Short Story Preview: 5 Gresham Place
Our stately home has closed; shut down by force of circumstance. Only now can I tell my story. Now that the case is over, punishments meted and the crowds dispersed.
I write this because I want to tell the facts as they were: obviate those preconceived ideas fed so insidiously to you, the readers of our national press. And although I am powerless to change events, I can at least attempt to put the records straight even perhaps, change your opinion of us: we, once the inhabitants of 5 Gresham Place.
Let me jog your memory: Jeremy. Remember him? Of course you do. Everyone remembers Jeremy. The painter who faked Roses on a Grand Piano by the late Xavier Benoit. My husband Jeremy, charged, sentenced, lifted from the art elite and relocated to Wormwood Scrubs. Don’t ask me why he did it. I am moneyed. He is talented. But Jeremy liked living on the edge and perhaps that is why he did it. Perhaps he was bored after many years of married life. Or there again, perhaps he determined to prove his financial independence. Who knows? We never scratched very much below the surface, he and I.
Art was his life. He painted, mounted exhibitions and ran up huge bills. When he couldn’t pay, I did.
His prison sentence was reduced owing to good behaviour and on his release and through a contact, managed to get a part-time job at a polytechnic teaching eighteenth century art and crafts to mature students.
Read more about Jane and buy Tea at the Opalaco and other Stories to continue the storyShare