A Perfect Obsession Read Free

the leading lights of the postmodern art movement. Now he was wealthy, with houses in Milan, New York and London, and the kind of celebrity lifestyle which perfectly suited his vanity and pretensions. Success hadn’t changed Chay Cross’s personality in the least, but Anthony marvelled at the way in which wealth had lent acceptability to its more unattractive aspects. People who would once have run a mile from his boring, rambling dissertations on art and related subjects now listened breathlessly to his utterances, and regurgitated his profundities in the pages of
Modern Painters.
Happy though he was that his father could now hang out with the likes of Damien Hirst and Simon Schama, it bemused Anthony that anyone should achieve such staggering success on the back of what he still considered to be ghastly, derivative pieces of work of no aesthetic quality and questionable integrity.
    Anthony dropped some papers on the counter. ‘Can you ask Robert to take these documents over to Mr Justice Latham’s chambers? They’ve been revised and they need to be substituted in the judge’s bundle. The judge’s clerk probably has them. They need to get there this afternoon, as the hearing’s tomorrow.’
    ‘Will do,’ said Henry. ‘By the way, your father rang when you were out at lunch. Sorry I didn’t mention it earlier. Asked if you could call him back.’
    ‘Did he say where he was?’
    ‘At his gallery place.’
    ‘Right, thanks.’
    Anthony went back upstairs to his room, which was snugand narrow, lined with bookshelves along one side. On the opposite wall stood a low set of shelves stacked with briefs and bundles of papers, and in the fireplace a small gas fire burnt against the chill of the January day. Anthony’s desk stood by the curtained window, facing into the room, in the centre of which was a polished oval table surrounded by chairs, for conferences. The table, like Anthony’s desk, was piled with papers and files, and stacks of cardboard containers full of documents lined the floor beneath the window. On the wall hung pictures, charcoal sketches of the law courts and the Strand. It was not unlike being in a small, comfortable, but faintly austere drawing room, in which someone had dumped a large quantity of paper and boxes. The only concessions to modernity were Anthony’s leather office chair and a state-of-the-art computer, fax and scanner on a side table by his desk. It was an extraordinary contrast to the open-planned and air-conditioned existences of his friends and acquaintances working in banks and solicitors’ firms throughout the City, but to Anthony it was all thoroughly normal, and part of the curious blend of past and present which characterised the Temple.
    Anthony picked up the phone and rang Chay’s mobile.
    Chay was totally engrossed these days in a scheme to renovate an enormous derelict brewery in Shoreditch and turn it into a museum of modern art, a task which was near completion. Leo was one of the museum’s trustees, and Anthony helped his father with legal aspects of the project.
    ‘It’s me,’ said Anthony, when Chay answered. ‘Henry said you rang earlier.’
    ‘Right, I did. Things are coming together faster than I anticipated and it looks like we could have the opening atthe beginning of March if we can get the invitations out. The PR people reckon it would be excellent timing. David Bowie’s going to be in London around the seventh, and it would really boost publicity to have him there. I’m hoping Simon Callow and Maggi Hambling will be able to come, possibly Tracey and Damien. Hockney’s a long shot, but you never know. Anyway, I’m trying to arrange a meeting of the trustees for tomorrow night.’
    ‘That’s rather short notice, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yeah, I know, but most of the others should be able to get here. I tried to get hold of Leo at lunchtime, but couldn’t track him down. Do you think you could have a word and see if he can manage to be