Playing the Game by Barbara Taylor Bradford
They had never gone back to their grandfather’s house in Ilkley, nor did they ever see that ineffectual man again. He died alone in that silent house of gloom.
Laurie sat bolt upright in her wheelchair, recalling Knowle Court and their trip there last Saturday. She had taken a dislike to the place at once, and now she knew why. It reminded her of Craggs End, where their grandparents had lived all of their married life, where their mother had dumped them after their father’s death.
Architecturally, they were totally different, and Craggs End was much smaller, not like a castle at all. Yet curiously the atmosphere in both places was the same. An icy coldness and a sense of evil pervaded them.
Dragging her thoughts away from that dark and silent house in the north of England, she focused on the paintings of Manet, one of the founders of the Impressionist movement. And she was able to lose herself in his genius, the enormous beauty of his art.
Eight
It had been worth waiting for, this astonished look on Marius’s face, which instantly changed to total disbelief and then unadulterated pleasure. He stood staring down at The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer, and it was quite obvious to Annette that he had been taken by surprise . . . by the statue . . . by her. The latter was something of a novelty in itself, since he could usually second-guess her.
When he finally looked up, stared at her, a silver brow lifting, and asked, “Where on earth did this little beauty spring from?” she simply smiled enigmatically.
Walking over to stand opposite him, the glass coffee table and the Degas bronze between them, she said, “I’ll give you three guesses.”
He seemed puzzled, pondered for a moment, then responded in a doubtful tone, “It couldn’t possibly have come from Sir Alec Delaware’s art collection, could it?”
“Aren’t you the clever one! However did you guess, darling?”
“Because I usually have my nose to the ground, sniffing out art, as you well know, and there have been no strange whispers about a Degas dancer on the float. And since you represent Christopher Delaware, I simply made a quick assumption. But why didn’t you know about it before?”
“Even he didn’t know he had it, because it wasn’t on view in the house. However, he’d begun to poke around in boxes stacked in the attics several weeks ago, and came up with this, and thought it was nothing of importance. Actually, he didn’t tell me about it until last Saturday, when we went to Knowle Court. And even then he was awfully dismissive. He didn’t think it was worth anything, because it was old and dirty . . . that was the way he put it.”
“Silly bugger, but, as my mother used to say, it takes all sorts to make a world.” Marius strode around the table, stopped next to Annette, took hold of her, and hugged her to him. Then, a split second later, he held her away, as he so often did, his dark eyes roaming over her face. Gazing at her, his face suddenly filled with adoration, he murmured, “You look very beautiful tonight, my sweet. Stunning.”
“You don’t look half bad yourself, either,” she answered, gazing back at him. He had caught the sun in Barcelona, had acquired a light tan that showed up well against his silver hair, gave him a youthful look. Also, he appeared to be slimmer. “Have you lost weight? You’re extremely trim,” she announced in an approving tone.
“A little bit, and you would’ve, too, if you’d been scampering around the Picasso Museum, up and down stairs and through large exhibition halls.” He released his grip on her shoulders and confided, “But I’m pleased I went, because it refreshed my memory about Picasso’s earlier works now lodged there permanently. I’ll tell you something else. I thought it was rather useful to meander through the city where he lived for so many years, and where his family remained after he went to Paris. I got a good sense of the place. It was truly a good trip, and totally necessary for the book.”
“So it’s full speed ahead now, right?”
Marius nodded, his eyes still focused on her, his expression warm. “So continue with your tale about Christopher’s find.”
“You know everything. There’s not much else to tell. Except that I did ask for the provenance, which he didn’t have. Fortunately we found it in the cardboard box where the bronze had been stored.”
“Good to have, obviously, but there wouldn’t be much doubt about its authenticity. This is too famous as a piece of sculpture. I’m assuming Laurie has examined it?”
“She did, and she says it’s the genuine thing.”
“So you’re going to put it on auction fairly soon, are you?” he asked, his curiosity aroused.
Annette nodded, walked over to the drinks table, and poured two glasses of champagne from the bottle she had opened a few moments ago. She carried them over, handed him one.
Marius said, touching his glass to hers, “Congratulations, my darling girl. Here’s to you.”
She smiled at him lovingly. “And to you, Marius, you who taught me everything I know.”
He laughed a little dismissively. “Well, not quite, let’s say almost everything.” As he spoke he sat down on the sofa and focused on the sculpture again. “What an amazing life this little dancer has had. . . . Let’s hope you can sell her to a collector who will keep her and keep her safe.” There was a pause, then he asked, “When do you plan to hold the auction?”
“I’ll tell you over dinner, Marius,” Annette answered, and continued rather swiftly, “I’ve booked a table at Mark’s Club, because it’s quiet and we can talk. I know you prefer more jazzy places, but I’ve lots to tell you.”
“I like Mark’s well enough, and it’s a good choice for this evening. By the way, I saw the folder of requests for interviews with you on my desk in the den. You’ve caused quite a sensation, haven’t you?” He grinned at her, his delight in her sudden fame apparent, and shook his head. “Over one hundred and fifty requests for interviews. Talk about the new movie star in town . . .” He chuckled.
“I suppose some people would find it flattering. However, I don’t. It worries me. Even agreeing to do a few of them would take up too much of my valuable time. I’m very busy at the moment. And anyway, you know I don’t like talking about myself. I’m rather a boring person.”
“Come, come, Annette, don’t be so modest!” he exclaimed, eyeing her oddly. “You’re not boring. . . . You’re a talented woman, gifted, in fact, and you can hold your own with anyone in business and socially, and in any conversation.”
“As long as it’s about art,” she countered quietly.
“No, no, that’s not true. You can talk about a lot of things. Books, the theater, music, and politics, so don’t be so silly, and don’t put yourself down. There are too many people ready, willing, and able to do that.”
“I don’t want to talk about myself to the press, Marius, honestly I don’t. It frightens me.”
Leaning closer to her, fixing those mesmeric eyes of his on her, he said authoritatively, “There is no reason for you to be afraid. The past is the past, Annette, and nobody’s going to bring that up, or start digging. Who you are today, what you’ve become, is all that matters.”
She stared into his face, trusting his judgment as she had for as long as she’d known him, yet thinking about the phone call someone had made to Malcolm Stevens about Hilda Crump. Marius didn’t know about that phone call and the mention of Hilda’s name after all this time. Should she tell him? No, it didn’t matter. It didn’t. She had to believe that.
Slowly, she said, “I think it would be better if I turned everyone down. There was a lot of publicity when I sold the Rembrandt. So why does another interview matter now?”
“Another doesn’t. However, a really important interview in a major national newspaper does. The Rembrandt auction wasn’t your last; in fact, you’ve got another one coming up, which has now become even more newsworthy because of the discovery of The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer. Let’s put it this way, darling, you’re doing the selling, not the buying. You’re always going to need a big splashy feature about yourself; every r
“All right,” she agreed; nonetheless, she sounded reluctant.
Changing the subject, Marius said, “You told me you’d had the Cézanne sent to Carlton Fraser. What did he have to say?”
“It’s not great news. Carlton is troubled about it. He’s not sure he can get the soot off parts of the canvas.” She paused, and sounded genuinely worried when she murmured, “He said something really peculiar—” She cut herself off, shook her head, her expression dismal all of a sudden.
“What did he say?” Marius asked. “Come on, tell me, Annette.”
“That a fall of soot from a chimney would definitely float in the air and could easily settle onto a painting hanging in the room. Then he muttered something about deliberate damage, that it looked to him as if someone had deliberately rubbed the soot into some areas of the painting.”
“Good God! Who on earth would do such an horrendous thing? It’s verging on the criminal! To destroy a painting by the great Cézanne, or any other artist for that matter, is wicked.” Marius sounded angry, and there was a look of genuine pain in his eyes. He sat rigid on the sofa, staring at her.
Annette recognized his fury at once. He could not bear to see anything of great beauty desecrated, and neither could she. Wanting to soothe him, she said, “I’m not sure Carlton is right about the deliberate damage part. I myself thought that someone had attempted to clean one side of it, not an expert but an amateur, and that they made a mess. Accidentally.”
Marius sat back on the sofa and closed his eyes. After a moment he snapped them open and exclaimed, “Whoever did that is an idiot. And that person should be stood up against a wall and shot!”
Nine
Mark’s Club on Charles Street in Mayfair was quiet tonight, but then it usually was on Friday, since many of its members had already gone off to their country homes for the weekend. Although his preference was for jazzier places to dine, Marius was suddenly glad Annette had booked a table for them here. He’d had a hectic week in Barcelona and Mark’s was always a haven of calm tranquillity.
They climbed the stairs to the bar, which years ago Mark Birley, the founder of the club, had decorated in the manner of an English country house parlor. A fire blazed in the hearth, and since the room was only partially occupied by fellow diners, they had a choice of comfortable chairs and sofas on which to sit.
“I’m always a sucker for a fire, as you well know,” Marius remarked as they entered the room, and he guided her to the sofa near the hearth. A moment later he was ordering two glasses of champagne as they settled back and made themselves comfortable.
After a small silence, Annette said, “Going back to Cézanne, and our conversation earlier, even if Carlton does manage to clean and restore the painting, it presents a problem because there’s no provenance.”
His eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips. “It beggars belief that a man like Alec Delaware, who made a huge fortune in business, didn’t protect his investment in art.” Marius shook his head and looked off into the distance, his mind turning rapidly. Bringing his intense gaze back to his wife, he asked in a low voice, “How good is the provenance on the Degas dancer?”
“It’s perfect. The lineage is a straight line of ownership. It was one of those cast in bronze at Hébrard’s, and it was eventually sold by the Hébrard Gallery to a French art dealer, who eventually auctioned it off to a wealthy collector in Paris. The bronze passed through a few hands after that . . . several art dealers, private collectors in New York and Beverly Hills, and eventually it was bought at auction in New York by Alec Delaware in 1989. It was not the one sold in New York by Sotheby’s in 1997, by the way. The papers are at home and you can look at them later, and you’ll see they establish provenance beyond any doubt.”
“Sounds like it. Does the bronze itself have any identifying mark, by the way?”
“Yes, Laurie thoroughly checked it, and the bronze is marked with a G. The bronzes which were cast in the 1920s were marked with a letter from A to T, and those were intended for sale to the public. Others were reserved for the Degas family, and for Hébrard. They were marked differently.”
He gave her the benefit of a wide approving smile. “You two are the very best,” he murmured, and asked, “What about the other art from the Delaware collection? Where do you stand with those pieces?”
“There are documents which establish provenance, I’m relieved to tell you.”
“So what’s going on the block, Annette? As well as the Degas dancer?”
“A Degas painting. It’s a carriage with passengers, parked at the races. There’s a Mary Cassatt of a mother and child, and also a Morisot, of a woman facing a mirror. Laurie thought these three Impressionist paintings worked well together, and the artists were contemporaries, friends. It makes a theme.”
Marius nodded, sat back, looking thoughtful. After a moment he said, “Laurie could help establish provenance for the Cézanne, perhaps. It’s a tough job, but she has the talent and patience to trace its history through old books, old catalogues, archives, bills of sale, if there are any. What do you think?”
“She can give it a try. Perhaps she’ll enjoy the challenges,” Annette answered, and wondered if her sister would. She also wondered if it was worth the effort. Carlton Fraser had sounded extremely glum about the outcome of his cleaning and restoration work. But she did not mention this to Marius. She had learned long ago to be careful, to edit what she said to him. He had a short fuse and easily became annoyed and upset. This was the reason she had not mentioned the phone call Malcolm Stevens had received about Hilda Crump. Better that he didn’t know. And Malcolm would never say anything either. He knew her husband almost as well as she did. Marius didn’t deal in trivia. It was the big picture which counted.
The dining room at Mark’s was a favorite of Annette’s because of the art hanging on the walls. All of the paintings were of dogs and had been painted in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Beautifully framed, they had been cleverly arranged and hung by Mark Birley himself many years before.
The two of them sat on a banquette facing the longest wall in the room, at the table Annette considered to be the best. From where they were sitting they had a perfect view of the oil paintings, all of which were beautiful as well as charming, amusing, often poignant, and which never failed to bring a smile to her face, or touch her heart.
“Oh, good, they’ve got bangers and mash on the menu tonight,” Marius exclaimed as he eyed the menu. “Yes, it’s nursery food for me, sausages and spuds. Takes me back to my childhood. What would you like, Annette?”
“You know I always have the potted shrimp when we come here, they’re the best in London, and I think I’ll have the grilled sole.”
“A bit of a fishy dinner, darling, isn’t it?” he teased. “But I’ll order a good Pouilly-Fuissé. How’s that?”
“Lovely, Marius, and what are you going to have first?”
“Like you, the potted shrimp.” He indicated to the maître d’ standing near the doorway that they were ready to order, and he came over at once, smiling, his pad in hand.
Once they had ordered their dinner, Annette swiveled slightly on the banquette and put her hand on Marius’s arm. She said in a light voice, not wanting to be overly dramatic, “I really don’t want to do any interviews. Not even one. Can’t I just skip it?”
Turning to her, studying her for a moment, Marius took hold of her hand, held it in his. He said, finally, in a low voice, “No, you can’t skip it, Annette. And for a variety of reasons, which I’ll get to in a moment. I want to say something else first, and it’s this. Don’t be afraid, darling. The past is dead and buried, and nothing’s going to come out about your early years. Trust me on this. I do interviews all the time, and the press
A sigh escaped, and she said quietly, hesitantly, “I suppose so . . .” She broke off, shrugged, looked directly at him. “I can’t tell you how much I hate the idea of doing even one interview, whoever the journalist might be,” she added, her tone suddenly stronger.
“I know that. But listen to me—you really do have to do one, at least. And it must be a big one. Art is a bit of a cutthroat business, you know that, and everyone is scrambling to be at the top. The competition is fierce, you’ve lived through it for years. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, you became a star overnight. Partially because Christopher Delaware remembered you were nice to him at a dinner, and he brought the Rembrandt to you. Luck. Sheer bloody luck, sweetheart! So you must keep your name up there. You can’t simply turn away and hope to go on making big deals without promoting yourself.”
He paused, took a sip of the wine the sommelier brought for him to taste, and nodded. “Very good. Nice and cold, too. Thank you.”
He gave the waiter a faint smile, and turned back to his wife. “You’ve done well with Annette Remmington Fine Art because of the route you went, setting yourself up as an art consultant and art expert, rather than opening your own gallery. You know only too well what that costs. But your overhead is in the medium range because you have a small office and a small staff. It all works in your favor. But you’ve got to keep making the big deals, the superlative deals, and publicity is mandatory. Your clients, the right clients for you, must be the wealthiest in the world. The tycoons, titans of industry, lawyers, bankers, the billionaire bunch who can afford those much-desired famous paintings and sculptures by the world’s greatest artists. Because expensive art is the status symbol today.”