Playing the Game

  Alison took Marie Antoinette in her arms, comforted her, and then helped her off the bed, led her out of the bedroom into the corridor. “I am going to take you away,” she whispered gently. “Out of this house forever. Go and wash.” She opened the door of the bathroom in the corridor. “Wait for me here.” She did as her cousin said.

  Alison went back into the bedroom, pulled her brother upright, and stood over him, glowering. “Get out of this house now, before I do serious damage to you.” Her furious voice held a threatening note he could not fail to miss. “Get going, you bastard. Now. Otherwise I’ll finish what I started. But then you’re not worth swinging for. You foul, sadistic pig.”

  He ran out of the room, down the stairs, across the hall, and out onto the moors, clutching his trousers and vowing to come back and kill them all, screaming the words at the top of his lungs.

  Quietly, with great calm and purposefulness, Alison packed their suitcases, and then helped them to get dressed in their proper traveling clothes. And just before she closed the last of the cases, she folded the torn pink tutu and put it inside, promising to mend it for Marie Antoinette.

  She took them on the train to London and they never went back to Ilkley again. Their mother was there to meet them at King’s Cross railway station and they all three went with her to her flat in Islington, where there was a room for them. And a stepfather.

  And forever after Marie Antoinette never forgot what Alison had said to her on the train to London. “You must protect Josephine. Always, always, Marie Antoinette. I rely on you to do this. You must promise me.”

  She made that promise. And she never broke it.

  Annette awakened a few hours later, cold and shivering. Throwing back the cashmere shawl, she went to her bathroom and took a hot shower. As the water sluiced over her icy, trembling body, she whispered to herself, “I did protect my little Josephine. I kept her safe. And now she’s even safer because she has Malcolm.” And she began to cry, filled with relief that her baby sister would soon have a husband who would protect her as she had, would be there for her if she was no longer around. This knowledge brought her a sense of peace and was profoundly comforting.

  Twenty-four

  “I’m beginning to understand how much you genuinely love art,” Jack said, tearing his eyes away from Annette, glancing at the Degas sculpture on the coffee table in the yellow living room of her Eaton Square flat. “It really means a lot to you on a very personal level, doesn’t it?” he asked, looking across the room at her again.

  “Yes, it does,” she replied, somewhat surprised by his astute observation.

  “Look, I realize that someone who is a dealer, consultant, and art historian has to understand every aspect of art, be it a painting or a sculpture, and love it, as well. But somehow I feel your love goes very, very deep. More than might be . . . usual.”

  “Art has been my whole life, actually, and it’s saved my life, if you want the truth,” Annette confided, and wondered why she had said this. Because she trusted him?

  Bringing his gaze back to meet hers, he said, “I do want the truth, yes, and since you brought it up, may I ask how it has saved your life?” He leaned forward slightly, glancing at the digital recorder, making sure it was working.

  “In times of great sadness, when I’ve lost people. By that I mean family.”

  “You’re referring to your father, aren’t you?”

  She nodded. “He died very young, when I was young myself. I took refuge in art, lost myself in it. He was an artist, you see, but took a job teaching art because he had to support a family. He taught me, of course, and encouraged me to study, especially the Impressionists, which were his favorites. After his death I went on doing what he’d taught me to do, because it made me feel closer to him. And it was an antidote to grief. It kept me calm, steady.”

  “I understand what you mean.” Jack was aware of the sadness in her eyes, the whole change in her demeanor. After a moment’s reflection, he went on quietly, “You said people. Who else did you lose?”

  “I had a lovely cousin who I adored when I was a child. Her name was Alison. She didn’t die, though. She went to live abroad, and I haven’t seen her for years.” Annette shook her head. “Her absence from my life was like death. She was gone. So I learned to bury myself in art, and in its beauty. It was a solace to me, and somehow I coped. It kept my sorrow at bay.”

  Jack decided to change the subject. “When you were talking to me about that,” he said, nodding to the Degas sculpture, “I was utterly captivated, marveling at you, at your incredible knowledge, not only about the sculpture but Degas himself. Art is so . . . all-encompassing in your life. Well, actually it’s part of . . . your soul, isn’t it?”

  Annette felt a shiver run through her. No one had ever said anything like that to her before, and it was true, art was part of her soul. How extraordinary that he had put his finger on this aspect of her character.

  Clearing her throat, she said, “You’re absolutely correct.” She gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Nobody’s ever said that to me before. No one. Not ever. How perceptive of you.”

  “I’ve been listening to you very carefully, you know,” he responded, giving her the benefit of his engaging smile.

  Leaning back against the sofa, she gazed at The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer for a moment or two. “There’s another one like this in the Louvre, and I often go to see it when I’m in Paris. It’s always been a favorite of mine. Imagine my excitement when this one fell into my hands. I was ecstatic and I still am.”

  “I understand why. It’s perfectly beautiful, and I don’t mind about the torn tutu, or that it’s dirty.” Giving her a very direct and penetrating stare, he asked, “And how much do you think it will bring at auction?”

  “A lot!” she exclaimed, sitting up straighter. “I do know that, but I’d prefer not to put a price tag on it, or speculate, because . . .” She shrugged. “You never know what might happen. Things can go awry so easily. But I will tell you something, Jack, another little dancer like this was auctioned in about 1997, and it went for eleven million dollars. It was at Sotheby’s in New York. They auctioned it, and did very well.”

  “Wow!” Jack looked impressed. “So I bet you’re thinking you could double that, aren’t you?”

  She laughed. “I’m not going to put a price on it. You’re not going to trap me.”

  “And the Giacometti standing over there?” He glanced across the room at the sculpture on a table in the corner. “How much do you think that will bring?”

  “No, no, Jack, I won’t speculate about that either.”

  “So be it. I won’t pressure you. By the way, your sister is staggeringly beautiful. Tony Lund, the dark-haired guy with us last night, is a Hollywood producer, and he thought she was breathtaking, movie-star gorgeous. And my brother, Kyle, said the same, by the way.”

  “She is lovely, and, in fact, she always wanted to be an actress. Until she was in the car crash, and then it was impossible.”

  “How old was she when it happened?” he ventured, knowing he had her confidence. She trusted him, thank God. It made things easier.

  “Fourteen. She was with a friend and the girl’s mother, and they got sideswiped by a lorry that sent the car spinning out of control. It hit a wall, somersaulted. . . .” She let her voice trail off, shaking her head, then finished softly, “She’s lucky to be alive. Her friend Janice and Janice’s mother were killed outright.”

  “How tragic.” Jack, looking sympathetic, had picked up on her sadness.

  Annette continued, “But last night was a happy occasion for her, for all of us. Laurie became engaged to Malcolm Stevens. I think you’ve met him several times; anyway, he seems to think so. We were celebrating. They’re going to get married this summer. Incidentally, don’t you want to speak to her for the profile?”

  “Yes, I do. I can do the interview on the phone, if she’d prefer, whatever she wants. I don’t need very long. Just a few questions.” br />
  “I’ll talk to her about it, and let you know.”

  “Thanks. Now, getting back to the upcoming auction in September, which paintings are going on the block along with the two sculptures?”

  “Three that Christopher Delaware also owns. A Mary Cassatt, a Berthe Morisot, and a Degas.”

  “Impressionists. Correct? You must forgive me, I don’t know a lot about art, Annette.”

  “You’re right, though, and I picked these particular painters because they knew each other. Mary Cassatt and Degas were especially close. Platonic relationship, though. Berthe Morisot knew both of them and they were all part of the Impressionist movement at the same time. This seemed to suggest a theme, and also the women were the only two in the movement.”

  Jack was impressed. “My God, this is going to be some auction! I’d love to be there. I can come, can’t I?”

  “I’d like you to be there, Jack. I’ll make sure you get an invitation.”

  He took her to lunch at Daphne’s in Chelsea.

  It happened to be a restaurant she liked because it was intimate and comfortable, and also she, who did not crave food, always enjoyed the Italian cuisine. She told him this. It made him happy. He wanted to please her.

  They were seated at a small table in a corner, facing each other, and Jack was glad she looked more relaxed. In the cab coming over from Eaton Square, she had suddenly seemed tense, almost apprehensive, and he had not understood this sudden change in her demeanor. But he had kept his distance in the cab, had kept the conversation businesslike, still discussing art with her, and the art world in general.

  Once they were settled, he asked, “Would you like a glass of wine? Champagne?”

  “I don’t usually drink at lunchtime,” she murmured.

  Jack laughed, glanced at his watch. “It’s almost two, the interview went on a little longer than I expected. So, it’s two o’clock on a Friday. Surely you’re not planning to go back to your office, are you?”

  “No, no, I’m not.” Feeling suddenly awkward, she forced a laugh. “All right, I’ll have a glass of white wine, please.”

  “Sounds good. So will I.” Once Jack had ordered from the waiter, he said, “You’re really amazing, you know, the way you rattle off all this information about art. How on earth do you remember such a lot of complex details? I mean, that incredible stuff about pieces of sculpture being scattered over three floors of Degas’s studio after his death, and about Bartholomé, Degas’s friend, being in charge of it all, and Hébrard, who made the reproductions at his foundry. You must have a computer in your head.”

  “I’ve got a really good memory, actually, Jack. But, of course, when you study a lot, are especially focused on one particular painter and his work, then the information seems to stick. It’s something like learning a poem by heart. It just so happens that Laurie is even better than I am, at least when it comes to Degas. She’s an expert on him, and has committed everything to memory.”

  “Yes, you said she was in the art business?”

  “As I told you before, she wanted to be an actress when she was growing up, but after the accident that was impossible because of her disability, not being able to walk. Also, I think she lost her ambition, saw the whole idea of acting as extremely difficult. She’d never shown any interest in painting as I did when we were little, but she was exposed to art because of my father. We both knew she had to be occupied, have a career, if she was going to lead a halfway decent life, and she opted for art research. And she’s been happy doing it, enjoys her work.”

  Jack nodded and picked up the glass of wine which had just appeared in front of him. Raising it, he said, “Here’s to you, Annette, and the auction in September. May it be the best ever.”

  She clinked her glass against his. “And to you, Jack, for making being interviewed so painless. And enjoyable.”

  He smiled, looking pleased. After taking a sip of the wine, he leaned forward. “Have I really made it painless?”

  “Absolutely. I’m not very good about doing interviews, and I was really worried, but, well, you’ve managed to make me feel relaxed, and, somehow, not at all threatened.”

  “Is that what you’ve felt in the past? Threatened?” He frowned, seemed puzzled.

  “A bit, yes, but not with you, as I just said.” She saw that he was looking intrigued, and also curious. Swiftly, she changed the subject. “Where do you live? Is it around here, Jack?”

  “No. I live in Primrose Hill, actually.” He suddenly began to chuckle. “Near my mother’s old junk shop, oddly enough. Nice little flat, but it’s just somewhere to hang my hat, or should I say park my computer? It’s not my home, my real home, I mean. I have a villa on the Côte d’Azur.”

  “Do you really? I like the south of France. Whereabouts is your place?”

  “In a little town you probably don’t know, Beaulieu-sur-Mer, near Monte Carlo.”

  “But I know it very well! My favorite hotel’s there.”

  “I bet you’re referring to La Réserve?”

  “I am, Jack. I love that hotel, and I always have. It’s had a special place in my heart—” She cut herself off, annoyed that she was telling him so much. But it was true. She felt at ease with him, she might as well admit that, and also his general manner, the cozy way he had about him, encouraged confidences. Good asset, for a journalist. She wondered how much he cultivated this. Or was it his natural manner?

  Jack said, “I started going to La Réserve when I was a little boy. So when did you stay there for the first time?”

  “When I was eighteen, and it’s such an amazing place . . . especially for a romantic interlude.” As the words left her mouth, she could’ve bitten her tongue off, and as he sat there smiling at her knowingly, she felt the heat flooding her face.

  “You’re blushing,” he said, still smiling in that amused, knowing way of his, and, reaching out, he took hold of her hand. “Don’t be embarrassed, Annette. I hope it was a memorable weekend. Well, I guess it must have been, since you’ve obviously not forgotten it.”

  She nodded, swallowed. She was mortified. Unexpectedly, she began to shake inside because he was holding her hand. She removed it from his. Wanting to distract him, she murmured, “Perhaps we should order. I’m feeling a bit hungry.” Picking up the menu, she studied it intently, glad to hide behind it.

  “Yes, let’s do that,” he agreed.

  He didn’t know what to do, what to say. She had retreated into herself in the last ten minutes, saying nothing to him, simply picking at the food in front of her. She had ordered the same as him, thinly sliced prosciutto ham with slivers of melon, but she didn’t appear to be enjoying the food.

  He wondered if she had drawn back, become remote so suddenly, because he had taken hold of her hand. Perhaps. She might have found it too familiar of him. It had been a natural move on his part. Still, she had blushed in embarrassment and pulled away, maybe because she had confided in him when she hadn’t meant to.

  Surely that had to be it . . . the involuntary confidences which had just slipped out; she wasn’t the kind of woman to give confidences very easily, of that he was convinced. Being with her this morning in a more relaxed environment had been an eye-opener. He had seen another side of her, and it had encouraged him to become a little more personal. He couldn’t help wondering if he had blown it. He must make amends immediately. He wanted to pursue this relationship, build it into something. He had never felt this way about a woman before, and he had known quite a few, some rather intimately.

  Deciding that he must put her at ease, he said, “I want you to know that once the recorder is off, then anything you say to me is off the record. I would never use it.”

  When she simply gazed at him unblinkingly, saying nothing, he said swiftly, “I’m not the kind of journalist who plays tricks, you know. I’m very honorable.”

  There was a hint of indignation in his voice, and she exclaimed, “Oh, I do know that, Jack, and I do trust you, and thank you for telling m
e about the tape recorder.”

  “Just don’t forget it, that’s all,” he admonished, sounding cross, still staring at her. “And what about the food, don’t you like it?”

  “I do, yes, it’s delicious, but it is a rather large portion.”

  Jack laughed. “I was thinking the same thing, and we have the risotto primavera next. Can you believe I’ve ordered so much food? It’s enough to feed the Seaforth Highlanders.”

  Annette began to laugh. “I’ve never heard that expression before.”

  “My father always used to say it. His father was in the Seaforth Highlanders in the First World War. I guess it was his version of saying there was enough to feed an army.”

  She was still laughing, and he was glad of that. Her demeanor had changed, was relaxed again, and he wanted to keep it that way, so he said, “Listen, Annette, thanks again for showing me the sculptures this morning, and for telling me so much about art and how you feel about it, what it means to you. It was very nice of you, and I know how busy you must be, planning the next auction.”

  “I am a bit, yes, but I’ve been happy to talk to you, Jack. . . . As I said before, you have made it easy, and enjoyable.”

  “I’ve enjoyed it, too, and I just wanted to ask—” He broke off as the hovering waiter came forward and asked, “Have you finished, Mr. Chalmers? Was everything all right?”

  It was a waiter he knew, and he said, “Yes, we have, and it was delicious, but you do serve very generous portions.”

  The waiter smiled, took their plates, and disappeared. Jack sat back, sipped his wine, and told her, “I don’t usually eat much for lunch. When I’m in France it’s a salad and a glass of water.”

  “I’m the same,” Annette admitted. “Do you commute to Beaulieu and back? I mean, how do you manage it?”

  “I’m here in London a lot when I have journalistic assignments. I write most of them here, if they’re relatively short pieces. When I go to France I usually stay for about ten days to two weeks, but when I’m writing a book I spend several months there. Unless something special comes up, and then I hop over to London for a week, maybe a bit longer. It works out well. And I do love my little house by the sea.”