Playing the Game

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “I have a feeling he doesn’t go for the jugular.”

  “Now why on earth would anybody go for your jugular, Annette? Good heavens, everybody loves you in this town.”

  “I doubt that,” she answered swiftly, “but thanks for the compliment.”

  They talked for a few more minutes and then hung up. Annette leaned back in the chair and discovered much to her astonishment that she was shaking. Why? Because of the things Margaret had said, of course. He was single. And therefore had nothing to lose. This thought terrified her even more.

  She and Marius sat in the yellow living room, his eyes fixed on her as she told him about her meeting with Carlton, and his harsh opinion about the Cézanne.

  When she had finished, he said, “But why didn’t you spot this? You’ve got a keen eye, and you know Cézanne, he’s one of your favorites, for God’s sake.”

  She stared back at her husband, his words rankling. He had sounded critical and accusatory. She exclaimed, “I told you all along that the black patches completely disfigured the painting, altered its appearance. I defy anyone to have spotted something wrong with the painting, because it looked right. Except for those patches of black soot. Carlton only found out because the paint had run whilst he was in hospital.”

  “I understand. You don’t have to sound so shirty. I suspect it’s a mistake I would have made, too.” He frowned. “I wonder who the forger was. Or is?”

  “How could anybody know? According to Carlton and Ted Underwood, it was painted about eighteen years ago, or thereabouts.”

  Marius nodded. “That was around the time John Drewe was setting up his art-forging operation, along with John Myatt.”

  “We discussed that, but Carlton seemed to think it was not theirs. Anyway, one thing seems certain: it must have been Sir Alec who threw soot on the painting in order to do plenty of damage.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he must have discovered he’d bought a fake. Who else would damage a painting but the owner—” Annette broke off, sat up straighter in the chair. “Oh, there was the fiancée, she might have realized it was a fake. Certainly she could have thrown the soot on it.”

  “The fiancée?” Marius frowned. “Wasn’t there something about a scandal? I vaguely remember some odd story.”

  “Yes. She committed suicide. She hanged herself in the master bedroom. A few days before their wedding. She was wearing her wedding gown.”

  Marius winced and gaped at her. He began to shake his head. “Why would a woman do such an horrific thing?”

  “To wound him, hurt him? Alec Delaware, I mean.”

  “I see.” His eyes narrowed slightly when he asked, “Who was the fiancée? I really have forgotten the details.”

  “Her name was Clarissa Normandy.”

  “Oh yes, I vaguely recall. . . .” Marius picked up his brandy and took a sip, then leaned back against the sofa.

  Moving slightly on the chair opposite, Annette glanced across at her husband and wondered why he was suddenly looking so pale. She asked, “Don’t you feel well, Marius?”

  “I’m perfectly fine. Why do you ask?”

  “You’ve gone a little pale.”

  “I think perhaps it’s a combination of too much wine at dinner, a rich meal, and this ghastly tale of suicide, that’s all.”

  “You know something, Marius, I’ve just had the strangest thought. What if it was his fiancée who’d forged the Cézanne . . . this Clarissa Normandy? She was an artist, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t,” he answered. He took another sip of the Napoleon and changed the subject.

  Nineteen

  He wanted to write about her.

  Writing about her would bring her closer. But he hadn’t finished the interviews; he still had two more to go. Nonetheless, he had sat at his computer, staring at the screen all afternoon since leaving her office, and he was still in the same place, although it was now nine o’clock at night.

  It wouldn’t come. The words wouldn’t flow, even though he had such vivid images of her in his head. Annette Remmington. Blond, beautiful, elegant. And also intelligent and articulate. She was oddly enigmatic, Mrs. Remmington. Mysterious. Yes, that was the perfect word to describe her. She was different, certainly unlike anybody he had ever met in his life. And he couldn’t get her out of his head.

  Jack sat back in his chair, endeavoring to relax, and slowly he read his last version of his profile on her. It didn’t work for him, so it wouldn’t work for anybody else. Of course it didn’t work. He didn’t have enough personal material yet in order to get inside her skin, to truly understand her and what made her tick. He needed more. Frustrated, he deleted everything he had written, every version, got up, walked into the kitchen, took a bottle of water out of the fridge, and returned to his desk.

  He sat down at the computer, about to start all over again. And changed his mind. What was the point? He had to finish the next two interviews to make sense of her, to understand fully who and what she was. Endeavoring to construct something now was utterly futile. He was wasting his time and his energy.

  Jack understood why he was doing this, knew what this was all about. He believed that writing about her would bring her closer to him tonight, and it would in a certain way. But that wasn’t going to happen. It would only happen when he had so much material he would be discarding parts of it.

  Jack blew out air, stretched his shoulders, picked up the bottle, and took several swigs of the water. He glanced at the phone on his desk and then looked at his watch, suddenly remembering Lucy. He’d forgotten to call her earlier, and now it was too late. It was ten o’clock in France. He’d call tomorrow.

  Filling with relief at this decision, he rose, went over to the sofa, sat down, turned on the television, turned it off, walked over to the window, looked out, and gave up. He was frustrated, restless, and ill at ease with himself.

  Back at the desk, he lolled back in the chair, his thoughts churning around in his head. Women. Why am I always in a mess with women? he asked himself.

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, he thought of his father. A man who had loved women, who was always in a mess with women, and apparently lots of them. A journalist. He had inherited his father’s talent for writing, just as he’d inherited his father’s penchant for womanizing, no two ways about that. He was a chip off the old block.

  “Always running off, chasing wars or chasing women, both dangerous. He lived for danger,” was the way his mother had put it once, when he was old enough to understand what she was saying, around fifteen by then. At the time he had imagined that his father’s life must have been very romantic. But now, as a grown man, he accepted that it had more than likely been a big mess.

  His father had died at the age of thirty-eight, far too young to get blown to smithereens. He’d stepped on a land mine in some God-forsaken country. . . . “Chasing another war, addicted to war,” his mother had muttered to him on that day when she had finally been able to talk about his father. She had sounded angry, and always would when it came to her first husband.

  The things he remembered best about his childhood were from the years after his mother had married Peter Chalmers. What had gone before was sort of foggy in his head. Except that his mother’s words about his biological father had, quite oddly, remained clear. She had been bitter, he realized that now. And still in love with his father?

  He’d once asked her sister Helen, his aunt, about that, and Helen had laughed. “No way. Eleanor was far too pragmatic to cling to a man who was never around. She loved Peter and the security he gave her.”

  Yes, she had loved his stepfather, and so had he. Peter had been a real father to him, had adopted him, brought him up as his own. Unlike his mother, Peter had never bad-mouthed his biological father; in fact, he had rarely ever mentioned him at all. Such was the way of men, Jack suddenly thought. We’re so bloody different from women. No wonder we don’t understand them.

  Thinking about Peter had reminded him
that he had to return Kyle’s call of earlier, and he dialed him immediately.

  His brother answered on the sixth ring, just before the voice mail picked up. “I’m here, Jacko. What’s up, kid?”

  “Hi. About that trunk you’ve been nagging me about. How big is it?”

  “It’s huge, Jack. I think you might have to hire a van in order to move it, and you’ll need help to carry it, as well.”

  “How big is it, for God’s sake? And do I really need it? Couldn’t I just go and empty it, put the stuff inside a suitcase?”

  “You could do that, yes,” Kyle responded. “You’d probably need two suitcases, though, and you might want to keep the trunk. It’s a great piece of Louis Vuitton. Mum must’ve spent a fortune on it even back when she bought it.”

  Jack laughed. “Well, you know our mum, she loved expensive stuff, especially expensive French stuff. Actually, it might be a good idea to use suitcases anyway, easier to handle. What’s in the trunk, anyway?”

  “I haven’t really gone through it, to be honest, but it’s mostly things to do with your early childhood, mementos, photographs, her own early life, that kind of thing.”

  “Do I really want all that?” Jack sounded suddenly doubtful.

  There was a short silence. Finally Kyle said quietly, “Yes, I think you do, kid. It has a luggage label tied on the side handle with your name written on it, and very clearly. You should have it, Jack, because Mum wanted it to go to you, and Dad mentioned it to me just after she died. Listen, you’re a sentimental bugger, even if you pretend not to be at times. So go and get it, within the next week or so. Okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll go for it. And just out of curiosity, what else is left in the house?”

  “Some furniture. Antiques for the most part. I thought we could send them to a dealer to be auctioned off, along with china, and some other things. The young couple who made an offer for the house haven’t come back to the estate agent yet. So who knows what’s going to happen.”

  “I might go and get the trunk tomorrow, actually.”

  “I thought you were in the middle of a profile for The Sunday Times.”

  “I am. But I have two more interviews with the subject. The next one is on Friday. So I’m at a loose end tomorrow.”

  “Fine, then do it, get it out of the way. Shall we get together tonight? Have dinner? Before I go off to Jordan?”

  “Sure, great idea. I’ll come over around seven-thirty.”

  “See ya,” Kyle answered, and hung up.

  “I don’t know about destroying the Cézanne, Annette. I might want to keep it,” Christopher Delaware said, looking across at her, biting his lip, shifting slightly on his feet.

  It was Thursday morning, and they were at Carlton’s studio. Annette was taken aback for a split second and quickly glanced at Carlton, and saw a sudden look of astonishment crossing his face. He seemed baffled as he returned her gaze.

  Addressing her client, she said, “Well, of course that’s up to you, Chris, but I think it would be much wiser to be rid of it. It’s of no value to you, or anyone else for that matter. Why do you even want a fake?”

  “How do you destroy a painting?” Christopher asked, ignoring her question, giving her a long, hard stare.

  “Cut it up, or burn it, I guess. I’ve never done it before, you know, so I’m only guessing.”

  Carlton said in a firm voice, “You should destroy the painting, Christopher. If you lived in France, you’d be forced to do so, because there that is the law. You cannot keep a forgery, once it’s proven to be one, even if you’ve paid millions for it.”

  “But what’s the harm in keeping it?” Christopher asked, edging closer to Carlton, who stood near the Cézanne on the easel.

  Annette’s mobile began to ring; she pulled it out of her jacket pocket and walked away from them, heading for the window. “Hello?”

  “Boss, is that you?”

  “It is, Esther, yes. What’s up?”

  “Nothing special. I wanted you to know I just gave your mobile number to Jack Chalmers. He said it was urgent he speak to you. I hope that was okay. It was, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, of course. What does he want?”

  “He didn’t explain. He said it was about your Friday appointment. The interview.”

  “Okay. No problem, thanks for alerting me. I’ll deal with it. Talk to you later.” She clicked off, and, holding the phone in her hand, she absentmindedly looked out the French window at the garden. Spring was definitely early this year. Bluebells were already in flower.

  She walked back to Carlton and Christopher, and stood listening to them talking about the Cézanne. Suddenly, she decided she was getting bored with this continuing discussion, wanted to get it over with, and get on, and she couldn’t help wondering what Jack Chalmers wanted. She hoped he wasn’t canceling tomorrow’s meeting.

  The phone rang, and she stepped away again. “Hello? It’s Annette.”

  “Hi! It’s Jack Chalmers.”

  “I know.”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important, but I do need to talk to you for a moment.”

  “It’s fine. I’m with a client and a restorer. Would you give me a moment? I want to excuse myself, go outside for better reception.” Walking back, drawing closer to the two men, she said, “Carlton, Chris, please excuse me for a moment, I have a business call.”

  Carlton nodded, smiled, waved her away, and exclaimed, “No problem, Annette, take your time.”

  Hurrying back to the French window, she opened it and stepped out into the garden. “Here I am,” she said into the mobile phone. “Esther said there’s a problem about tomorrow.”

  “No, not a problem. I was just wondering if we could change the time, meet at noon tomorrow, and then I thought we could go to lunch around one-thirty.”

  “Lunch,” she repeated and realized how startled she sounded. She went on in a more even tone, “Well, I suppose so, yes.”

  “Good. I thought it would be nice to talk in different surroundings. Not always in your office. Hence the idea about lunch. Listen, I’m going to interrupt myself, to ask you a question. I heard you mention the name Carlton. You don’t happen to be with Carlton Fraser, do you?”

  “Why, yes, I do, Jack. Do you know him?” she asked, surprise echoing.

  “He was a friend of my parents. In fact, they were neighbors. In Hampstead. Hey, wait a minute. You’re not there now, are you, by any chance? At his studio?”

  “Actually, I am. Why?”

  Jack laughed. “How weird this is. Guess what? I’m just a few houses away from you. My father died recently, and I came up to the house to collect some things of mine. Well, well, what a coincidence.”

  Annette was filled with a swirl of emotions. Fear, anticipation, excitement, and dread . . . Because she knew what he was going to suggest, what he was about to do.

  She said slowly, “Isn’t that extraordinary, Jack, that you’re just next door.”

  “A few doors away. Stay there, don’t leave. Tell Carlton and Marguerite I’m coming up, just to say a quick hello. Please.”

  “Yes, I will.” She clicked off the phone, reached for the door handle, and noticed that her hand was shaking. In fact, she was shaking all over. Standing near the door for a moment, trying to calm herself, she couldn’t help wondering if the gods were at play up there in the heavens. And what mischief they were making.

  What had brought Jack Chalmers up here to Hampstead this morning? And why had she suggested to Christopher that he should meet her here?

  She had no idea, no answer. The only thing she knew was that she was filled with sudden panic.

  Annette took a moment to pull herself together, and after pushing a bright smile onto her face she walked back to the other side of the studio, where Carlton and Christopher were still standing near the easel.

  She took a deep breath, and, focusing on Carlton, she said in a light voice, “What a coincidence! I just took a call from a journalist who’s do
ing a piece on me and it seems you knew his father, who was your neighbor, lived a few doors away.”

  “Good Lord!” Carlton exclaimed, his expression changing into one of genuine pleasure, his eyes full of sudden sparkle. “You must be talking about Jack Chalmers. How is he?”

  “You’re about to find out. He’s only a couple of doors away, at his father’s house, and he’s popping up to see you and Marguerite, just to say hello.”

  “How nice of him. Marguerite will be thrilled. Jack was always a favorite of hers, and mine, as well. We watched Jack and his brother Kyle growing up.”

  Carlton seemed to have regained his equilibrium, and Christopher was suddenly looking more relaxed, much to her relief.

  Turning to her, Christopher now said, “I know it’s probably silly, wanting to keep the painting that’s damaged and a fake, but I do.”

  “I think you ought to destroy it,” Carlton murmured.

  Christopher glanced at Annette, a quizzical look in his eyes.

  She said, “You are the owner of the painting, and as long as you don’t sell it as a damaged Cézanne, because it’s not a Cézanne, that’s fine. It is a forgery. And let’s get it out of here now. Before Jack Chalmers arrives. He’s the journalist writing about me, and you, Chris, are the client whose Rembrandt I sold for twenty million pounds. He’s bound to be curious, and he’ll probably want to talk to you.”

  Christopher nodded. “Is that all right with you?”

  “Yes, as long as you don’t refer to the fake Cézanne. You can only discuss the auction and the Rembrandt.”

  “I understand,” Chris said.

  “Now, Carlton, let’s get the fake off that easel and out of here,” Annette said.

  “Immediately!” Carlton took the canvas down off the easel. He said to Christopher, “I’ll put the painting back in the frame. Can you come and pick it up later today?”