The Modigliani Scandal by Ken Follett Page B

aloud as he drove up the short, steep drive and turned into the road. He headed south, toward Wimbledon. He ought to be used to these quarrels now: he was entitled to a degree of immunity. But the familiar jibes seemed to hurt more with the passing of the years.
    She was to blame as much as he, Julian thought. She seemed to take perverse pleasure in his impotence. He had had a couple of girls before Sarah. He had not been spectacular with them, he supposed: still, he had succeeded in doing what was expected. It had something to do with the very qualities which had attracted him to Sarah—the perfection of her tall body, her immaculate aristocratic manners, her moneyed background.
    But she could have put things right. She knew what needed to be done, and it was quite within her power to do it. Patience, kindness, and an unhysfierical attitude to sex would have cured him years ago. But Sarah had given him indifference and contempt.
    Perhaps she wanted him to be impotent. Maybe it protected her from sex; guarded her own shortcomings. Julian dismissed the thought. He was simply evading responsibility by transferring his blame to her.
    He entered the drive of his father-in-law′s large house and stopped on the raked gravel in front of the porch. A maid answered his ring at the bell.
    ″Is Lord Cardwell at home?″ he asked.
    ″No, Mr. Black. He′s at the golf club.″
    ″Thank you.″ Julian got back into the car and drove off. He might have guessed the old boy would be having a round of golf on a fine evening like this.
    He drove the Mercedes cautiously, not using its sprightly acceleration and cornering stability. The car′s power served only to remind him of his own ineffectiveness.
    The golf club parking lot was crowded. Julian left the car and went into the clubhouse. Sarah′s father was not in the bar.
    ″Have you seen Lord Cardwell this evening?″ he asked the bartender.
    ″Yes. He′s having a round on his own. He′ll be on the seventh or eighth by now.″
    Julian went out again and set off around the course. He found Lord Cardwell putting on the ninth.
    His father-in-law was a tall man with very thin white hair. He wore a windbreaker and fawn slacks, and a canvas cap covered most of his near-baldness.
    ″A nice evening,″ Julian said.
    ″Isn′t it? Well, now that you′re here you can caddy for me.″ Cardwell holed with a long putt, retrieved his ball, and walked on.
    ″How is the gallery coming along?″ he asked as he prepared to tee off on the tenth.
    ″Very well, in general,″ Julian said. ″The redecoration is almost complete, and I′m working on the publicity at the moment.″
    Cardwell flexed his legs, lined up the ball, and swung. Julian walked beside him along the fairway. ″However,″ he continued, ″it′s all costing an awful lot more than I expected.″
    ″I see,″ Cardwell said without interest.
    ″In order to ensure a good profit right from the start, I need to spend a couple of thousand buying paintings. But with the way money is flowing out I shan′t have it.″
    ″You will need to be very thrifty at the start, then,″ Cardwell said. ″It won′t do you harm.″
    Julian cursed inwardly. This was the way he had feared the conversation might go. He said: ″Actually, I was wondering whether you might lay on some extra cash. It would secure your investment.″
    Cardwell found his ball and stood contemplating it. ″You′ve got a lot to learn about business, Julian,″ he said. ″I may be considered a rich man, but I can′t lay on two thousand pounds at the drop of a hat. I couldn′t afford a three-piece suit if I had to find the money tomorrow. But more important, you must learn how to go about raising capital. You don′t approach a man and say, ′I′m a bit short, could you lay on a few quid?′ You tell him you′re on to such a good thing that you want to let him in on it.
    ″I′m afraid I can′t let you have that extra cash. I put up the money in the first place