Playing the Game

  Esther began to laugh, as always enjoying Annette’s slightly acerbic comments, especially about people whom she didn’t know. “Apparently Malcolm mentioned that he’s got a look of the young William Holden,” she explained.

  Annette groaned. “Oh, God, that’s enough to get her going! She loves that old movie he was in . . . Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing. As you well know.” Annette sat down in her chair at the desk and continued, “You’ve had to watch it with her almost as many times as I have.”

  “She’s very romantic,” Esther said, and before she could stop herself she added, “I think she’s very keen on Malcolm.”

  This unexpected comment took Annette by surprise, and she sat up straighter. “It’s odd that you should say that, but I’ve thought the same thing lately. They seem to be spending a lot of time together, and it’s not always about work.”

  “I know, and I’d go as far as to say she’s very emotionally involved with him,” Esther confided.

  “Do you mean in love with him?” Annette asked, her voice rising, astonishment in her eyes.

  Esther nodded, ran a hand through her short curly brown hair, and pursed her lips. After a moment, she said quietly, “Don’t look so worried. If anyone knows Malcolm, it’s you. He’s a decent man, isn’t he?”

  “He is, yes. What else have you picked up, Esther? Is Malcolm in love with her?”

  “Laurie hasn’t confided anything about that, and I’ve not seen them together, so I can’t say.” Esther bit her lip, and murmured in a low voice, “Laurie once told me she could . . . you know, have sex. Is that true?”

  “Yes, she can. Some women suffering from spinal cord injury are often able to have a sexual relationship, and there are different degrees of injury, you know. Laurie did have some nerve healing over the years, as it happens, and she did regain a bit of movement.”

  Annette stood up, walked over to the window once more, glanced out, and then looked across at her assistant. “She is very beautiful. Aunt Sylvia always said she was the real beauty in the family. . . . I do hope Malcolm won’t . . . hurt her. I couldn’t bear it if he caused her any pain.”

  “He wouldn’t. He’s not a shithead like some men I’ve come across. Besides, I don’t know how far the relationship has gone, boss. Laurie’s not actually come out and said, ‘Oh, Esther, I’m in love with Malcolm,’ or anything like that. Still, I know her so well, and I’ve just kind of picked things up . . . you know, the way she speaks about him, about going out with him.” Esther moved toward the door, asking as she did, “What’s your feeling about it?”

  Annette shrugged. “About the same as yours, I guess. He has been spending a great deal of time with her, and they do have a lot in common. I suppose she’ll tell me. Eventually.”

  “I’m sure of that, boss,” Esther muttered, and wondered what Marius would say when he found out. He certainly wouldn’t be happy about Malcolm and Laurie. She was absolutely positive of that. He didn’t like to lose control of anybody close to him, and what they did was always his business. He was a megalomaniac, in her opinion. Sighing to herself, Esther closed the door.

  Feeling restless and anxious, Annette got up, walked around her office, ended up at the window again. She leaned her forehead against the glass, considered Laurie and Malcolm for a few moments. And then her thoughts went to Carlton Fraser.

  The restorer had been taken to hospital with a bad case of pneumonia two weeks ago, on the first day he had started to work on the Cézanne, of all things. He was getting better, according to Marguerite, and his wife had also reassured her he would be back at work soon.

  She wasn’t going to worry about the restoration of the painting today. She had other things on her mind, better fish to fry. She also put aside her concerns about Laurie. Jack Chalmers would be arriving in a few minutes, and she knew she must be calm, cool, and collected for the interview. And on her guard.

  Accompanied by Esther, Jack Chalmers walked into Annette’s office at five minutes past ten, and she was taken aback when she experienced a jolt of recognition. Although she was absolutely certain she had never met Jack Chalmers before, she felt she knew him.

  His eyes remained fixed on her, and as she stared back at him with interest his step faltered, but only momentarily. Then he swiftly walked over to her, hand outstretched. Before Esther could say a word, he introduced himself. “Jack Chalmers, Mrs. Remmington, good morning.”

  “Good morning,” Annette replied, and took a step forward. She put her hand in his, and unexpectedly felt gooseflesh spreckling the nape of her neck. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Chalmers,” was all she could manage to say, so startled was she by her reaction to him.

  “Thanks so much for seeing me today,” he murmured. “And for agreeing to this interview . . .” Jack hesitated, appeared to be suddenly at a loss for words, and simply stood there, gazing into her face. He discovered he could not look away. Nor could he let go of her hand, much to his amazement.

  It was the click of the door closing as Esther left the room that caused Annette to blink. Since his arrival, only a few seconds had passed in actuality, yet it seemed so much longer to her, as if time had stood still.

  Pulling herself together, and very gently slipping her hand out of his, Annette attempted to be businesslike. She gestured to the French chairs near the credenza. “Let’s sit over there, shall we? And would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea, or water?”

  “Coffee with milk would be great, thank you,” Jack answered, and, moving toward the two chairs, he glanced around the office, taking everything in.

  Annette sat down at her desk, picked up the phone, and pressed the intercom button. When Esther answered, she said, “Mr. Chalmers would like coffee with milk, and so would I, please, Esther. Thanks.”

  Replacing the receiver, Annette rose, walked slowly around the desk, and headed over to the chairs. She had not expected Jack Chalmers to be like this, so very handsome, and yes, it was true, he did bear a strong resemblance to the young William Holden.

  He was slender, with fair hair and light-gray eyes, but there was something else about him, other than his superb good looks, that caught and held her attention. Suddenly she understood exactly what it was, a calmness, a stillness in him, and he had an air of refinement and breeding. He was classy.

  His clothes were equally as quiet. Dark gray slacks, a light-gray cashmere sports jacket, a crisp white shirt, and a dove-gray silk tie. The clothes were subdued in color but beautifully made, and obviously expensive. The other thing she noticed were his shoes. He was wearing her favorite American-style penny loafers made of brown leather, and they were highly polished. She wondered then if he’d lived in America, because there was something American about him. The clothes? The disarming friendliness?

  He did not sit down until she did, and then he looked across at her and said, “Your office is somewhat minimalistic, isn’t it? And what’s so surprising to me is there isn’t one painting hanging here.” His extraordinary translucent gray eyes were focused on her again, and his smile was warm.

  “The walls are empty because they are waiting for paintings. One I might be selling, or one I might be buying. I don’t want anything of my own which I love competing with them. I like to be totally objective about art I’m buying or selling.”

  “How very clever,” he exclaimed. “And of course I realize you don’t own a gallery, that you’re an art consultant with private clients.”

  “Yes,” was all she said.

  There was a sudden knock on the door, and Esther came hurrying in carrying a tray, which she brought over to the table between the two chairs. “Here we are,” she said. “There’s milk, sugar, sweeteners, and a few shortbread biscuits.” With a quick nod and a smile she was gone, disappearing as Annette called, “Thank you.”

  “I did a little research on you, in readiness for our interview,” Jack volunteered. “But there wasn’t very much to Google. I think that perhaps you don’t really like doing interviews.” A brow
lifted as he spoke, and he smiled at her again.

  The smile was just as disarming as his easygoing, casual manner, and she immediately responded to this. Her anxiety about the interview was already much diminished because of the calm, the stillness, that surrounded him, plus his gentle demeanor.

  She said, “There’s nothing to Google because I haven’t done any big interviews, just small things after I sold the Rembrandt. There’s nothing much on the Internet about me. You see, I hadn’t done anything special until I held that auction. Only then was I sought out by the press.”

  “Thanks, by the way, for selecting me. I must admit I was very flattered when my agent told me I was your choice. Anyway, I must admit something to you. I’m terribly curious about the Rembrandt, and how it came to you. I read that it belonged to Christopher Delaware, that he had inherited it from his uncle, Sir Alec Delaware. However, there hasn’t been anything written about how he came to be your client.”

  “It was a fluke. Or luck. Whichever you prefer.”

  “Or a bit of both?” he suggested. “So tell me.”

  “About eight or nine months before Christopher came to see me about the Rembrandt, he had been seated next to me at a dinner given by a mutual friend. When he inherited his uncle’s art collection, he suddenly remembered me, made an appointment, and arrived here with the Rembrandt.” She began to laugh. “In a shopping bag, of all things.”

  “Good God! Wasn’t that a bit dangerous? Couldn’t it have been damaged?” Jack’s surprise was evident.

  “Absolutely. But he had enough sense to wrap it in a thick blanket before putting it in the shopping bag. He showed me the painting, told me he wanted to sell it, and asked if I would do this for him.”

  “And you said yes.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  Jack nodded and laughed, enjoying being with her. He opened a packet of sweetener, shook it into the coffee, stirred it, added milk. He took a quick sip, then went on, “I know you are an expert on Old Masters but you’re also an expert on Impressionist paintings. I found that rather curious since there’s such a big difference in the two schools of art.”

  “That’s true, yes, there is a huge difference. I started out studying Impressionists, and then later I moved on and studied Old Masters because I wanted to be well rounded in my knowledge of art and art history. But to be very honest, I have always been drawn to Impressionist painters, most especially Renoir, Manet, and Degas, and these are very personal choices on my part, I must explain. But my sister pointed out a long time ago that I must have what she called a second string to my bow, and I always listen to her.” This was a downright lie. It was Marius who had led her toward Old Masters and not Laurie at all. For some reason, she didn’t want to mention her husband. Well, she knew the reason. . . .

  Jack said, “I have to tell you, I’m a fan of Renoir, too. I love the color, the vividness of life he portrays in his paintings.”

  “Anyway, going back to my Rembrandt, as I call it. Obviously when Christopher came to see me I was excited, thrilled, and very flattered.”

  “I bet you were. I can understand that very well. The Rembrandt you auctioned was a portrait of a woman, wasn’t it?”

  Annette jumped up. “Would you like to see it? I have a photographic blow-up.”

  “I certainly would. Oh, yes, please.”

  Jack’s eyes followed Annette as she walked down the room, his attention riveted on her. She was tall, willowy, and had the greatest legs he’d seen in a long time. But it was her blondness, the clear, light blue of her eyes, the delicacy of her features, that had instantly captivated him. She had knocked him for a loop when he had walked in a short while before. The odd thing was, he felt as if he already knew her. There was a strange familiarity about her that made his chest tighten. He had recognized her as a kindred spirit.

  Jack had truly not bargained for a woman like this, a woman who had so stunned him that his step had actually faltered when he walked into her office. Dangerous, he thought. Dangerous for me . . .

  “Here it is,” Annette announced from the other end of the room, and took hold of the photographic blow-up, pulling it out of the cupboard.

  Jack was on his feet, hurrying over to her, and he immediately took hold of the blow-up. Their hands touched, and she pulled hers away so rapidly he stared at her, frowning.

  Annette looked at him, swallowing, saying nothing. His touch was like an electric shock. Slowly, a pale-pink blush spread up from her neck and flooded her face.

  The bloom is on the rose, Jack thought. Or on the peach. My God, what a complexion she has. It was utter perfection. A typical English rose, he thought, then asked, “Where shall I put this?”

  “I usually prop my blow-ups on the credenza,” Annette replied, walking down the room, furious with herself for blushing the way she had. But the look in his eyes was so penetrating, so intense, she felt as if he could see right through her clothes, see her naked. She realized he wondered why she had pulled her hand away so quickly. Scorched, she thought, he scorched me. But there was no way she could tell him that. . . .

  The ringing phone brought her up short, and as she went to answer it, she said, “Sorry about this, and perhaps you can prop the blow-up over there.”

  “I will.”

  “Yes, Esther? Is this important?” Annette asked.

  “It’s Carlton Fraser. He says he must speak to you.”

  “Oh, my goodness! Yes, put him through.” Covering the receiver with her hand, she called out, “Mr. Chalmers, I’m so sorry, but I must take this. I’ll only be a couple of minutes. Would you please excuse me?”

  “No problem. Look, would you like privacy? I can step outside.”

  “No, no, it’s all right, honestly.” She smiled at him, sat down at the desk. “Hello! I’m so relieved to hear your voice. I’ve been very worried about you. How are you?”

  “Almost better, Annette, my darling. They let me out on Good Friday, so I’ve had a few splendid days here at home with Marguerite, and her presence and her unique cooking have done wonders for me, restored me no end. I hope to be able to get back to work in another week to ten days.”

  “Oh, please, don’t worry about your work for me. Your health is so much more important.”

  “Yes, I must take care of myself, I know that, I’m not getting any younger.” He chuckled down the phone and added, “But look here, I have a warden for a wife, so rest assured she’ll watch me like a hawk. Now, Annette, I must see you. Today. Is that possible?”

  “Of course,” she said at once. “But it will have to be this afternoon.”

  “Splendid. Thank you, my darling girl. Can you come here to the house? For tea? Say about four o’clock?”

  “Well, yes, I can.” She frowned and asked, “Is there something the matter? Is there a problem?”

  “I need you to see something.”

  “What?”

  “The Cézanne.”

  “Oh. Why? Why do you want me to see it? Is it about the soot?”

  “I have to show you something interesting.”

  “What?”

  “Annette, it’s hard to explain over the phone. Will you come at four?”

  “I will, yes. I’ll see you later.” She stood with her hand on the receiver, wondering what this was all about. Carlton was usually so open, straightforward, even blunt, she couldn’t imagine why he was being so mysterious. Shaking off thoughts of the odd conversation, she walked over to join Jack Chalmers.

  “I’m sorry about that,” she apologized.

  “Oh, please don’t worry. I’ve been busy studying the painting . . . the famous Rembrandt.”

  “And?” she asked, looking at him, seeing the puzzlement in his eyes.

  “Twenty million pounds was a lot of money for someone to pay for it, wasn’t it?”

  “It was indeed,” she answered. “Shall we continue the interview?”

  “Absolutely!” Jack said, and much to her consternation he took hold of her elbow and esc
orted her to the French chair. She could smell his cologne, he was so close. What was it? Guerlain, of course. Impériale. How odd. She often wore that herself, even though it was a man’s cologne. Taut inside from his close proximity, she was relieved when she sat down in the chair, and he took the other one.

  Seventeen

  Swinging his head to look once more at the Rembrandt photographic blow-up on the credenza, then turning back to Annette, Jack said, “So how did it feel when the hammer came down at twenty million pounds? It was your first auction, after all, so you must have been thrilled, excited, astonished, stunned? Pick one of those, tell me how it felt.”

  Annette shook her head. “I can’t. It’s impossible to choose one, because I experienced all of those feelings. It was a very emotional moment for me. I suppose I was astonished at first, thrilled, even disbelieving for a moment, and a little stunned, yes. And I was certainly excited for my client. Naturally, Christopher was ecstatic. And just a bit gobsmacked.”

  “I bet he was.” Jack now took a small recorder out of his pocket, placed it on the coffee table, then looked across at her. “I’d like to tape our conversation, if you don’t mind. I prefer that to taking lots of notes, which always seems somewhat obtrusive to me, off-putting for the person being interviewed.”

  “It’s fine, and I agree with you. I think a pad and pencil would probably make me a bit self-conscious, even tongue-tied.”

  He glanced at her swiftly and then chuckled. “I’ll be honest, Mrs. Remmington, my agent told me you don’t like doing interviews. So I want to make this as easy as possible for you. Listen, I’m just doing a story about a successful woman in the art world, I’m not out to get you.”

  Annette was silent, and then staring at him intently, she said softly, “I didn’t think you were.”

  “I’m glad of that.” Leaning back in the chair, he crossed his legs. “Tell me a little bit about the day Christopher Delaware brought the Rembrandt to you. What you thought, how you felt when you first saw it, Mrs. Remmington.”