Playing the Game

  “No problem,” Chris answered. “Thanks.”

  Annette followed Carlton, saying as she did, “I’d better let Marguerite know that Jack Chalmers is stopping by for a moment.” She was heading into the kitchen when the doorbell rang.

  Twenty

  Suddenly he was in the middle of her life, and she was still breathless, startled by the way it had happened. So accidentally, so unexpectedly, and so very fast. A quick phone call about changing the time of the interview, and her day had changed.

  Marguerite Fraser had created a flurry of excitement when he’d arrived a few minutes ago, had drawn him into the large hall, displaying great affection toward him, clucking like a fond mother hen. Carlton had rushed out from the studio to embrace him in a bear hug, and even Christopher was obviously itching to meet him.

  And there he was. Jack Chalmers. Looking for all the world like the golden boy, with the Frasers fussing, Christopher gaping in awe, and she lurking almost furtively in the background. To her, Jack appeared somewhat embarrassed as he stood there helplessly, staring across the hall at her.

  Annette realized that she had lost control of the situation when Marguerite appeared on the scene, and now she took it back. Smiling at Jack, gliding forward, she said in a steady voice, “Isn’t it a small world after all, Jack?” Coming to a standstill next to him, she thrust out her hand.

  He took it in his, holding on to it tightly for a split second, then let it go. He returned her smile and explained, “I spent a lot of time in this house, when I was a kid growing up.”

  Marguerite took his comment as a signal to be the hostess. “Let’s go into the kitchen, shall we? Where we can all have coffee.”

  “Oh no, really, I don’t want to interrupt business.” Jack did not take his eyes off Annette as he spoke. “I just wanted to say hello, that’s all.” He moved slightly closer to Annette. “And firm up our date for the interview tomorrow,” he added, touching her arm.

  She simply nodded.

  Marguerite said, “Please stay and have coffee, Jack. We haven’t seen you since your father’s funeral, and it would be lovely to catch up.”

  “Yes, do stay,” Carlton insisted.

  “I feel I’m intruding,” Jack murmured, continuing to gaze at Annette as if he were mesmerized.

  Wondering if he might be seeking her permission to stay, she said, “You’re not intruding at all, Jack. In fact, we have just concluded our business. And it just occurred to me that you might like to chat with Chris. Let me introduce you. . . . This is my client Christopher Delaware. Chris, meet Jack Chalmers. And Jack, you could talk to him about the Rembrandt if you like, and the auction. That is all right, Chris, isn’t it?”

  “Of course,” Chris said, shaking Jack’s hand.

  “Hey, this is great,” Jack said. “I’d like to get your view of the auction, and perhaps you’d give me a few words about Annette.”

  “She’s the greatest.” Chris grinned at him, then looked at Marguerite. “Where should we go and sit, Mrs. Fraser?”

  “Please call me Marguerite, and why don’t you pop into the living room. Jack knows where it is.”

  “That I do,” Jack exclaimed, leading the way.

  Marguerite turned to Carlton and said, “This is a wonderful surprise, seeing Jack, and so unexpectedly. If you’ll excuse me, Annette, I’ll go and make the coffee. I’m sure you and Carlton have plenty to talk about.”

  Left alone in the hall, Carlton said, in a low tone, “I hope he doesn’t mention the Cézanne. He seems awfully young and inexperienced, Annette.”

  “I know he does, and he is in many ways, and yet he’s smart about certain things. He won’t mention the Cézanne, that I feel confident about. He’ll just waffle on about the lost Rembrandt, his surprise when I got so much money for it. Don’t worry, he won’t make any waves.”

  “I trust your judgment, my darling girl.” Carlton took hold of her arm and led her back to the studio. “I do wish he would let us destroy the fake. It worries me that it’s floating out there.”

  “It’s not really floating. Now is it? And it does belong to him. Frankly, I think he’ll stick it back in the room he’s using for storage and forget about it. I got the impression he thought we were bullying him a while ago. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll talk to him again later. And by the way, he’s twenty-three.”

  Carlton laughed. “When you’re in your sixties, twenty-three seems awfully young.”

  Annette just laughed and took a seat near the window. “Chris might mention the next auction to Jack, but it doesn’t matter if he does. I was going to tell him about it anyway, to get the ball rolling for my publicity campaign.”

  “And your biggest item is the Degas sculpture, isn’t it?”

  “Correct. And don’t forget the Giacometti. I’d like you to come over and look at them next week, Carlton, if you would. I think they both need cleaning, but you can’t touch the net tutu on the Degas. I believe it would fall apart.”

  “You’re correct. I wouldn’t dream of it, and I’d be thrilled to get the two sculptures up to snuff for you. . . . It would be an honor, my dear.”

  As they walked down the street to the house where he had grown up, Jack said, “It was great to see the Frasers. They’re both terrific. But I must admit I was glad when Chris said he had to leave.”

  “So was I,” Annette replied. “I’d been itching to break it up, and somehow didn’t know how to do it without Marguerite taking offense. She’s such a lovely woman and I adore her, but the coffee break was starting to get too long.”

  “Well, here we are. This is where I grew up,” Jack announced, and taking her arm he led her up the short path to the front door.

  When he drew close to her like this, she began to shake inside, conscious of his physical presence, and the effect he had on her. She wanted to step away from him; she realized it would look awkward if she did, so she stayed where she was.

  As he unlocked the door, her mobile began to ring, and she stared at him, grimaced, and muttered, “Excuse me, Jack.”

  Nodding, he went inside, leaving her standing on the top step, obviously wishing to give her privacy. Flipping open the phone, she said, “It’s Annette.”

  “Hello, it’s Malcolm. Do you have a minute?”

  “Of course. And by the way, congratulations.”

  “Thanks, Annette. That’s why I’m calling you. Are you and Marius free for dinner tonight? With Laurie and me.”

  “As far as I know, we have nothing. I’d have to ask him. Or better still, why don’t you do that? Tell him you’ve talked to me, and that we have no prior engagement. He might, though. You know he often sees clients for dinner.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that. Listen. I’m thinking of going to see him this afternoon. I’ve lunch with a client, and I thought I’d slip over to his office around four. What do you think?”

  “To talk about you and Laurie getting married?”

  “Yes . . .”

  There was a silence and static. Annette said, “Malcolm, are you there? Or have I lost you?”

  “I’m here,” Malcolm said. “I’m worried about how he’ll react when he hears our plans. He’s very possessive of her.”

  “I know that. But you don’t need his permission, you know. She is thirty-six. Neither do you need mine, or anyone else’s for that matter.” She laughed. “Just go and tell him. Okay?”

  “Yep. Thanks, Annette, and I’m so glad you approve.”

  “You knew I would. You’re the best. See you tonight.”

  Closing the phone, she slipped it into the pocket of her black knitted jacket and stood for a split second, thinking about Malcolm.

  She, too, was somewhat concerned, a trifle worried about how Marius would react to the news. He couldn’t help being controlling, it was part of his nature, but it was a very troubling characteristic, most especially when he became overbearing. However, in the long run, her money was on Malcolm Stevens in this matter of Laurie and their marriage. He
would handle Marius with kid gloves, diplomatically, but she was well aware her old friend wouldn’t take any nonsense from anyone, not even his famous mentor.

  Annette stood in the doorway looking into the house. The entrance hall was small, she noticed, but several doors were open, and the windows in three empty rooms filled it with shimmering sunlight. Dust motes rose up like a myriad of tiny delicate insects, sparkling in the air, and the hall was absolutely quiet, very still.

  Her eyes settled finally on Jack. He was unaware she was there as he knelt on the floor, looking into a trunk. She could see his shoulder blades through the thin cotton of his white shirt, and unexpectedly her throat tightened. How defenseless, vulnerable, he looked at this moment; she wanted to reach out, touch him, as one might affectionately touch a small child. What a dangerous man he was, the way he got to her, affected her on so many levels. If she had any sense, she would turn around and run as fast as she could.

  Instead, she stepped over the threshold and went into the hall.

  He heard her step, straightened, and stood up. Swinging around, he smiled at her. It was that huge generous smile of his that showed his perfect, very white teeth and was a reflection of his geniality and that fatal charm.

  “It’ll just take me a minute,” he explained. “I’ve done all I can with this at the moment. I’ll get my things together and call for a radio cab. I can drop you off at your office, or wherever you want.”

  “Thanks.” She eyed the trunk. “That’s a beautiful piece of old Louis Vuitton,” she said, wanting to be friendly, and was amazed she sounded so normal.

  “Isn’t it just! It was my mother’s. She died before Dad, going on four years now. She left it to me, along with everything in it. My brother’s been on my back to remove it since Dad died, because we’ve put the house on the market. So I’ve been emptying everything into these two suitcases, which are much easier to carry.”

  Annette nodded her understanding. “Don’t get rid of the trunk, though. It’s a collector’s item and worth a lot, I should think.”

  “I know. I’m definitely keeping it. My mother had a little shop in Primrose Hill, a sort of hole-in-the-wall. But she loved it. Her junk shop, she called it, and there was a lot of junk there. But also some really good stuff, including the trunk. And she did occasionally deal in superior antiques, some of which ended up here. Kyle’s going to send those to be auctioned.”

  Glancing around, endeavoring to relax, Annette said, “This looks like a really nice family house. It must have been lovely growing up here.”

  “It was, and Kyle would tell you the same thing.” He threw her a very direct look and asserted, “You grew up in Ilkley, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” she answered, wondering how he knew this. What else did he know? She held herself perfectly still, suddenly anxious, a little panicky. Be careful what you say, she warned herself. Be wary. Her guard went up.

  Jack exclaimed, “So, you’re a Yorkshire girl from the moors! Do you miss them? I bet you do. They’re staggeringly beautiful.”

  She could not respond. After a moment, she managed to say, “No, I don’t miss them.”

  “My father was a theatrical agent,” Jack told her. “Every year he gave a big party. Here in the summer. And he invited everyone.”

  Now Jack began to walk into the center room, beckoning her to follow him, saying, “Come on! Come and look at the garden where he had the party. Mum always referred to it as THE GARDEN PARTY in capital letters. It was Dad’s special event of the year. He reveled in it. He got such a great kick out of it.”

  Annette had the impulse to flee, to get away from him. How cleverly he disarmed her with his effortless charm, his easygoing manner, his way of confiding in her all of a sudden, telling her about himself. She wondered how to tell him to order the cab; she discovered she couldn’t say the words. Because . . . she wanted to be here, didn’t she? Finding her voice at last, she asked, “And were you and your brother allowed to attend the party?”

  “Yes, when I was about eight and Kyle was ten. It always started at six o’clock and went on until God knows when. Everyone wanted to be invited and they were, because Dad didn’t want to disappoint anybody. Or hurt anybody’s feelings. He was just the greatest guy. He gave Kyle and me so much. Chase your dream, he would tell us both, go for it, catch it, keep it, live it. He was behind us all the way, encouraged whatever ambitions we had.”

  Turning suddenly, grabbing her hand and startling her as he did so, he led her into the middle of the lawn. “This was tented, just in case of rain, you know our bloody weather as well as I do. And there was a band and an open bar set up, and tables groaning with food. It was just the best place to be.”

  “I wish I’d been here,” she said without thinking, and swallowed, feeling foolish.

  “So do I,” he murmured, giving her a pointed look.

  Annette glanced away, and extricated her hand from his.

  He said softly, “Dad dealt in dreams, you know, since he represented actors, writers, directors, producers. . . . I used to call him the dream catcher sometimes, or the dream maker, and it made him smile. What did your father do?”

  “He was a teacher,” she answered, caught unawares.

  “In Ilkley?”

  “No, Harrogate,” she corrected, and could’ve bitten her tongue off.

  “Oh. I thought you lived in Ilkley.”

  “Yes, after Daddy died. We went to live with our grandparents.”

  “And your mother, too?”

  “Yes.” She took a deep breath. “Jack, I’m sorry, but I think I ought to be getting back to the office.”

  “Oh sure! God, I’m so sorry, wasting your time with all this chatter about Dad and growing up here. Let’s go inside.”

  Twenty-one

  Annette stood with Esther in her office, staring at the photographic blow-up of the three-foot Giacometti sculpture of a walking man. It had arrived earlier this morning, while she was at Carlton’s, and Esther had unwrapped it and put it in place on the credenza.

  “It really looks great,” Annette said at last. “I just have a good feeling about this sculpture. I think the price is going to soar. Marius told me to keep it in the September auction, not to hold it back for a later date, because Giacometti’s pieces have been doing very well. And I believe he was right in his advice.”

  “When you say soar, what exactly do you mean?” Esther asked, looking at Annette, ready to believe anything she said, because her boss lady was the most brilliant woman she had ever met. She trusted her judgment about art—and most other things—and implicitly so.

  “I’m thinking in the range of about twenty million to twenty-five million.”

  “Pounds?” Esther gasped.

  “Well, of course pounds, the auction is going to be held here in London, at Sotheby’s, because Marius thought it would be wiser. Had you forgotten that?”

  “No, I hadn’t, and if it goes for twenty-five million pounds then it will have outdone the Rembrandt, won’t it?”

  Annette grinned. “I told you I wanted to top myself this time around. I fully intend to beat my own record.”

  Laughing, Esther exclaimed, “You’ll get just as much for The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, maybe even more, because it’s one of the few sculptures Degas ever did. On the other hand, Giacometti has grown awfully popular in the last few years.”

  “What about the recession that’s supposedly looking us in the face? And is it about to hit us next year?”

  “It well might, but I don’t think it will have any effect on the megarich, and especially on the art they buy. The superrich are always looking for trophy art to show off to their friends.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears,” Esther said. She spun around and walked across the office. Turning when she reached the door, she said, “There’re a few phone messages, and Marius called to say you’re having dinner with Malcolm tonight. Malcolm also called, and Laurie.”
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  “Thanks, Esther.”

  Smiling at her, Esther opened the door, paused, and, looking back at Annette, she said, “Is the interview with Jack Chalmers still on for tomorrow?”

  “Oh yes, it is. Sorry, I forgot to mention that he’s coming at noon, though, and then he wants to take me out to lunch, to continue the interview in a different environment.”

  “I understand that. He wants to see different sides of you, different aspects, and it is a bit, well, sort of clinical in the office.”

  Annette began to laugh. “Oh, Esther, you have such a unique way of putting things. Clinical indeed.”

  “Well, it’s true, boss, take it from me,” she muttered, and closed the door behind her.

  Staring at the door, Annette focused for a moment on Jack. He had been casual, chatty, in the cab, and had not asked her any more questions, which she was glad about.

  The one thing he had said, during the long cab ride from Hampstead to Bond Street, was that he did not usually do interviews for a newspaper profile. The reason he needed the extra material, he had continued, was because he was going to write a rather long article about her for the Sunday New York Times Magazine. She appreciated that quality in him, his thoughtfulness, his desire to make her feel at ease.

  He certainly did that when it came to the interviews. It was his physical presence, his charismatic personality, and his magnetism that threw her off balance, made her feel, and ridiculously so, like a silly teenager. For that reason she must keep everything on a businesslike footing, not become overly friendly with him, not too chummy, and, most important, she must not be confiding at all.

  Glancing at the phone message on her desk, she first called Agnes Dunne, Marius’s assistant. There was no answer, so she left a message saying she had received Marius’s message to her, and understood about the dinner arrangement. Her next call was to Malcolm, whom she caught on his mobile just as he was leaving the Remmington Gallery for a lunch date.