harte’s with Linnet when the truth dawned on her, and she had been unable to suppress her hilarity. Her cousin had stared at her and shaken her head, and said pithily, ‘People who burst into gales of laughter for no apparent reason get taken away in strait-jackets. Especially when they’re in the middle of a renowned and very posh emporium making a hullabaloo. Drawing attention to themselves.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Linnet,’ she had spluttered, ‘but I can’t help it. I’ve suddenly realized my boyfriend is a bit of a phoney.’
    This comment had instantly gained Linnet’s undivided attention, and she had cried, ‘Oh get rid of him. Immediately. We don’t need anybody who’s not true blue around here. Anyway, he’d get clobbered by the lads.’
    ‘What lads?’
    ‘Julian, Gideon, Toby, and even young Desmond. They’d gang up on him.’
    ‘That’s true.’
    ‘By the way, when you say boyfriend are you referring to the VFP?’
    ‘VFP? What’s that?’
    ‘Very Famous Person. You told me you were seeing someone very famous but you never confided who he is.’
    ‘Russell Rhodes.’
    ‘Dusty Rhodes? The painter?’ Linnet’s eyes had widened.
    She had simply nodded in response but was pleased by Linnet’s surprised reaction.
    ‘He looks rather dishy, India.’
    ‘He is, but complex.’
    ‘Aren’t they all,’ Linnet had responded, grinning at her.
    She had laughed and answered, ‘But at least he’s never been married, so there’s no ex, or children to contend with. In fact he’d been unattached for quite a while before he met me.’
    ‘You know, Dad loves his work, in fact we all do. He’s always wanted Dusty Rhodes to paint Paula, but Mummy says she’s too busy to sit all those hours for an artist. I wish she