Читать книгу Playing the Game - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 16

Mark’s Club on Charles Street in Mayfair was quiet tonight, but then it usually was on Friday, since many of its members had already gone off to their country homes for the weekend. Although his preference was for jazzier places to dine, Marius was suddenly glad Annette had booked a table for them here. He’d had a hectic week in Barcelona and Mark’s was always a haven of calm tranquillity.

They climbed the stairs to the bar, which years ago Mark Birley, the founder of the club, had decorated in the manner of an English country house parlour. A fire blazed in the hearth and, since the room was only partially occupied with fellow diners, they had a choice of comfortable chairs and sofas on which to sit.

‘I’m always a sucker for a fire, as you well know,’ Marius remarked as they entered the room, and he guided her to the sofa near the hearth. A moment later he was ordering two glasses of champagne as they settled back and made themselves comfortable.

After a small silence, Annette said, ‘Going back to Cézanne, and our conversation earlier; even if Carlton does manage to clean and restore the painting, it presents a problem because there’s no provenance.’

His eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips. ‘It beggars belief that a man like Alec Delaware, who made a huge fortune in business, didn’t protect his investment in art.’ Marius shook his head, and looked off into the distance, his mind turning rapidly. Bringing his intense gaze back to his wife, he asked in a low voice, ‘How good is the provenance on the Degas dancer?’

‘It’s perfect. The lineage is a straight line of ownership. It was one of those cast in bronze at Hébrard’s, and it was eventually sold by the Hébrard Gallery to a French art dealer, who then auctioned it off to a wealthy collector in Paris. The bronze passed through a few hands after that – several art dealers, private collectors in New York and Beverly Hills – and finally it was bought at auction in New York by Alec Delaware in 1989. It was not the one sold in New York by Sotheby’s in 1997, by the way. The papers are at home and you can look at them later, and you’ll see they establish provenance beyond any doubt.’

‘Sounds like it. Does the bronze itself have any identifying mark, by the way?’

‘Yes, Laurie thoroughly checked it, and the bronze is marked with a “G". The bronzes that were cast in the 1920s were marked with a letter from “A” to “T", and those were intended for sale to the public. Others were reserved for the Degas family, and for Hébrard. They were marked differently.’

He gave her the benefit of a wide, approving smile. ‘You two are the very best,’ he grinned, and asked, ‘What about the other art from the Delaware collection? Where do you stand with those pieces?’

‘There are documents which establish provenance, I’m relieved to tell you.’

‘So what’s going on the block, Annette? As well as the Degas dancer?’

‘A Degas painting. It’s a carriage with passengers, parked at the races. There’s a Mary Cassatt of a mother and child, and also a Morisot, of a woman facing a mirror. Laurie thought these three Impressionist paintings worked well together, and the artists were contemporaries, friends. It makes a theme.’

Marius nodded, sat back, looking thoughtful. After a moment he said, ‘Laurie could help establish provenance for the Cézanne, perhaps. It’s a tough job, but she has the talent and patience to trace its history through old books, old catalogues, archives, bills of sale, if there are any. What do you think?’

‘She can give it a try; perhaps she’ll enjoy the challenge,’ Annette answered, and wondered if her sister would. She also wondered if it was worth the effort. Carlton Fraser had sounded extremely glum about the outcome of his cleaning and restoration work. But she did not mention this to Marius. She had learned long ago to be careful, to edit what she said to him. He had a short fuse and easily became annoyed and upset. This was the reason she had not mentioned the phone call Malcolm Stevens had received about Hilda Crump. Better that he didn’t know. And Malcolm would never say anything either. He knew her husband almost as well as she did. Marius didn’t deal in trivia. It was the big picture that counted.

The dining room at Mark’s was a favourite of Annette’s because of the art hanging on the walls. All of the paintings were of dogs and had been painted in the 19th and early 20th centuries. Beautifully framed, they had been cleverly arranged and hung by Mark Birley himself many years before.

The two of them sat on a banquette facing the longest wall in the room, at the table Annette considered to be the best in the room. From where they were sitting they had a perfect view of the oil paintings, all of which were beautiful as well as charming, amusing and often poignant; they never failed to bring a smile to her face, or touch her heart.

‘Oh, good, they’ve got bangers and mash on the menu tonight,’ Marius exclaimed as he eyed the menu. ‘Yes, it’s nursery food for me: sausages and spuds. Takes me back to my childhood. What would you like, Annette?’

‘You know I always have the potted shrimp when we come here, they’re the best in London, and I think I’ll have the grilled sole.’

‘A bit of a fishy dinner, darling, isn’t it?’ he teased. ‘But I’ll order a good Pouilly-Fuissé. How’s that?’

‘Lovely, Marius, and what are you going to have first?’

‘Like you, the potted shrimp.’ He indicated to the maître d’ standing near the doorway that they were ready to order, and he came over at once, smiling, his pad in hand.

Once they had ordered their dinner, Annette swivelled slightly on the banquette and put her hand on Marius’s arm. She said in a light voice, not wanting to be overly dramatic, ‘I really don’t want to do any interviews. Not even one. Can’t I just skip it?’

Turning to her, studying her for a moment, Marius took hold of her hand, held it in his. He said, finally, in a low voice, ‘No, you can’t skip it, Annette. And for a variety of reasons, which I’ll get to in a moment. I want to say something else first, and it’s this. I do interviews all the time, and the press these days are mostly interested in the art, and only the art. How much is the painting worth? What will you get for it? Who owned it before? Art is now equated with big money, huge money, and that’s what they love to write about. Money, provenance, who’s competing with each other to buy the latest and most important symbol of power and wealth. Please believe me, I’m right about this. And then there’s the sudden discovery of The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer. Your new prize piece. It’s vital to get tongues wagging about it, and what better way than in an important interview?’

A sigh escaped, and she said quietly, hesitantly, ‘I suppose so …’ She broke off, shrugged, looked directly at him. ‘I can’t tell you how much I hate the idea of doing even one interview, whoever the journalist might be,’ she added, her tone suddenly stronger.

‘I know that. But listen to me – you really do have to do one, at least. And it must be a big one. Art is a bit of a cutthroat business, you know that, and everyone is scrambling to be at the top. The competition is fierce; you’ve lived through it for years. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, you became a star overnight. Partially because Christopher Delaware remembered you were nice to him at a dinner, and he brought the Rembrandt to you. Luck. Sheer bloody luck, sweetheart! So you must keep your name up there. You can’t simply turn away and hope to go on making big deals without promoting yourself.’

He paused, took a sip of the wine the sommelier brought for him to taste, and nodded. ‘Very good. Nice and cold, too. Thank you.’

He gave the waiter a faint smile, and turned back to his wife. ‘You’ve done well with Annette Remmington Fine Art because of the route you went, setting yourself up as an art consultant and art expert, rather than opening your own gallery. You know only too well what that costs. But your overhead is in the medium range because you have a small office and a small staff. It all works in your favour. However you’ve got to keep making the big deals, the superlative deals, and publicity is mandatory. Your clients, the right clients for you, must be the wealthiest in the world. The tycoons, titans of industry, lawyers, bankers, the billionaire bunch who can afford those much-desired famous paintings and sculptures by the world’s greatest artists. Because expensive art is the status symbol today.’

Silent, she sipped her white wine, made no comment. She was taut inside.

In a much firmer voice he continued, ‘You’ve got to keep your eye on your ultimate goal. Okay? Focus. Determination. Drive. Ambition. Taste. Knowledge of art. Those are your special attributes and you must not lose sight of them. And there’s another thing. I won’t be here to protect you for the rest of your life. Let’s not forget, I’m much older than you. I want you to stay at the top; you must stay where you are today. A star in the art world. And you can do that. If you manage your career properly. That is an imperative.’

‘You’re right,’ she admitted, knowing that he was speaking the truth. ‘All right, I’ll do it,’ she agreed at last. ‘On one condition.’

‘And what’s that?’ he asked, a brow lifting, wondering what she was about to say now.

‘That you stop talking about being older than me, intimating that you won’t be around to protect me as you have in the past.’

‘I have, haven’t I? Because I love you. And I’ve protected Laurie as well,’ he pointed out.

‘Yes, that’s true, darling, and I’m grateful. Please don’t think I don’t know you have my best interests at heart, because I do.’ She forced a laugh. ‘I’m just being silly about the past, aren’t I?’

‘Absolutely. Nobody cares what you did when you were eighteen.’

I wish that were true, she thought. I wish the law didn’t have different ideas. She merely smiled, and said nothing. A still tongue and a wise head. She started to eat the potted shrimp, which had just been placed in front of her. After a few seconds had elapsed, she remarked casually, ‘I think I’d prefer to do an interview for one of the Sunday papers, and you can make the decision which one it should be.’

‘Good girl,’ he responded, and took a long swallow of the wine, pleased that she had come around, saw things his way. He believed he did know what was best, but he was aware she felt the need to fight him sometimes.

They talked about a number of other things during dinner, and it was when they had finished the main course that Marius suddenly said, ‘By the way, you haven’t told me when you plan to have the next auction. Have you given it any thought?’

‘Of course I have, Marius! I’ve planned everything,’ she exclaimed, a ring of excitement in her voice. ‘I’m going to have it in September. In New York. The office there have already sent me client lists and ideas, and Laurie has been working on it—’ She stopped abruptly when she noticed the look on her husband’s face. It was a combination of surprise and anger. She sat quite still, waiting for the explosion.

‘New York!’ His voice was low but vehement. ‘Why there, not here in London? And why have you gone ahead with everything without even discussing it with me?’

She took a deep breath, answered as evenly as possible. ‘Because I usually make these decisions myself. I chose London for the Rembrandt sale because it felt right to hold it here. I had the same visceral feeling that the Degas ballet dancer and the Impressionist paintings would do better if auctioned in New York. At Sotheby’s.’

‘I certainly don’t think the auction would do better in the States! You’d be better off doing it at Sotheby’s here,’ he said.

She noticed that he was holding his temper in check, now spoke in a lighter voice, erasing the anger from it as best he could. She knew he didn’t want to quarrel with her in public, and also because he had been away for a week. She never knew what he did on those many trips he took alone, nor had she ever asked. But he was always slightly different when he came back: more considerate, less bossy, not as controlling.

But deep inside herself she knew he was going to manipulate her tonight, as he so frequently did. He had to have his own way. He had to win. She thought about mentioning her idea of taking Laurie to New York, and decided against it. What would be the point? He wouldn’t care about that. For his own reasons, he wanted the auction to be held in London, and what she thought didn’t matter. It never had. That was the way it had always been and always would be.

Annette sank down into herself, filled with disappointment, annoyance and a strange sadness. He had given her a degree of independence when he had agreed that she could open her own office, but he was still the boss. As far as he was concerned. Don’t argue with him; let it go, she told herself. And so she did.

The silence that fell between them was long and somewhat awkward. Annette was determined not to be the first one to speak, and she was strong willed when she wanted to be.

Eventually, Marius was forced to say something. ‘What would you like for dessert, sweetheart?’ he asked, his manner mild.

‘Nothing, thanks,’ she responded swiftly, then added, ‘Camomile tea will be enough.’

‘Not hungry?’ he asked, peering at her, taking hold of her hand, holding it in his. ‘You know you like the puddings here.’

‘Not tonight, Marius. Honestly, I’m not hungry any more.’

‘Don’t be angry with me, darling. I want what’s best for you. I know you must concentrate on doing important things in London at the moment. This is where you live, where you’re based, and where your career is. Where you had your first huge auction, your great success. I don’t think things would work in your favour in New York. Just as they wouldn’t if you chose to do it in Paris.’

‘Whatever you say. After all, you’ve been playing this game longer than I have. Anyway, I trust your judgement.’ A smile wavered on her mouth and was instantly gone. ‘London, Paris and New York, the biggest art cities in the world. So then, let’s pick London this time around, and why not? You’ve made some good points, Marius.’

A sense of relief rippled through him, and he felt himself relaxing against the banquette. He did not like to quarrel with her, and rarely did he have to, because she was usually acquiescent. But he had noticed of late that her inbred independent streak had grown stronger, and this rattled him occasionally. He needed her to be in step with him, not bucking his decisions. Thankfully she had fallen into line once more.

Looking at her, he said softly, ‘I promise you this will be the biggest auction London has ever seen in decades. And it will be far more important than your Rembrandt sale.’

‘And obviously bigger than it would be in New York? Is that what you mean?’

‘Yes, if you put it that way. London is better in this instance.’

‘All right, I’ll cancel the plans I made, and concentrate on making everything work here.’

He couldn’t help thinking how beautiful she was tonight. She was wearing a delphinium-blue silk suit and aquamarine earrings and the two blues emphasized the colour of her eyes. Her blonde hair was well cut and styled, shining in the candlelight, and she had the air of an accomplished, successful and sophisticated woman about her.

In a flash, in his mind’s eye, he saw that starveling girl he had first met when she was eighteen; so thin she was like a wafer, a look of poverty and deprivation clinging to her. She had come to him for a job at the Remmington Gallery in the early days, when it was first located in Cork Street, and he had taken her on to do weekend work out of pity.

She was neat and clean and nicely spoken, and she had tugged at his heart. And how clever she had been, so talented, a top student at the Royal Academy of Art. Her sense of colour, perspective and composition were extraordinary, and he was impressed with her paintings, which she had shown him so proudly. Yet, with his innate taste, his extraordinary understanding of art, his superior knowledge and experience, he had realized that although she was good, even brilliant in certain ways, she would never be a great artist. She would be one of many good painters, never a star.

He had given her a receptionist job at the gallery, taken her under his wing, looked after her. Within only a few days he had recognized the inherent beauty of her face: the high cheekbones, the delicate, perfect features, and those heart-stopping eyes; huge, bright blue, filled with intelligence. He had seen her potential as a woman, started to take an interest in her, instilling a sense of personal style in her, grooming her, teaching her about art, sharing his knowledge. And then one day she had let him down. It was only then that he understood about himself, his feelings for her. And he was shocked at his emotional entanglement. He had fallen in love with the starveling girl who had been stolen from him. Briefly.

She had come running back when serious trouble wrapped its tentacles around her. Frightened, panic-stricken, afraid of the police and what might happen to her, he had done the only thing he could do to make her feel safe, secure. He had married her. A few days after her nineteenth birthday, in early June. Twenty-one years ago this summer.

Slowly, painstakingly, with love and skill, he had created the woman he thought she could be and was today. She was entirely of his making. His creation. There were those vicious, jealous gossips who said she was Trilby to his Svengali. That wasn’t so, not in his opinion. He truly loved her; he had from the moment he had first seen her.

His best friend at the time had accused him of cradle-snatching, and he had laughed in his face. He had been thirty-eight, she a mere eighteen, so perhaps there was some truth in that, as he looked back now.

‘Marius, darling, what is it?’ Annette asked, touching his hand, staring at him. ‘Are you all right?’

She had roused him from his memories and, as he turned to her, he pulled himself together. ‘I’m fine. I was lost in my thoughts, that’s all.’ He cleared his throat, took a sip of wine.

‘What were you thinking about?’ she probed.

‘Something dragged me back into the past, to when I first met you, and I was thinking how beautiful you were.’

Annette stared at him, her brows puckering and she shook her head. ‘I was such a funny thin little thing,’ she countered. ‘Half starved, half demented, and hardly beautiful.’

‘Don’t say that … you were beautiful to me then, and you still are now.’