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, to 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 at last, knowing that he really was speaking the truth. “All right, I’ll do it,” she agreed. “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 has 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 and 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, not in public and not when 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, “Chamomile 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 anymore.”
“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 favor 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 judgment.” 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 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 color of her eyes. Her blond 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 color, perspective, and composition was 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 s
ense 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, she had come to him and 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, 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.”
Ten
There is something quite splendid about Marius this morning, Annette decided, as she sat opposite him in the breakfast room, drinking her coffee.
Showered, shaved, and with his mane of silver hair brushed back sleekly, he looked the epitome of good health and well-being. Dressed in a blue-and-white-checked shirt, open at the neck, and gray trousers, he had a youthful look about him, due in no small measure to the tan he had acquired in Spain and his remarkably unlined face. He wears well, she thought. He looks so much younger than he is.
He was genial and affectionate with her as he ate his toast and marmalade, and between sips of coffee chatted to her about the book he was writing on Picasso.
From experience, she knew he was in a good mood because he had won hands down last night. But then he always does win, doesn’t he? Whenever he manipulated her into doing what he wanted, he was like this. Warm and purring. And then, of course, she had assuaged his anxiety about her mood, because she had succumbed to his overtures in bed. As she always did, although sex was not a big part of her life. If she never had sex again, she wouldn’t miss it.
He had been a passionate yet tender lover since their first sexual encounter when she was eighteen. Nothing had changed; he still was. Marius knew how to arouse a woman, and she had learned long ago to accept his overtures gracefully. He could not tolerate any kind of rejection, in bed or out of it. Also, that addictive charm of his was in place most of the time, and it could be irresistible even to her.
“Whatever’s wrong, darling?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts, aware she wasn’t paying attention to him.
“Nothing,” she answered, sitting up straighter, offering him a warm smile. “Just lost in my thoughts for a moment. Sorry.”
“You look as if you have the troubles of the world on your shoulders.” He gave her a penetrating look and went on in a knowing voice, “You’re worrying about the Giacometti sculpture, aren’t you?”
She wasn’t, but she seized on this immediately and exclaimed, “Yes, I am, actually. I just don’t know whether to put it in the next auction or wait for my third. I’m not sure that it quite fits into the theme Laurie and I developed. . . . You know, the three Impressionist painters being the link.”
“I wonder if that really matters,” Marius responded, engaged instantly and looking thoughtful. “Giacometti sculptures are going for high prices these days, so why hold it back? Perhaps there’s a way to change the theme, or expand it. Or not have a theme for the art at all.”
“All are options,” she agreed. “Christopher has a few modern paintings which would fit into a Modernist theme, but he doesn’t want to put them on sale right now. Otherwise I suppose we could create a second theme.”
“Which painters?”
“Ben Nicholson and Lowry.”
“Hats off to Sir Alec! My God, he certainly knew what he was doing when he chose his art, if not when it came to cataloguing it. And why doesn’t Christopher want to put those on the block? Did he tell you?”
She nodded. “He wants to go slowly because of taxes. As you know, he did inherit everything from his uncle, so there have been huge death-duty taxes.” She noticed the sudden gleam flashing in his dark eyes, and said, “And if you’re thinking I can make him change his mind, you’re absolutely wrong.”
Marius was no fool, and he knew his wife extremely well, and so he said, “I believe you. Therefore, I suggest you start the auction with the Degas and the Giacometti sculptures first, and then bring on the three paintings. You might tag them great sculptures from two centuries and let them stand alone. Then you could tie the three paintings into the Impressionist theme. But don’t hold the Giacometti back, sell it while the going’s good.”
“Not bad for quick thinking! And thank you, Marius, you’ve solved my problem.”
“My pleasure. And how about solving another one? Together?”
“You want to go through the requests for interviews, is that it?”
“It is,” he answered, and pushed back his chair. “Let’s go and sit in my den, and scan them. It won’t take long.”
Annette was glad to escape the flat after several hours had been spent on deciding about the journalist who would do the interview with her. Marius had finally settled on the one he wanted, who he thought would draw the best portrait of her in words.
The man’s name was Jack Chalmers, and Marius knew a little about him already. But in order to check him out properly, glean a few more facts, he had phoned Malcolm Stevens a short while ago, “just to get the lowdown,” was the way he put it to Malcolm.
According to Malcolm, who was a fund of information about all sorts of people and things, Chalmers was a young hotshot reporter who had swiftly risen up through the ranks of British journalism to make a name for himself. He had also written two brilliant histories of World War II, and was highly respected by editors and colleagues alike. According to Malcolm, Chalmers was under contract to The Sunday Times and wrote profiles of people in the news for the paper.
Apparently he was considered to be a nice chap, never needed to go for the jugular or felt it necessary to stick a knife into the heart of an interviewee. Yet he managed to write riveting copy everybody lapped up. “Without resorting to invective or bitchiness,” Malcolm had finished, adding, “That’s a formidable talent.”
After repeating the rest of Malcolm’s conversation to her, Marius had made the final decision, although he had said, “If that’s all right with you, darling.” He always said that and had for years, but it meant nothing.
Of course it was all right with her. She had never had any choice, actually. About anything. Marius was the law.
As she walked down Eaton Square, heading for her sister’s flat in Chesham Place, Annette suddenly filled up with anger. It rose like bile in her throat, choking her. But it was not anger at Marius; rather it was anger with herself.
Why was she so weak-kneed? Why did she accept whatever he said as gospel? She had done that last night, had allowed him to manipulate her out of having the auction in New York.
She had sat back this morning as Marius had chatted away to Malcolm, and again had nodded in agreement when he had settled on Jack Chalmers.
She was a fool, and she knew it. She could be, and had been in the last twenty-one years, very strong about a lot of things, and yet when it came to herself and what she wanted, she just gave in without a protest.
Oh, to hell with it, she thought, trying to push all these worrisome thoughts away. Who the hell cares about Jack Chalmers! Robin Hood or Tom Thumb can come and interview me for all I care. The interview was a nuisance anyway. She couldn’t wait to do it, get it over with, and move on to more important things.
Her main concern at the moment was Laurie, and the disappointment her sister would experience when she found out they were not going to New York after all. Annette suffered when she could not follow up on something she had promised Laurie, even though this only occasionally happened. The car crash had ruined Laurie’s life; Annette forever endeavored to give her sister joy and a little fun, and make living less boring for her.
She’ll guess straightaway, Annette thought, as she stepped into the foyer of the flat and greeted Angie, Laurie’s caregiver. She’ll read my face, she decided as she shed her coat. In order to forestall this, Annette pushed a smile onto her face and went into the living room, exclaiming, “Here I am! Sorry I’m late.”
“That’s all right, Annette,” Laurie answered, smiling. “I was busy talking to Malcolm anyway. We had a few things to discuss. I just finished another pile of research for him and he’s going to take me to dinner tonight. As a special treat.”
“That’s great. He’s always been so nice with you,” Annette murmured. She bent over and kissed her sister, sat down in the chair next to her. “Where do you want to go to lunch?”
Playing the Game Page 9