FLAMING JUNE – a totally untrue story

‘Mrs Anderson? It’s Derek.’

Marjorie frowned. She and her daughter June had argued endlessly about Derek. ‘Drop him,’ Marjorie had said. ‘He’s the last thing you need.’

‘I know, Mum. I’ll end it. He’s a bad influence.  But I’m not drinking now,’ June had insisted. ‘I promise.’  

But here he was in Marjorie’s ear.  Dreadful Derek, still apparently on the scene. She didn’t have time for this. Her book group had gathered for morning tea and were in the next room, waiting for cake. She’d answered the phone only because it rang when she went to the kitchen to get the plate. She hadn’t noticed who was calling. ‘I’m busy, Derek. What is it?’

Marjorie sometimes wished June was still living at home so she could keep an eye on her. But it was years since she’d left. She was 27, far too old to live with her mother now. Besides, her old bedroom, habitually littered with teenage detritus, was now clean and tidy. It had become Marjorie’s own treasured room for reading and embroidery. She loved her shelves of books and the ivory drapes filtering sunlight onto a floral rug. It was calm. No more squabbling and tears. No more crouching to peer under the bed for evidence of drink, pills, powder or condoms.

‘It’s about June,’ said Derek.

‘She’s in the Cotswolds, as far as I know.’ Marjorie clung to the cake platter, her thumb slipping into the whipped-cream decoration. ‘There’s no point in asking me where.’

‘Actually, we’re in Ibiza. At a wedding. Well, not at a wedding now. Sally, the bride, ditched the groom yesterday.’ His voice trailed off.

‘Ibiza? And what do you mean “we”? Are you there together? I thought you’d split up! She didn’t say a word to me about this trip. Or a wedding. What the hell is going on, Derek?’ She could hear herself growing more shrill with every sentence. ‘Is there a problem?’ She was sure there was a problem. With June there always was.

‘It’s not too bad but I thought I should ask...’

‘What, Derek, what?’

‘It’s a bit unusual. I can’t wake her up.’ He paused. ‘She’s asleep on the balcony. Here’s a photo. See?’

Marjorie put down the platter and peered at her phone screen. ‘What’s that orange thing she’s wearing?’

‘Bridesmaid’s dress. All the girls have had them on today, just for a laugh. Sally decided what the hell, that we should just party on. It’s been quite a day.’

‘How long has she been like that?’

‘Couple of hours. She’s not totally out of it. Mutters when I shake her.’

‘Dear God. What’s she been drinking?’

‘Champagne. Shots. You know the sort of thing.’

‘No, I don’t. Your generation’s addictions continue to stun me. Is she breathing properly?’

‘Seems to be. She’s stirring a bit so I think she’ll be okay.’

‘Derek,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘Tell me the problem.’

He must have stepped closer because she could see June better now. Her daughter’s leg shifted, stretching the fine, tangerine-tinted fabric tighter along the length of her thigh. Marjorie gasped. ‘Where’s her underwear?’

A gust of laughter drifted through from her friends in the dining room. She imagined what they’d think if they knew that her June – who Marjorie had always intimated was so sensible and successful – was lying half-naked (was that a nipple she could see?) in front of useless Derek.

‘The girls went down the beach,’ he was saying. ‘Went swimming in their undies and left everything else on the sand. Some lowlifes ran by and stole just about everything. When June got out, there was nothing to wear but the dress.’

 ‘Do you need any help, Marjorie?’ someone called through the door.

‘No, no, be there in a minute!’ she trilled. She stepped into her butler’s pantry for more privacy. ‘Derek, then what?’

‘They came back up to the terrace. And then someone made more margaritas.’

‘Have you even tried to sober her up? She’s done it for you often enough.’

‘It’s more,’ said Derek, ‘about how to fix her up.’

‘Fix her how?’

‘She took her purse to the beach, with her passport. Gone, now. Everyone’s heading to the airport soon, but she can’t fly without it.’

Marjorie’s eyes widened. ‘You’re not going to just leave her there, are you?’

His long pause told her that was exactly what he wanted to do. ‘Derek. You. Will. Not. Abandon her. D’you hear me?’

‘Yes,’ he groaned.

‘I assume you’re in a hotel?’

‘Yes,’ he muttered.

 ‘So, you will wake her, with a bucket of iced water if necessary, put her in some decent clothes and check out with your credit card.’

‘I’m nearly maxed out.’

‘I don’t care. Then you will take her somewhere really cheap that you can afford. And tomorrow she’ll apply for a new passport.’

‘But, that’ll take ages,’ Derek whimpered. ‘How will we eat in the meantime?’

‘You’ll think of something,’ she hissed. ‘Borrow from your profligate friends.’

Marjorie ended the call and put down her phone. Carefully, she tidied up the smeared cream, picked up the cake platter and, smiling widely, went back to her book group.

‘Is everything okay?’ someone asked.

‘Yes, it was just June. She’s away on a quick trip to Ibiza with some friends, having such a good time. They’re so lucky with their lovely holidays, aren’t they, our carefree offspring...’

Flaming June – the true story

Of course, my fictional June has nothing to do with the real background to this painting. It was named Flaming June when first exhibited by artist Frederick Leighton in 1895. He was a talented London toff, a lord no less, and president of the Royal Academy of Arts when he put his masterpiece on show. It was a big picture, 119.1cm square, set in a glorious golden frame that he’d designed himself.

The arty crowd of the time adored its lush sensuality and appreciated how it harked back to the era that Leighton himself was passionate about – Roman and Greek antiquity. He specialised in painting beautiful women wearing garments draped in the manner of ancient marble statues.

His sleeping June, unaware of anyone’s gaze, glows beneath her translucent brilliant orange gown, with spills of abundant auburn hair adding to her allure.

June’s sun-kissed fame did not last however. Leighton died only a year after she was everyone’s darling and then the hectic 20th century arrived. Romanticism was over – now seen as overblown and passé – and the art world moved on to modern, more gritty styles.

June disappeared, her whereabouts unknown for many years until she was rediscovered more than 60 years ago, boxed inside a chimney space in a Battersea house. She attracted scant attention, though there’s a legend that says a young Andrew Lloyd Webber spotted her in  a shop window, on sale for £50. Keen to snap her up, he asked his gran for a loan, but she declared she would not have ‘Victorian junk’ in her house.  Finally, Luis A. Ferré, the founder of a Puerto Rican art museum, bought her in 1963 for £2000.

Who knows what she’d fetch today. Think mega-dollars. June is more popular than ever, her image for sale on posters and prints all over the internet. What is more, the original glowing oil was back on show again recently at its first ‘home’, London’s Royal Academy, on loan from Puerto Rico. Fans no doubt snapped up June-related ‘merch’ from the Royal Academy shop. Leighton would have been delighted.

Flaming June, Frederick Leighton, 1895, Museo de Arte de Ponce, Puerto Rico