She did as he had directed, closed the boxes and packed them into the brown leather dressing case. The documents inside were in perfect order, his own instructions to Berrisford’s, as good a provenance for the necklace as she could have hoped for and copied pages from a Fabergé order book with sketches of the botanical studies. Then she asked Etienne to call her a taxi, because she felt
suddenly very weak.
Afterwards, London remembered the sale, and the guests who had been there told each other that they were glad there were still people in the world who could do things in such wonderful style as Bianca Berrisford.
She had the great saleroom, already one of the noblest spaces in the city, tented in scarlet felt with the Berrisford cipher embossed on it in gold, elaborately caught up with gold ropes and tassels. Benedict, who had decided to video the event, assembled a very funny montage of people walking through the door for the first time and saying, ‘Bakst!’
The viewing gallery was painted a pale Scandinavian blue-grey; there were bundles of silver birch branches in the corners, and the gallery was perfectly lit – she despised the trick at lesser houses of showing goods in the poorest possible light. It was perfectly simple to hang the inferior pictures a little too high or towards the corners so that their quality was less obvious. In the saleroom itself the lights were lowered and candles a metre high rose from baskets of red and gold flowers.
The staff, well aware that their futures were also at stake, performed with enthusiasm. The porters, at their own suggestion, were dressed as Russian peasants in high boots, loose trousers and embroidered linen tunics. When they saw the men in costume, the waitresses who poured the champagne looked sadly at their black dresses, and the marketing director went herself to the Ukrainian cultural centre to borrow sarafans and scarves from a dance group. Bianca vetoed all suggestions for music, but finally permitted a pianist to play some quiet Scriabin.
The viewing opened at the beginning of the week, with the sale scheduled for Thursday. Lovat arrived on Monday afternoon, fresh from an interview with Wyngarde who, contrary to Tuttlingen’s prediction, had believed his story of concern for the poor duped Bianca and confided all he knew about the necklace he had seen.
The jewellery was in a case raised on a dais at the end of the gallery, with four security guards standing obtrusively at the edges of the room. Lovat went straight there, Mitrokin’s photograph in the palm of his hand. The sight of the necklace was like a punch in the face; he stepped back and almost fell off the edge of the dais. When he took a catalogue from the pile by the entrance, he saw that the centre page had been reprinted, and that two diamond necklaces were now on sale. There was also a photograph of the magnificent object which now sparkled on a black velvet stand in the centre of the display.
He left immediately, afraid that Bianca would be told of his presence, and ran back to Mount Street to make a short and difficult telephone call to the officer at the Fine Art and Antiques Squad at Scotland Yard who had been expecting a different kind of conversation. Tuttlingen, whom he didn’t call until the next day, was very kind to him, which only deepened his humiliation.
By Thursday evening he had recovered enough to make jokes to himself, and be utterly curious as to how the sale would go. He had an invitation. As a dealer he was asked to most of Berrisford’s events. Evening dress was requested and, wanting to look as good as he could, he went home to change and arrived just as the auctioneer started the bidding for the first picture. It was the young Scot, who ought to have been nervous but looked serious and perfectly relaxed.
When Lovat heard other men talk of walking into a room, seeing a woman and wanting nothing else in the world at that moment but to make love to her, he thought they were crazy. Nothing like that had ever happened to him, until he entered Berrisford’s saleroom. Something was sizzling even before he saw Bianca, merely because he knew she was there.
When his eye locked on to her, standing at the side of the room by the telephones, the shock was electric. He could not look anywhere else, or think of anything else but pulling the silly silk bow out of her hair, tearing open her jacket by its black satin lapels, eating the half smile off her lips. Even as half his mind told him he was mad, the other half was running through strategies to get her back.
Bianca noticed him immediately, but pretended not to. It took an extreme effort, especially when Patrick reached the Somovs and they went one after another to a telephone bidder in California. She had been going to sales all her life, and always found them thrilling. A hundred nervous people, huge sums of money, duels to the death, victories and disappointments – a sale was as emotional as an opera to her, and this sale, her own triumph, was an epic.
While Patrick disposed of a bronze head of a long-forgotten woman, a little bud of warmth for Lovat swelled unexpectedly in her heart. To come here tonight, her hour of victory after he had planned her defeat, was a brave and generous action. Her eyes were pulled towards him and made contact with his for a second. She smiled, she could not help it.
At last, Patrick was coming to the end of the sculpture. The jewellery would be next, with the portrait of Kusminskaya to go first, and the porters carried it up to the black flat on which it was to be displayed. The room was sweltering and now Bianca felt faint. She put a hand to the wall to steady herself, and realized that after so many months of high emotion she was utterly weak. Shaking her head to clear it, she walked to the side door and left the room.
‘Are you all right?’ Lovat found her in the corridor.
‘I felt shaky for a moment. It’s better out here, it’s cooler.’
Would she let him put his arm around her? ‘Come and sit down. Do you want a glass of water?’ Yes! She seemed pleased.
‘I think I would. Yes, I’d love a glass of water.’
‘You are looking pale.’ She was looking heavenly. Her arm was hot to touch. He regretted with passion ever having said anything about that body and butter.
‘It’s been a tough few weeks, you don’t know.’
Lovat did not trust himself to say anything. If she found out now that he had attempted to sabotage this evening, he would be lost.
‘What’s happening?’ She leaned forward to see the monitor screen in the corner. ‘Still on the portrait.’
‘Do you want to go back in?’
She wanted to say yes, but could not. She wanted to get up, but nothing happened. His arm was round her shoulders, which was – what was it? It was pleasurable. She felt she wanted him to hold her more tightly. It would be nice to kiss him, she could smell the particular spicy scent of his skin. And he was feeling the same, she knew that look in his eye, even if she had not seen it for years.
‘I can’t go back in, I just can’t. I don’t know what’s the matter with me, it’s just too much. Can we walk outside for a while? They’re going to take a break before the jewellery anyway.’
Now her legs obeyed her. Her shoulders felt cold without his touch. Walking slowly down Jermyn Street, she racked her brains for a way to make things happen.
‘You know we’re on CNN?’
‘Congratulations. Well done the press office.’
‘They came to us.’ Suddenly she had the answer. ‘I’d love to see it. We took a suite at the Ritz for later, it’ll be on there, we’re taping it. Shall we go?’
‘Will we get there in time?’ What did she really mean? He could not read her signals. This was a person he did not know, but she was walking faster, away from Berrisford’s, towards the hotel, and whatever she intended, she had given him the opportunity he had prayed for.
The suite was so quiet that they could hear the VCR humming. The television screen was full of President Bush making a speech. Champagne was already cooling in buckets, so he opened a bottle and poured for them both.
‘Yes, I’d love some,’ she said as she took her glass, and he realized he had not asked. His mind was running on a single track.
She pulled a fake rococo chair up in front of the te
levision and turned up the volume as the Washington report came to an end. A woman reporter took the screen, standing in the viewing gallery in front of the Kusminskaya portrait. She seemed to be wearing no makeup and a loose shirt of unbleached cotton with leggings. The name Isabel McKinnon appeared at the bottom of the screen.
‘Did you know it was her?’ Lovat took a chair for himself, turned it around so he could lean on the back and sat as close to her as he dared. ‘She must have recorded this earlier.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid I did.’
‘Trying to embarrass me?’
‘You don’t need my help.’
‘She’s gone all Nineties, integrity and environment.’
‘I bet she was a rotten fuck.’
‘Well … she was efficient. And she paid her own credit cards.’
She giggled, but wouldn’t look at him. ‘Well, Alex was worth every cent, if you want to know. You set me up, didn’t you?’
He bit his lips, actually drew blood in the effort of not speaking. The urge to confess was strong. He wanted a bond of honesty between them now, and in wanting it he at last understood why she had wrecked their marriage. It was the deception itself that had repelled her, not the reason for it. Even at their closest, that lie had divided them. But if he told the truth now, she would be angry again, he would lose her.
Bianca wondered if she had overplayed her hand. He was looking at her with a helpless expression, lost for words.
‘Don’t answer, it doesn’t matter. Alex was what I needed, he did me good. His necklace wasn’t the Orlov necklace, but we’ll make a good profit on it and that’s also something we need now.’ She reminded herself that however thrilling this sale might be, and however good the prices, their profit would only keep Berrisford’s afloat for six months or so, but these facts failed to make her feel the proper sobriety. ‘Do you want to know where I found the real thing?’
‘Of course.’ Lovat felt weak from the release of his tension.
‘I thought you would.’ She crossed her legs and smiled at him, watching his eyes follow as she moved.
‘So tell me.’
She shook her head. In amusement, her top lip folded over her lower lip, softly, leaving a sheen of moisture.
‘That’s not fair’
‘Isn’t everything fair in love and war?’
So what was this, love or war? Or both? Lovat was lost for a response.
On the TV, there was a shot of the necklace, then a cut to the saleroom where a model was showing it.
‘What are you hoping to get?’ He knew how to do it. He knew how to get her, whether she was playing or not.
‘Five million pounds.’
‘You’re mad, you’ll never make it.’ Keep it light, keep it natural, just insulting enough to sting …
‘Want to bet?’ Patrick started the bidding at two million two.
‘Yes, I do.’
Clever man, he’d sussed her. She crossed her legs, feeling that she was juicy and ready for him now, but the anticipation was delicious, the game was wonderful. Was he as excited as she was? ‘OK, you’re on. Stakes – you choose first.’
‘If you lose, you have dinner with me tonight. Alone.’ Damn! He’d blown it. Pathetic. She would be tired, irritated, they’d be bound to quarrel. The bidding was rising rapidly, they were at three million six.
She turned her head slowly and gave him a long contemptuous look under her lashes. ‘You know how difficult that’s going to be. But I’m not chicken. OK. If I lose, dinner.’
She flexed one of her feet, seeming to admire the thin suede strap of her shoe buckled over her high instep. ‘I suppose I ought to choose you selling half your Berrisford’s stock.’ There seemed to be something stuck to her lipstick, she was pouting and running the tip of her tongue over her upper lip. ‘Or giving me those Cézanne drawings you’re keeping quiet about, but they don’t really turn me on.’
Her hair needed rearranging, she put down her glass to do it with both hands and when she was satisfied saw that the glass was empty and handed it to him to refill. As he poured, she continued, ‘I think what I want is you, in there, in the bedroom, on the bed.’ Champagne slopped over her fingers. ‘The bed and any other appropriate surface. Up to one hour of sex, as hot as it gets. You are clumsy, Lovat, look what you’ve done, you’ve spilt this all over my hand.’
He took her hand then and licked between her fingers. Very well.
‘One hour, with the option to extend. Agreed.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He turned the hand over and licked the palm.
‘We can shake on it when you’ve finished that. I am serious, Lovat. Only if I win.’ Once they had shaken hands, she took hers away and folded her arms.
Patrick was asking for advances on four million four. Three bids came quickly, raising it to four million seven.
‘Who’s bidding, do you know?’
‘Some of them. Four six was off the wall.’ She meant it was a dummy bid, either a figment of the auctioneer’s imagination or made by one of their own people to force the price up. ‘Don’t look at me like that, everyone does it. There are two genuine punters in there anyway.’
‘Four million eight, in the front here.’ Patrick’s fresh young face was expressionless as he looked around the room.
‘Isn’t he …’
‘Four nine point five, thank you. Four million, nine hundred and fifty thousand pounds.’
‘That’s the Sultan of Brunei. Isn’t he what?’
‘Young for a big sale like this?’ He wanted a drink, but his glass was empty and he never went well on champagne. Lovat swallowed, his mouth was dry. Somebody go to five. Please go to five. Go to five and let me have her. Please.
‘The senior guy’s in hospital.’
‘He hasn’t got the experience, he’s letting them go off the boil …’
‘Patrick’s all right.’ She drained her glass and let it hang from her fingertips. Somebody go to five. Go to five and let me put that sweet cock where it can do some good. I’ll die if somebody doesn’t go to five.
‘And his accent …’
‘Don’t be a snob. It’s a cute …’
‘Five million and fifty.’
She turned to look him full in the face, and let her eyes caress him for a minute. Did he feel different, smell different, touch differently? He looked quite frightened. She was nervous herself.
‘Five million and fifty. At the back.’
‘You’ve won anyway.’ There was a hopeful note in his voice. He was trying not to smile.
‘That’s a new bidder.’ She reached out and with fingers and thumbs, delicately, took hold of the tips of his black tie and pulled it apart. ‘They’ll slug it out for a while, I expect.’ The top shirt button was a swine, especially in a man who insisted on buying collars half a size too small and then complaining that he was uncomfortable. ‘If he’s waited to come in at five, he must be serious.’ How could she have been married to this man for ten years and never found out if his nipples were sensitive? Oh yes. Yes. What a beautiful look that was, melting.
‘I won’t …’ He had to clear his throat. ‘Our deal was the bedroom.’
‘You’ve cut your lip.’ She touched the raw place. His eyes closed. ‘I want to know what the necklace goes for.’ She stood up, now unsteady with desire, and took the loose ends of his tie in one hand, pretending to pull him to his feet. ‘But there‘s a television in the bedroom.’
The new bidder was an American hotel magnate anxious to give his new trophy blonde something more than he had given his old trophy blonde. He took the Orlov necklace away from the Sultan at five million seven hundred thousand pounds. Bianca had never felt so happy in all her life.
Author’s Note
The initial inspiration and much of the historical background of this novel came from Theatre Street, Tamara Karsavina’s record of her life as a dancer in St Petersburg, one of the most delightful autobiographies ever written. Where other accounts conflict, I have generally
accepted the authority of the great ballet writer, Richard Buckle.
Karsavina struggled briefly with commissars appointed by the revolutionary government, reluctantly becoming the president of the Maryinsky company’s ruling committee. Her husband was obliged to leave Petrograd with the British diplomatic mission and she followed him to London in 1918 with their baby son Nikita.
A loved and revered figure in the blossoming London ballet, she continued to dance with Diaghilev’s company until 1926, when she partnered the young Serge Lifar in Romeo and Juliet. Before she retired from the stage in 1931 she also appeared with a new British company, the Ballet Rambert. To Margot Fonteyn she passed on nuances of her performances in Giselle, The Firebird and Le Spectre de la Rose, and to Sir Frederick Ashton she taught the mime scene in La Fille Mal Gardée. She died in 1978, mourned for her unique artistry, cultivated mind and great heart.
Few of Karsavina’s contemporaries enjoyed equally long and happy lives. For some years Sergei Diaghilev, the most gifted impresario the world has ever seen, continued to assemble artists of genius to create miracles for his audiences. Ballets Russes dancers and choreographers dominated their art for generations; among the legion of musical and visual talents from whom Diaghilev commissioned were Bakst, Braque, Debussy, Matisse, Picasso, Ravel and Stravinsky. In the perpetual frenzy of enthusiasm for his promotions and his artists, Diaghilev, who was diabetic, neglected his health. He died at the Grand Hotel des Bains in Venice in 1929, a fortnight after taking his latest protégé, the sixteen-year-old composer Igor Markevitch, to the opera for the first time.
Anna Pavlova also made her home in London. Dancing with her own company under the management of her husband, Victor Dandré, she toured the whole world with a repertoire ideal for her unique expressive gifts. Pavlova inspired dancers wherever she performed, among them the young Frederick Ashton, who saw her in Lima, Peru. She caught a cold after a rehearsal and died of pneumonia in Holland in 1931.
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