Playing the Game

  “Thank you.” He stepped to the door, closed it, and came back to her, pulled her to her feet and took her in his arms. “Do you really want to go to Le Caprice? Shall we go to my flat and have a picnic?”

  “Don’t you want to be seen in public with me?” she shot back.

  He laughed. “Damn right I do. Who wouldn’t want you on his arm? Tonight I’ll cook dinner for you in Primrose Hill.”

  “But, Jack, we can’t—”

  “No buts,” he cut in, smiling at her.

  Later that afternoon, when Jack arrived home, he went straight to his desk and dialed Lucy’s number. The machine was on, and he left his name, asked her to call him, and hung up.

  He had made up his mind days ago to be honest with her, play it straight. She deserved that. She was a decent woman and she had always been nice with him, and a phone call, nothing less, was the only way to handle the situation. To ignore her or send an e-mail would be shoddy behavior.

  Opening his laptop, he was ready to start polishing the story about Annette and the newly found Impressionists when his landline rang. He grabbed the receiver. “It’s Jack Chalmers.”

  “Hello, Jack, it’s me, Lucy. How’re you?”

  “Pretty good, and you?”

  “Busy with work, as I’m sure you are.”

  “I am, Luce, and I’m sorry I haven’t called you. But I’ve had my hands full.”

  “When are you coming back to Beaulieu? Any time soon?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m going to be stuck here for a bit longer, I think. Listen, Lucy, I’ve been thinking a lot about us lately, and, frankly, I don’t believe we’re going anyplace fast. Do you?”

  There was a sudden silence at the other end.

  He said, “I like you a lot, very much, and we’ve always been good together on certain levels. But I can’t string you along. I think honesty is the best policy in life, especially between us, because we are good friends. And—”

  “Are you breaking up with me, Jack? Is that what you’re trying to say?” Lucy asked.

  “Well, yes, I am.”

  She laughed and said at last, “I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you, Jack, but at myself. I’ve been trying to get my courage up to speak to you about our relationship. Now you’ve done it, and set the record straight, and I don’t have to do it after all.”

  “Are you telling me you were going to break up with me?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Wow! Another man, is there?”

  “No, there isn’t.”

  “But you wanted to break up with me anyway?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I know that deep down you’re still very ambivalent about us being together, Jack, in spite of the last time you were here at the farm, the things you said and did, our very romantic night in each other’s arms.”

  He remained totally silent.

  She suddenly exclaimed in a sharp tone, “Jack, you have to find yourself! Find out who you really are as a man. I don’t think you will ever be able to truly love a woman until you do.”

  “I’m sorry, Lucy, truly sorry it’s ending like this.”

  It was Lucy’s turn to be silent; she said nothing.

  “Can’t we still be friends, though?” Jack asked quietly.

  “I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. But frankly, I don’t think so. Goodbye. Thanks for calling.”

  She had hung up on him before he could utter another word, and he immediately understood that she was furious with him. Also very hurt. He regretted hurting her, but he’d had no choice. He was in love with another woman.

  Thirty-five

  Annette sat at her desk in her Bond Street office, making notes for the Estrins, the clients she would be seeing later, when her private line rang. As usual she picked it up on the second ring, and said, “Hello?”

  “Hello, darling girl,” Carlton Fraser answered in a low voice. “I’m afraid I have bad news for you.”

  “It’s a fake, isn’t it?” she asserted, having been convinced all along that there was something peculiar about the Degas ballet dancer.

  “Yes, that’s correct. Ted and I tested the paint yesterday, and it’s definitely new paint, Annette. And a relatively new canvas, possibly eighteen years old, like the soot-covered Cézanne is.”

  “I wonder if the Degas was painted by the same artist? What do you think, Carlton? And Ted? What did he have to say?”

  “Ted and I are not certain that the same person painted the Degas dancer and the first Cézanne landscape. The Cézanne is much truer to the real thing, and, let’s face it, you were deceived by it, and frankly so was I. Ted and I believe it was a more experienced artist who executed the first Cézanne, the one ruined by the soot.”

  “And we’ve no way of knowing who, have we?”

  “No. Unless it was the person who did the Manet of the woman in a veil, and the Cézanne called The Red Roofs. I tend to think it might be, mainly because the painter was so much better. Anyway, it could well be two forgers at work, you know.”

  “But eighteen years ago, right?”

  “Approximately.”

  “Well, at least we know the truth now.”

  “When are you going to tell Christopher?”

  “Not today, Carlton. He’s enjoying all the glory at the moment, basking in the wonderful publicity about the Delaware collection, which is now his. I think we’ve managed to shut his mouth when it comes to idle and dangerous chatter.”

  “Oh, I’m certain of that! In the meantime, I really hope he’s going to destroy the fakes he owns. You never know what can happen in life. For example, what if they were stolen, and then sold as the real thing? It’s so risky keeping fakes around. Very dangerous in the long run.”

  “I know. I’ll tackle him about it later, and insist they are slashed or burned. And by the way, thanks so much for letting us come up to the studio yesterday, and allowing the Times photographer to do the shoot there. Jack was very grateful, as was I.”

  “I was happy to oblige. And Jack wrote an excellent story. You’re going to have a very big auction on your hands in September.”

  “I hope so, Carlton. And thanks again for doing the tests so quickly.”

  “I wanted you to have the information as fast as possible. Talk to you later.” He hung up before she had a chance to say goodbye.

  Annette immediately dialed Laurie and gave her the news, and then phoned Jack to fill him in. Her third call was to Malcolm Stevens. She wanted him to know about the Degas. After these phone calls she went to see Esther in her office across the corridor.

  Knocking on the door, poking her head around it, Annette said, “I’m afraid it’s a dud, Esther dear. Another forgery. Unfortunately.”

  “Damn and blast!” Esther exclaimed. “I was so hoping that this one was going to be genuine.”

  Annette heard the private phone ringing in her office, and ran to answer it. “Hello?” she said, sounding a little breathless as she grabbed the receiver.

  “Have you gone mad?” Marius bellowed at the other end of the line. “Releasing this story now about the discovery of the three Impressionists is absolutely ridiculous! Fucking insane, if you ask me.”

  Annette was so startled by his angry tone and bad language, she was speechless for a moment. Taking a deep breath, she finally answered him. She said in a steady voice, “What’s got into you this morning? You sound like a raging bull, screaming down the phone in this manner. And it is not ridiculous. It makes perfect sense. It’s good advance publicity for the auction and—”

  “It’s only April, for God’s sake! And why didn’t you tell me you were going to do it? You always keep me informed, use me as a sounding board. You should have spoken to me, tapped into my experience.”

  “Actually, I didn’t need a sounding board in this instance, Marius,” she answered in an icy voice, annoyed by his aggressive verbal attack on her. “I knew I had to prevent Christopher Delaware from blab
bing, which he has a tendency to do. By playing up the three newly discovered Impressionist paintings, two of them extremely important and valuable, I diverted his attention away from the fakes. He’s basking in the attention and publicity, enjoying every minute of it, and he’ll not spoil this by admitting there are fakes in his collection. That might cast doubts about these three.”

  “Do you have the provenances?” Marius demanded.

  “Of course I do. I thought I told you that on Saturday.”

  Ignoring this comment, he shouted, “And why did you take Jack Chalmers with you? That was bloody ridiculous, if nothing else was. And now he’s gone and betrayed you, written about it.”

  “First you’re accusing me, and now Jack. I asked him to write about it, because that suited my plan.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me he went with you to Kent?” he pressed, still angry, and also sounding irritated.

  “I forgot. I was so excited about the real Impressionists, and anyway, you phoned when it was late on Saturday and I was half asleep.”

  “You should have phoned me back the next day.”

  “That’s a laugh! You know you don’t like me to phone you when you’re away. And I never have. Ever. In all the years we’ve been married. Besides, it hadn’t occurred to me that it was important that Jack went with me.”

  “And why did he, might I ask?” he snarled.

  “Because he needed to finish his interview with me, and I had to go to Kent unexpectedly. After all, Christopher is an important client. I thought it was the best way to kill two birds with one stone. He interviewed me on the way down and on the drive back to London.”

  “I see.” He sounded petulant, but he wasn’t shouting anymore.

  Annette said, “Whatever you think, this is great publicity for the auction. The Times story was excellent. Don’t you agree Jack did a good job?”

  “It was okay, and that’s all it was.”

  “The profile will appear this coming Sunday,” she went on coldly. “Will you still be in Spain?”

  “I think so. Anyway, I have to be on my way now. I’m late for an appointment.”

  “Goodbye.” Annette hung up. He was obviously in a foul mood. Suddenly she hoped that he wasn’t reading something more into Jack’s trip to Kent with her on Saturday. Did he know about them? Don’t be stupid, she chastised herself. How could he know? He’d been in Barcelona for almost a week doing research for his book on Picasso.

  An hour later Annette was greeting her clients, the Estrins, who were on a trip to Europe looking at art. She had had dealings with them in the past, and they were two of her preferred clients. They were both charming as well as knowledgeable, and she enjoyed working with them on their art collection. They had recently moved from Bethesda to live in Palm Beach.

  Annette led them over to the seating arrangement near the long credenza, and as they sat down Melvyn Estrin said, “Congratulations. That was quite an impressive story in The Times this morning, and I’m sure you’ll have an extraordinary auction in the fall.”

  “I hope so,” Annette answered, then asked, “Can I offer you any refreshments?” She smiled at Melvyn’s wife, Suellen, and added, “Tea, coffee, water? Anything you want.”

  “No, thank you,” Suellen replied in her soft Southern voice, and her husband also declined.

  “I hope you’ll come to the auction in September,” Annette went on. “I know you are more interested in contemporary artists of the last fifty years than in Impressionists, but I do think this auction will be unique. There’ll be a lot of excitement, and because of your love of art you’re bound to enjoy it. It’ll be an experience, anyway.”

  “We’d love to come,” Suellen replied. “As a matter of fact, I was hoping you might be able to show us some modern English Impressionist paintings. I’ve taken a liking to the work of Dame Laura Knight.” She looked at her husband and added, “And Melvyn has become very interested in sculpture.”

  “In particular Henry Moore and Barbara Hepworth,” Melvyn explained. “But I do realize their work is hard to come by.”

  “It is, yes, and actually so is Dame Laura Knight’s,” Annette said. “She’s become rather popular lately, and there’s not much of her work available. However, I do know that an associate of mine has two at his gallery. I’d planned to take you there later anyway, so we’ll walk over shortly. I’m afraid I’ve nothing here to show you, since I didn’t know exactly what you had in mind and were looking for.”

  Melvyn nodded. “I see your walls are empty, as usual. But I thought you might be bringing something out to tempt us as you have in the past.”

  Annette laughed. “I’ve nothing hidden away, unfortunately. But Malcolm Stevens does have some interesting contemporary paintings by Lucian Freud and Francis Bacon. However, I have a feeling you’d prefer to look at a couple of Ben Nicholson paintings he has, since I know how much you like abstract art. Nicholson’s work is formidable, in my opinion.”

  “We like to see everything,” Suellen murmured, “because we love art in general. That’s one of our pleasures when we come to Europe. Visiting galleries and discovering new artists is a passion of ours.”

  “Let’s walk over to see Malcolm Stevens. His gallery is not far away,” Annette suggested. “I told him we’d be coming over around eleven, and he is waiting to meet you both. He’s very knowledgeable, and I know you’ll like him.”

  Malcolm, always friendly, welcomed them in his usual genial manner when they arrived at the Remmington Gallery ten minutes later.

  Once everyone had been introduced, Annette said to Malcolm, “Melvyn and Suellen are mostly interested in contemporary painters, as I told you the other day. But they are adventurous and open-minded when it comes to art, and would like to look at those Ben Nicholsons you have, and also the Dame Laura Knights.”

  “That’s great. Let’s go down to the other end of the gallery, to the room where we display contemporary art,” Malcolm said. Turning to the Estrins, he continued, “I think you’d like to talk to my assistant, David Loudon, who’s an expert on British artists of the last seventy years, and in particular Nicholson. He’s also extremely well versed, full of information, about those artists from the Newlyn School, who lived and painted at the artists’ colony at Newlyn in Cornwall, such as Lamorna Birch, Alfred Munnings, and, of course, Dame Laura Knight.”

  “We’d be happy to meet him,” Melvyn said.

  Malcolm walked ahead with the Estrins, now explaining about various painters. He’d taken an immediate liking to them, was obviously enjoying their company, as they were his.

  Annette loitered slightly behind, checking her mobile phone for messages and worrying about Marius. Suddenly he was in the forefront of her mind. She had not liked his nasty manner on the phone a short while ago, was alarmed that he had adopted a distinct attitude because Jack went with her to Kent. She felt panic rising inside, but managed to push it away. There was no way he could possibly know about her involvement with Jack. No one knew. And that was the way she aimed to keep it. And as Jack had said, they had a good cover, since he was writing about her.

  Taking a deep breath, she hurried forward and caught up with Malcolm and the Estrins, who were a nice couple. Melvyn, a successful businessman and a Broadway producer, was as handsome as he was charming, while Suellen, a former model, was lovely. Tall, elegant, with bluish green eyes and auburn hair, she reminded Annette of Laurie a little.

  She thought of her sister, and remembered she was supposed to call her back. Punching in the number quickly, she said when Laurie answered, “Sorry, darling. I got delayed. I’m here with Malcolm, and that American couple you liked so much last year. The Estrins.”

  “Oh, yes, they’re nice. And I guessed you were caught up. Shame about the Degas being wrong, but look, you’re still coming out the winner. I thought the Impressionists were beautiful when I saw them at Carlton’s, especially the Louveciennes landscapes. That pair will go for millions.”

  “I know. How much do y
ou think, Laurie?”

  “Maybe thirty to forty million pounds each.”

  “We’re on the same page then. They are rare, and it’s a fluke finding them both. It adds to the value enormously because of their history.”

  “I agree.”

  “I’d better go and catch up with Malcolm. He’s showing the Estrins into the Contemporary Art Room, introducing them to David. Talk to you later.”

  “You haven’t forgotten about tonight, have you?” Laurie asked swiftly, just before Annette hung up.

  “Tonight? Are we doing something? Oh, gosh, yes! Malcolm’s taking us to dinner at the Ivy. Sorry, darling, it had slipped my mind. . . .”

  There was a silence and Laurie said, “Annette, are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m just thinking. I’d told Jack I would have supper with him. To celebrate his story appearing today. But I can cancel it.”

  “No, don’t do that. It’s not nice. Bring him along. I’d really like to meet him properly; I’ve only seen him across the room in Harry’s Bar, and spoken to him on the phone. It’ll be nice to be with him in person. Malcolm’s booked a table for seven-thirty. See you there.”

  “All right, Laurie.” Annette cut off her phone and instantly wondered if she had made a terrible mistake. Jack’s feelings were constantly written on his face. She would have to warn him to be scrupulously careful, or otherwise Malcolm and Laurie would certainly suspect there was something between them.

  Thirty-six

  Laurie and Malcolm listened to Annette attentively as she told them about the phone call she had received from Marius that morning. When she had finished, she added, “And that’s the reason I told Jack to come at eight. I wanted to talk to you both before he got here.”

  Malcolm shook his head, let out a long sigh. “You know very well a man can’t even glance at you without Marius getting mad. He’s very jealous, Annette, and he always has been. At least about you at any rate.”