It was open.
Her clothes were now drenched in sweat. She slowed down, wrenched the gearbox into second, and threw the car between the gap and into the bumpy driveway, hitting the gatepost on her right-hand side as she careened on up toward the house. The van didn’t hesitate to follow her and was still only inches behind as she straightened up. Diana kept her hand pressed down on the horn as the car bounced and lurched over the mounds and potholes.
Flocks of startled crows flapped out of overhanging branches, screeching as they shot into the air. Diana began screaming, “Daniel! Daniel!” Two hundred yards ahead of her, the porch light went on.
Her headlights were now shining onto the front of the house and her hand was still pressed on the horn. With a hundred yards to go, she spotted Daniel coming out of the front door, but she didn’t slow down, and neither did the van behind her. With fifty yards to go she began flashing her lights at Daniel. She could now make out the puzzled, anxious expression on his face.
With thirty yards to go she threw on her brakes. The heavy sedan skidded across the gravel in front of the house, coming to a halt in the flower bed just below the kitchen window. She heard the screech of brakes behind her. The leather-jacketed man, unfamiliar with the terrain, had been unable to react quickly enough, and as soon as his wheels touched the graveled area he began to skid out of control. A second later the van came crashing into the back of her car, slamming it against the wall of the house and shattering the glass in the kitchen window.
Diana leapt out of the car, screaming, “Daniel! Get a gun, get a gun!” She pointed back at the van. “That bastard’s been chasing me for the last twenty miles!”
The man jumped out of the van and began limping toward them.
Diana ran into the house. Daniel followed and grabbed a shotgun, normally reserved for rabbits, that was leaning against the wall. He ran back outside to face the unwelcome visitor, who had come to a halt by the back of Diana’s Audi.
Daniel raised the shotgun to his shoulder and stared straight at him. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot,” he said calmly. And then he remembered the gun wasn’t loaded. Diana ducked back out of the house, but remained several yards behind him.
“Not me! Not me!” shouted the leather-jacketed youth, as Rachael appeared in the doorway.
“What’s going on?” she asked nervously.
“Ring for the police,” was all Daniel said, and his wife quickly disappeared back into the house.
Daniel advanced toward the terrified-looking young man, the gun aimed squarely at his chest.
“Not me! Not me!” he shouted again, pointing at the Audi. “He’s in the car!” He quickly turned to face Diana. “I saw him get in when you were parked on the hard shoulder. What else could I have done? You just wouldn’t pull over.”
Daniel advanced cautiously toward the rear door of the car and ordered the young man to open it slowly, while he kept the gun aimed at his chest.
The youth opened the door, and quickly took a pace backward. The three of them stared down at a man crouched on the floor of the car. In his right hand he held a long-bladed knife with a serrated edge. Daniel swung the barrel of the gun down to point at him, but said nothing.
The sound of a police siren could just be heard in the distance.
NOT FOR SALE
Sally Summers won her school’s senior art prize at the age of fourteen. In her last four years at St. Bride’s, the only serious competition was for second place. When, in her final year, she was awarded the top scholarship to the Slade School of Fine Art, none of her contemporaries was at all surprised. The headmistress told the assembled parents on Speech Day that she was confident Sally had a distinguished career ahead of her and that her work would soon be exhibited in one of London’s major galleries. Sally was flattered by all this unqualified praise, but still wasn’t sure if she had any real talent.
By the end of her first year at the Slade, the staff and senior students were already becoming aware of Sally’s work. Her drawing technique was regarded as quite exceptional, and her brushwork became bolder with each term. But, above all, it was the originality of her ideas that caused other students to stop and stare at her canvases.
In her final year, Sally won both the Mary Rischgitz Prize for oil painting and the Henry Tonks Prize for drawing: a rare double. They were presented to her by Sir Roger de Grey, the president of the Royal Academy, and Sally was among that tiny group who were spoken of as “having a future.” But surely, she told her parents, that could be said of the top student in any year—and most of them ended up working in the creative departments of advertising agencies or teaching art to bored schoolchildren in far-flung parts of the kingdom.
Once she had graduated, Sally had to decide whether she too would apply for a job with an advertising agency, take up a teaching appointment, or risk everything and try to put together enough original work for a London gallery to consider her for a one-woman show.
Her parents were convinced that their daughter had real talent, but what do parents know when you’re their only child? thought Sally. Especially when one of them was a music teacher and the other an accountant who were the first to admit that they didn’t know much about art, but they knew what they liked. Still, they seemed quite willing to support her for another year if she wanted (to use an expression of the young) to go for it.
Sally was painfully aware that, although her parents were fairly comfortably off, another year in which she produced no income could only be a burden for them. After much soul-searching, she told them, “One year, and one year only. After that, if the paintings aren’t good enough, or if no one shows any interest in exhibiting them, I’ll be realistic and look for a proper job.”
For the next six months Sally worked hours that she hadn’t realized existed when she’d been a student. During that time she produced a dozen canvases. She allowed no one to see them for fear that her parents and friends would not be frank with her. She was determined to finish her portfolio and then listen only to the toughest opinions possible, those of the professional gallery owners, and, tougher still, those of the buying public.
Sally had always been a voracious reader, and she continued to devour books and monographs on artists from Bellini to Hockney. The more she read, the more she became aware that however talented an artist might be, it was industry and dedication that ultimately marked out the few who succeeded from the many who failed. This inspired her to work still harder, and she began to turn down invitations to parties, dances, even weekends with old friends, making use of every spare moment to visit art galleries or to attend lectures on the great masters.
By the eleventh month, Sally had completed twenty-seven works, but she still wasn’t sure whether they displayed any real talent. Nevertheless, she felt the time had finally come to allow others to pass judgment on them.
She looked long and hard at each of the twenty-seven paintings, and the following morning she packed six of them in a large canvas folder her parents had given her the previous Christmas and joined the early-morning commuters on their journey from Sevenoaks into London.
Sally began her quest in Cork Street, where she came across galleries exhibiting works by Bacon, Freud, Hockney, Dunston and Chadwick. She felt overawed at the prospect of even entering their portals, let alone submitting her own humble work to the appraisal of their proprietors. She humped her canvas folder a couple of blocks north to Conduit Street, and in the windows she recognized the works of Jones, Campbell, Wczenski, Frink and Paolozzi. She became even more discouraged and unwilling to push open any of the galleries’ front doors.
Sally returned home that night exhausted, her canvas folder unopened. She understood for the first time how an author must feel after receiving a string of rejection slips. She was unable to sleep that night. But as she lay awake, she came to the conclusion that she must know the truth about her work, even if it meant being humiliated.
She joined the commuters again the following morning, and this
time headed for Duke Street, St. James’s. She didn’t bother with the galleries exhibiting old masters, Dutch still lifes or English landscapes, and therefore walked straight past Johnny van Haeften and Rafael Valls. Halfway down the street she turned right and finally came to a halt outside the Simon Bouchier Gallery, which was exhibiting the sculptures of the late Sydney Harpley and the paintings of Muriel Pemberton, whose obituary Sally had read in the Independent only a few days before.
It was the thought of death that made Sally settle on the Bouchier Gallery. Perhaps they would be looking for someone young, she tried to convince herself, someone who had a long career ahead of them.
She stepped inside the gallery and found herself in a large, empty room, surrounded by Muriel Pemberton’s watercolors. “Can I help you?” asked a young woman who was sitting behind a desk near the window.
“No, thank you,” Sally replied. “I was just looking.”
The girl eyed Sally’s canvas folder but said nothing. Sally decided she would do one circuit of the room and then make good her escape. She began to circle the gallery, studying the pictures carefully. They were good, very good—but Sally believed she could do just as well, given time. She would have liked to see Muriel Pemberton’s work when she was her age.
When Sally reached the far end of the gallery, she became aware of an office in which a short, balding man, wearing an old tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, was closely examining a picture. He looked about the same age as her father. Also studying the picture was another man, who caused Sally to stop in her tracks. He must have been a little over six foot, with those dark Italian looks that people normally only come across in glossy magazines; and he was old enough to be her brother.
Was he Mr. Bouchier? she wondered. She hoped so, because if he owned the gallery she might be able to summon up the courage to introduce herself to him once the little man in the scruffy jacket had left. At that moment the young man looked up and gave her a huge grin. Sally turned quickly away and began to study the pictures on the far wall.
She was wondering if it was worth hanging around any longer when the two men suddenly strolled out of the office and began walking toward the door.
She froze, pretending to concentrate on a portrait of a young girl in pastel blues and yellows, a picture that had a Matisse-like quality about it.
“What’s in there?” asked a cheeky voice. Sally turned around and came face to face with the two men. The smaller one was pointing at her canvas bag.
“Just a few pictures,” Sally stammered. “I’m an artist.”
“Let’s have a look,” said the man, “and perhaps I can decide if you’re an artist or not.”
Sally hesitated.
“Come on, come on,” he teased. “I haven’t got all day. As you can see, I have an important client to take to lunch,” he added, indicating the tall, well-dressed young man, who still hadn’t spoken.
“Oh, are you Mr. Bouchier?” she asked, unable to hide her disappointment.
“Yes. Now, am I going to be allowed to look at your pictures or not?”
Sally quickly unzipped her canvas bag and laid out the six paintings on the floor. Both of the men bent down and studied them for some time before either offered an opinion.
“Not bad,” said Bouchier eventually. “Not bad at all. Leave them with me for a few days and then let’s meet again next week.” He paused. “Say Monday, 11:30. And if you have any more examples of your recent work, bring them with you.” Sally was speechless. “Can’t see you before Monday,” he continued, “because the RA’s Summer Exhibition opens tomorrow. So for the next few days I won’t have a moment to spare. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
The younger man was still examining Sally’s pictures closely. At last he looked up at her. “I’d like to buy the one of the interior with the black cat on the windowsill. How much is it?”
“Well,” said Sally, “I’m not sure …”
“N.F.S.,” said Mr. Bouchier firmly, guiding his client toward the door.
“By the way,” the taller man said, turning back, “I am Antonio Flavelli. My friends call me Tony.” But Mr. Bouchier was already pushing him out onto the street.
Sally returned home that afternoon with an empty canvas folder, and was prepared to admit to her parents that a London dealer had shown an interest in her work. But it was, she insisted, no more than an interest.
The following morning Sally decided to go to the opening day of the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition, which would give her the chance to find out just how good her rivals were. For over an hour she stood in the long line that stretched from the front door, right across the parking lot and out onto the sidewalk. When she eventually reached the top of the wide staircase, she wished she was six feet six tall so that she could see over the tops of the heads of the mass of people who were crowding every room. After a couple of hours strolling around the many galleries, Sally was confident that she was already good enough to enter a couple of her pictures for next year’s exhibition.
She stopped to admire a Craigie Aitchison of Christ on the cross and checked in her little blue catalog to find out the price: ten thousand pounds, more than she could hope to earn if she were to sell every one of her canvases. Suddenly her concentration was broken as a soft Italian voice behind her said, “Hello, Sally.” She swung round to find Tony Flavelli smiling down at her.
“Mr. Flavelli,” she said.
“Tony, please. You like Craigie Aitchison?”
“He’s superb,” Sally replied. “I know his work well—I had the privilege of being taught by him when I was at the Slade.”
“I can remember, not so long ago, when you could pick up an Aitchison for two, three hundred pounds at the most. Perhaps the same thing will happen to you one day. Have you seen anything else you think I ought to look at?”
Sally was flattered to have her advice sought by a serious collector, and said, “Yes, I think the sculpture of ‘Books on a Chair’ by Julie Major is very striking. She has talent, and I’m sure she has a future.”
“So do you,” said Tony.
“Do you think so?” asked Sally.
“It’s not important what I think,” said Tony. “But Simon Bouchier is convinced.”
“Are you teasing me?” asked Sally.
“No, I’m not, as you’ll find out for yourself when you see him next Monday. He talked of little else over lunch yesterday—‘The daring brushwork, the unusual use of color, the originality of ideas.’ I thought he was never going to stop. Still, he’s promised I can have ‘The Sleeping Cat That Never Moved’ once you’ve both settled on a price.”
Sally was speechless.
“Good luck,” Tony said, turning to leave. “Not that I think you need it.” He hesitated for a moment before swinging back to face her. “By the way, are you going to the Hockney exhibition?”
“I didn’t even know there was one,” Sally confessed.
“There’s a private view this evening. Six to eight.” Looking straight into her eyes, he said, “Would you like to join me?”
She hesitated, but only for a moment. “That would be nice.”
“Good, then why don’t we meet in the Ritz Palm Court at 6:30.” Before Sally could tell him that she didn’t know where the Ritz was, let alone its Palm Court, the tall, elegant man had disappeared into the crowd.
Sally suddenly felt gauche and scruffy, but then, she hadn’t dressed that morning with the Ritz in mind. She looked at her watch—12:45—and began to wonder if she had enough time to return home, change and be back at the Ritz by 6:30. She decided that she didn’t have much choice as she doubted if they would let her into such a grand hotel dressed in jeans and a T-shirt of Munch’s “The Scream.” She ran down the wide staircase, out onto Piccadilly, and all the way to the nearest tube station.
When she arrived back home in Sevenoaks—far earlier than her mother had expected—she rushed into the kitchen and explained that she would be going out again shortly.
&nbs
p; “Was the Summer Exhibition any good?” her mother asked.
“Not bad,” Sally replied as she ran upstairs. But once she was out of earshot, she muttered under her breath, “Certainly didn’t see a lot that worried me.”
“Will you be in for supper?” asked her mother, sticking her head out from behind the kitchen door.
“I don’t think so,” shouted Sally. She disappeared into her bedroom and began flinging off her clothes before heading for the bathroom.
She crept back downstairs an hour later, having tried on and rejected several outfits. She checked her dress in the hall mirror—a little too short, perhaps, but at least it showed her legs to best advantage. She could still remember those art students who during life classes had spent more time staring at her legs than at the model they were supposed to be drawing. She only hoped Tony would be similarly captivated.
“’Bye, Mum,” she shouted, and quickly closed the door behind her before her mother could see what she was wearing.
Sally took the next train back to Charing Cross. She stepped onto the platform unwilling to admit to any passerby that she had no idea where the Ritz was, so she hailed a taxi, praying she could get to the hotel for four pounds, because that was all she had on her. Her eyes remained fixed on the meter as it clicked past two pounds, and then three—far too quickly, she thought—three pounds twenty, forty, sixty, eighty … She was just about to ask the cabbie to stop so she could jump out and walk the rest of the way when he drew in to the curb.
The door was immediately opened by a statuesque man dressed in a heavy blue trenchcoat who raised his top hat to her. Sally handed over her four pounds to the cabbie, feeling guilty about the measly twenty pence tip. She ran up the steps, through the revolving door and into the hotel foyer. She checked her watch: 6:10. She decided she had better go back outside, walk slowly around the block, and return a little later. But just as she reached the door, an elegant man in a long black coat approached her and asked, “Can I help you, madam?”