Playing the Game

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “I will, and I’d prefer you to call me Annette.”

  “Of course, happy to, and call me Jack. So, tell me about that day.” As he spoke he turned on the digital recorder and sat back in the chair, his eyes and all of his attention focused on her.

  She began to speak, a little slowly, and carefully. “Looking back, I realize I was totally flabbergasted. I could hardly believe my eyes. A Rembrandt in my office. It just seemed to be impossible. A dream. I remember I began to shake, but with excitement, not fear. At first glance I could see it needed cleaning, and required a bit of restoration, which is quite normal for a very old painting. But to sum it all up, I was . . . well, over the moon.”

  “Why do you think it went for so much money?” Jack asked, giving her a long stare, his eyes narrowed.

  Annette, suddenly aware of a certain skepticism in him, looked thoughtful for a few moments. Finally she answered him, “Firstly, Rembrandt is considered to be one of the greatest painters of all time. In my opinion, he is also and most definitely the greatest of the Dutch masters. Secondly, that particular painting hadn’t been seen for fifty years by the public. It had been hidden away in the collection of Sir Alec Delaware, where it had simply gathered dust. Also, paintings by Rembrandt are not often on the market. They’re not two a penny, you know.”

  He smiled at her last comment, finding it amusing, checked the recorder, then said, “I know Margaret Mellor. I’ve written several pieces for ART magazine. I spoke to her about you in the course of my research. She’s a big fan, by the way.”

  Annette seemed pleased when she said, “As I am of her. She’s a good friend and very talented. So, what did she say about me?”

  A blond brow lifted questioningly, and Jack noticed the quickening of interest in her eyes. He said, “I didn’t really ask her about you in a personal way. I just wanted to know if she’d been at the auction, and she said she had. She also indicated you did a fabulous campaign beforehand, really made the Rembrandt incredibly famous before it went to auction.”

  Annette couldn’t help laughing, and, through her laughter, she managed to say, “I just sang its praises. However, a lot of people were critical of me, and said I’d hyped it to death. Frankly, I believe I brought it to life. And, incidentally, it was the highest price ever paid for a Rembrandt.”

  “I read that in one of the pieces written about you, and, by the way, Margaret told me you were very masterful in your promotion of the auction, confided it was a brilliant campaign.”

  Leaning forward slightly, Jack continued, “I’m not all that familiar with Rembrandt, and his work, and although I can research him, I wonder if you’d mind giving me a few insights into him, your thoughts about him. I believe that would make it more personal, more accessible to the reader.”

  “Rembrandt was a genius,” Annette began. “Aside from being such an extraordinary painter, he had a profound humanity. I think that’s why his portraits are so . . . so alive, so real. When I first looked at that woman in that blow-up over there, I felt that if I reached out I would touch human flesh, not paint and canvas.”

  Annette rose, went over to the credenza, pointed to the dress in the painting, and, looking at Jack, she murmured, “This taffeta looks so real I can almost hear it crackle. I think what Rembrandt did was see inside the people he painted. Let me put it another way. I’m sure he had enormous psychological insight into his models, knew what made them tick, and managed to bring out their inner lives, shown in the expressions on their faces.”

  Returning to her chair, Annette explained, “He finished that painting in 1657. For me it is a marvelous symbol of his triumph over enormous adversity. He had a lot of personal problems at that time. He was widowed, broke, had many debts, had withdrawn to the country to escape his creditors. And he was depressed at times. Unfortunately, he had become reclusive. But worst of all, he was considered to be unfashionable as a painter.”

  Annette shifted slightly in the chair and let out a sigh. “Just imagine coping with all those things. Yet he painted his greatest masterpieces during those years.” She shook her head. “Unbelievable. And my Rembrandt, as I still call it, is one of Rembrandt’s great triumphs, an example of his immense talent, and of sheer willpower. He obviously never let anything get in the way of his work.”

  Jack exclaimed, “How wonderfully articulate you are! And I’m right. . . . I couldn’t get anything like that just from Googling him. By the way, another question for you, but you probably won’t answer it.”

  “Oh. And why not?” Again a blond brow lifted.

  “Because I don’t think you can, inasmuch as you probably aren’t allowed to do so. However, I can’t help asking you. Who was the buyer who paid twenty million pounds?”

  “I can’t answer that, but only because I simply don’t know. It was an anonymous buyer bidding over the phone, and I’m perfectly certain it was an agent making the bids, and not the actual buyer.”

  “I understand. Well, look here, my congratulations! You conducted a fabulous auction by all accounts, and you’ve become a star. I want to say overnight, but I guess that’s not quite correct, is it?”

  “Not really. I’ve worked for many years in the art business.”

  “How did you get into it? How did you start?” Jack asked. It was his first personal question about her background, and he was curious.

  For a moment Annette was silent, and then she took a deep breath and plunged in, well prepared with her story. “I was always interested in art as a child, forever painting pictures. Eventually, when I was older, I was able to attend the Royal College of Art, and I learned a great deal over the few years I was studying there. However, I was born with a critical eye, and I began to understand that I wasn’t going to be another Mary Cassatt, Berthe Morisot, or Dame Laura Knight. And so I decided to become an art historian instead. I’ve always believed that was a wise decision, a good move on my part.”

  “You said earlier that it was your sister who told you you should have two strings to your bow, and that’s why you studied the Old Masters as well as Impressionist painters. Did she, was she, very influential in your career?”

  “Only by encouraging me,” Annette replied. “She’s always been a big booster of mine.”

  “Is she in the art business as well?”

  “Sort of. She’s an art historian as I am, and she does a lot of research for art dealers. She’s an expert on Degas and his work, actually.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Laurie. She’s several years younger than me, and actually she’s a paraplegic. She was injured in a car crash some years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Annette now confided, “She’s a marvel, an inspiration to everybody. Never a complaint, cheerful by nature, and she enjoys her busy life as well as her work.” As an afterthought she added, “She’s very beautiful.”

  “What’s her last name? It can’t be Remmington, that’s your married name.”

  “Watson, she’s Laurie Watson.”

  “Is she married?”

  “No, she’s not.” Annette gave him the benefit of a warm smile. “You can talk to her if you wish. I’ve no objections.”

  “Thank you,” he said, smiling back. “I might want to do that. Later. Now, I’ve just a few more questions about your work, and then I’ll get out of your hair. Until Friday, that is.”

  “Yes, of course.” She glanced at her watch. “Goodness, it’s almost twelve-thirty. How the time has flown.”

  “Hasn’t it just,” he responded, eyeing her speculatively. He wanted to ask her to have lunch with him, but he was wary of doing so. He didn’t want her to get the wrong idea, and he did have two more interviews with her before writing his piece for the London Sunday Times. No, better keep this all business, he told himself. Safer by far.

  He had finally left.

  She sat there staring into space. And she felt alone. Really alone. Jack Chalmers had filled the room wi
th his presence, his laughter, his geniality, and his charisma. There was no doubt about it, he was a man who had been born with enormous natural charm, and he certainly knew how to use it to his advantage.

  Yet Annette realized he was genuinely sincere, caring, and considerate. He had been determined to put her at ease, and certainly he had done that.

  It was obvious to her that Marius had told Jack’s agent she was reluctant to do interviews; Jack had alluded to this once, then made a point of it to her. It had disarmed her, as he had intended, but she trusted him.

  What surprised her was that his questions had not been at all probing, at least not about her background or her early life. Perhaps they would come later, but she was no longer apprehensive about him.

  Before he left he had asked her if he really could talk to her sister, and she had acquiesced, promised to arrange it. Her reward had been a dazzling smile and profuse thank-yous.

  Leaning over her desk, she stared at the report in front of her. It had come in from the New York office, and was about a couple of available paintings. Two different owners wanted to sell; one a Monet, the other an early Picasso. She began to read, but within seconds found it impossible to concentrate.

  Swiftly she put the papers back inside the folder, slid it into a drawer. Closing her eyes, she let her mind empty, pushed aside thoughts of work, and all the things she had to do today. Instead she focused on herself, and her extraordinary reaction to Jack Chalmers.

  She had been thrown off balance by him, truly shaken up. She had never felt like this before. . . . No, not true. She had once, a very long time ago, and she had succumbed to those feelings only to find herself in trouble. Her reaction to that other man had, in the end, changed her life, and in the most profound way.

  Decades suddenly dropped away.

  She fell down into the past, remembering so much. . . . There was no one to help her in her trouble. Laurie in a wheelchair, their older brother, Anthony, gone away God knows where, Aunt Sylvia working and coping with Laurie, as best she could. And so she had had no alternative but to go back to Marius. He had rescued her, married her, and had never once uttered a word of criticism.

  A long sigh rippled through her. . . . For a moment in time she had had an amazing brief encounter. She had known true ecstasy . . . pure, joyous, exciting, fulfilling, and she had been head over heels in love with that man. And then he was gone, and she was alone, and it had never happened to her again. No one else had ever filled her with those feelings of intense sexual passion, of raging desire, of total bonding.

  Quite simply, she had never met anyone else like him. Ever. Until today.

  Jack Chalmers had affected her in exactly the same way. She had almost fallen apart when he had walked into the office, although she had endeavored not to show it.

  He had managed to make her feel at ease about the interview; nonetheless she was shaking inside, drawn to him, aware of a deep physical attraction, sexual desire, and an indescribable yearning she couldn’t explain to herself. Was it the need to touch him, to be close to him, to be intimate, to truly know him?

  The shrill of the phone brought her upright in the chair. “Yes, Esther?”

  “It’s Laurie, boss.”

  “Thanks, put her through.” Annette swallowed. Her voice sounded odd to her, thick, hoarse.

  “Hi,” Laurie exclaimed, and went on in her cheerful way, “I know I’m not disturbing you because the interview is over.”

  “It is, yes.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Very well. It’s the first of three, as you know, and I’m seeing him again on Friday, then early next week. After that he would like to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “I suppose me.” Annette suddenly laughed. “I said he could, so I hope you don’t mind. Maybe he can meet with you sometime next week?”

  “That’s fine, as long as it has your approval.”

  “It does, and he’s very nice, you’ll like him.”

  “See, I told you so.”

  “No, Malcolm told me so, via you,” Annette answered, teasing her.

  “Only too true. Could we get together later today? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about, Annette.”

  “Can’t we discuss it on the phone?”

  “No, not really.”

  “I have a busy afternoon, but how about six, thereabouts?”

  “That’s good, and thanks, Annette.”

  Putting the receiver back in the cradle, Annette couldn’t help wondering if her sister wanted to talk to her about Malcolm Stevens. Was their relationship serious? She had no objection to it, if it was, but what would Marius’s attitude be? Malcolm was a favorite of his, a protégé. Would Marius approve of Malcolm and Laurie? Maybe. Maybe not. One thing she was sure of, though: she would not allow him to interfere. He might well run her life in that controlling way of his, but she was damned if she was going to let him manipulate Malcolm and Laurie. Over my dead body, she thought.

  Paddy drove her up to Hampstead for tea with Carlton and Marguerite Fraser at their rather lovely old house near the heath. Once she was settled in the back of the car, Annette closed her eyes, let herself drift with her thoughts. Inevitably, they settled on Jack Chalmers.

  How old was he? Was he married? If so, did he have children? Or was he involved with someone? Of course there was a woman in his life, he was too attractive, too eligible, not to be surrounded by gorgeous girls. Where did he live? Did he have parents still alive? Siblings? What did he do in his spare time? What restaurants did he favor? Why had his step faltered when he came into her office? Did he have the same feelings as her? No, not possible. Besides, he was forbidden fruit, wasn’t he? She was, after all, a married woman. Marius. Oh, my God! Marius was infuriated if another man even looked at her.

  “Here we are, Mrs. Remmington,” Paddy was saying, and Annette sat up swiftly, pulling herself together.

  “Thanks, Paddy,” she said. “I’ll leave my briefcase on the backseat.”

  “Righto, Mrs. R.,” he responded. He jumped out of the car and went to open the door for her.

  As she mounted the steps to the elegant Georgian house, the front door opened and Carlton was standing there with a big smile on his face.

  It was obvious he had been ill. A tall man, he now appeared to be a little stooped. He had lost weight and his face was gaunt, paler than usual, but perhaps that was because he was wearing a black corduroy jacket over a black sweater, and black drained color from anybody’s face.

  “There you are, my darling girl,” he said, smiling hugely.

  She saw that his hazel eyes were clear and bright, and there was strength in his voice, and she was pleased about this.

  “You look better than I expected,” Annette said, going into his open arms, embracing him on the top step.

  Closing the door behind them, he led her into the front hall, explaining, “I had the best doctors, and you know I’m a tough old coot. I spring back pretty quickly. In another week I’ll be my old self.”

  “Where’s Marguerite?” she asked, glancing around.

  The words were hardly out of her mouth when Carlton’s wife appeared in the arched doorway of the sitting room, a smile on her face.

  “Here I am, and it’s wonderful to see you, Annette. And by the way, you must always wear pale blue. You’ve made it your own color.”

  Annette said, “Why, thank you, and it’s lovely to see you.” She went over to greet her with a kiss on the cheek. They were old friends, and Annette had always had a soft spot for this lovely woman who took such great care of Carlton, ran his business, cooked gourmet meals, and managed to always look chic.

  Slipping off her wool topcoat, which matched her pale-blue suit, Annette handed it to Marguerite, who took it over to the coat cupboard and hung it up.

  Carlton said, “I would like you to come to the studio before we have tea. To look at the Cézanne.”

  “Is it the soot that’s the problem?”
r />   “No.”

  “What is it then?”

  “It’s the painting, Annette.”

  “What do you mean?” She frowned, looked puzzled.

  “It’s wrong.”

  She gaped at him. “It’s a fake? Are you telling me it’s not a real Cézanne? That it’s a fake?”

  “I am.”

  Eighteen

  The studio where Carlton worked was a large room filled with natural daylight, which came in through three tall windows overlooking the garden.

  Two huge klieg lamps, which Carlton had bought at a sale held by a defunct film studio, spread additional light across the whole area. He also had four tall standing lamps, two on either side of the easel where the Cézanne was propped.

  Leading Annette over to the easel, Carlton switched on the four lamps and angled the heads to focus directly on the painting.

  Annette cringed as she stood staring at the painting, so badly scarred by the patches of black soot. “The intensity of the lamps really brings the soot into focus,” she murmured, glancing at the restorer, grimacing.

  Carlton said, “Look up at the right-hand corner. You can see where I started to clean it. Very cautiously. In tiny sections. As I slowly moved down the painting that first morning, I knew I was facing a dilemma. . . . I needed to remove the black patches, but in doing so I was afraid I might ruin the painting. You see, the soot is deeply embedded. Marguerite made me stop for hot soup at lunch time, I had such a bad cough, and I never made it back to the studio. I collapsed, and she had to send for an ambulance to get me to Emergency as fast as possible, and you know the rest.”

  “When did you discover the painting was wrong?”

  “Several days ago, when I came in here for the first time since that first day.” He moved closer to the easel and touched the canvas. “Come and look at this,” he said, pointing to a corner of the painting. “The paint underneath the soot had obviously run a little the morning I started working on it, but I didn’t come back in here, I went to the hospital instead. So I never saw it. As you well know, old paint doesn’t normally run. It suddenly struck me that it was new paint. How could that be? I was baffled. I took the painting down and examined the back of the canvas. It looked old, but I was still concerned about that paint.”