Clifford started moving faster and faster. All pretense of gentleness was abandoned as he neared climax; Annette’s nails were digging into his back. “Yes!” he shouted.
“Yes!” Annette echoed. It all felt wonderful, but at that same moment, a thought she couldn’t ignore rushed into her brain: has she just wrecked her career?
Chapter 7
Annette looked out of the hotel’s window. Montreal was spread out before her, with old brick buildings nestled side by side with modern glass skyscrapers. It was a beautiful scene, but she couldn’t see it clearly. Tears were clouding her vision.
“Man. I am so stupid. So incredibly stupid.” She jammed her fist into her mouth, biting on her finger hard. “What was I thinking?” Making love to Clifford had been wonderful, but now, in the harsh morning light, she knew it was absolutely unacceptable behavior.
“What’s wrong?” Clifford was still sitting in the bed, with the blue sheets tangled around his waist.
“You know what’s wrong,” Annette replied. “This is wrong. I knew it, you knew it, and we went ahead and did it anyway.” She sank into the chair positioned next to the window. It was unbelievably comfortable. “I’m going to have to resign my position.”
“No, you’re not,” Clifford said. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“It’s ethics 101,” Annette snapped. “Don’t get involved with your clients.” She cocked her head and smiled, softening her words in response to Clifford’s wounded expression. “Even if they’re wonderful lovers.”
Clifford smiled. “You’re in luck. Technically, I’m not your client. Moshe is.”
Annette winced. “Well, I’m definitely not in danger of going to bed with him.”
“I love your idealism,” Clifford said. “It gives you such fire. It makes you who you are. But do you really think the art world’s full of chaste people who deny their feelings for a set of abstract ethics?” He shook his head. “Art requires passion. And passionate people…they live their lives to the fullest. They pursue what they want. And when the opportunity arises, they make love. Just like we did.” Clifford threw the bedclothes to the side and patted the mattress. “Come here.”
Annette stood up and padded across the deep carpet, feeling the way the silky fibers caressed her feet. The sheets were smooth and cold.
“Do you really think you’ve done anything wrong?” Clifford asked. He kissed Annette’s forehead. “In the greater scale of things, does the fact we have this kind of relationship really impact your ability your ability to advise me?”
Annette shook her head. “No.”
“You still know more about the Surrealists than anyone I know,” Clifford said. “And I know a lot of people.”
Annette smiled. “It’s nice of you to say that.”
“It’s not nice, it’s accurate.” Clifford cocked his head. “I don’t really spend a lot of energy worrying about whether or not I’m nice. I don’t know if you’ve noticed that at all…”
“Once or twice,” Annette joked.
“But what I do worry about is whether or not I’m accurate. I want people to be able to count on my word. So if I say something, I’m confident that what I say is correct. You know your stuff, Annette. The commentary you’ve made on my collection has been spot on and insightful. I trust that you’re going to bring that amazing mind of yours to our meeting with Rene.”
“Well, I can hardly leave it here.” Clifford was starting to make her feel better.
“Exactly.” Clifford kissed her again. “Stop feeling bad when you don’t need to.”
“What about Madison?” Annette asked.
“What about Madison?”
“What’s the deal with you and her?” Annette didn’t want to ask that question, but felt she had to. “Because if you guys are a thing; we can’t be a thing. Even though we’ve already been a thing. Because I am sure she is not going to appreciate this situation.”
Clifford sighed. “Madison and I have been working together for over a decade. I have a great deal of respect for her, and I imagine she’s got at least a little bit for me. But as a couple? A romantic couple? You don’t have to worry about that.”
“You’re sure about that?” Annette said. “Because she seems to think the sun rises and sets on your shoulders.”
“You mean it doesn’t?” Clifford joked.
“I didn’t say that,” Annette replied. Clifford had his hand on her thigh now; the pressure of his fingers was doing interesting things to her psyche.
“Madison’s in a relationship,” Clifford said. “She’s very private about it, and I don’t pry. But don’t worry about her love life. She’s got that handled without me being involved at all.” He laughed. “Besides, she’s twelve years older than me, and meaner than a box of snakes.”
Annette let out a deep breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“Feel better?”
“If you keep doing that,” Annette replied, leaning back against the soft mountain of pillows, “I’m going to feel a lot better.”
“Your wish is my command!” Clifford replied.
Chapter 8
“I’m so glad you could come,” Rene said. He was a tall man, older, with a deeply tanned complexion and salt and pepper hair. His glasses had burgundy frames almost exactly the color of the wine Clifford and Annette had shared the night before.
“Of course we came,” Clifford said. “Any time Max Ernst’s name is involved in a collection; you know I’m going to want to see it.” He sounded bright and chipper; Annette looked at him wonderingly. After the night they’d had and the emotional roller coast of a conversation they’d had that morning, where did he find the energy to be so upbeat?
“That is what I hoped you would say. Now, the ephemera – there were some notes, an appointment book – I have already promised to Sylvester Romerio. You know him.”
Clifford nodded. “He loves his paper.” He shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve talked about this many times. I don’t care about the little doodles, the grocery list, that sort of thing. But for him? It’s like gold.” He laughed. “Give me the paintings, him the etcetera and everybody’s happy.”
“Well, if I were to give them to you, I’m not sure I would be happy,” Rene joked.
“I’d be happy enough for both of us,” Clifford replied.
“We’ll have to give that a try,” Rene said, with mock-solemnity, “next time.”
Annette was looking around the small office. It was a typical art dealer’s lair, with piles of books and exhibition catalogs stacked high against the wall; Rene’s desk was covered with papers. There was a large abstract sculpture standing in one corner; from one angle, it could be seen as a woman with an umbrella; from another, it looked like an explosion of triangles.
“Where are the paintings?” she asked.
Rene’s eyebrow went up. “No coffee first?”
Clifford chuckled. “Annette is my martinet,” he said, slapping the palm of one hand with the back of another. “Madison hired her to keep me on schedule.”
“Smart,” Rene said, tapping the side of his temple. “In your world, time is money.” He smiled and looked Annette up and down slowly, taking in her figure. “But all work and no play makes us dull men.”
Annette fought back the urge to shudder. She was grossed out by Rene’s attentions but it wouldn’t do to show it. “Well,” she replied, “we’re just going to have to take that chance. You said you had a Carrington?”
Rene glanced at Clifford. Clifford gave a slight nod, and Rene began to speak. “It’s an early one, a study really. You’ll be able to see what she was thinking about the later portrait in it.”
“The portrait of Max?”
Rene nodded, warming to his subject. “The collection is a mix of things Ernst did, as well as works he inspired. It’s a nice mix.” He stood up and started to lead the way out of his office. “Of course, the kids now don’t value these things. They want to get the place cleaned out as q
uickly as possible. Turn it into condos.” He shook his head. “Montreal’s always been an expensive city, but these speculators…they are making it ten times worse.”
Clifford nodded. “It is the price you pay for being so fashionable.”
Rene laughed. “I will dress in overalls and a straw hat,” he said, “if it will keep the prices down.” He had his keys in his hand. “Shall we take my car, or yours?”
“You know where we’re going, so why don’t you drive?” Clifford said. He asked Annette, “Have you ever driven in Montreal before?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s my first time here.”
“You take your life in your hands,” he said. “If you’re not a native, forget it.”
“Ah, I know all the short cuts,” Rene said. “I will keep us away from the traffic, and you will be perfectly safe.”
They rode from Rene’s office into Old Montreal, a portion of the city filled with impressive stone houses built during the city’s earliest days.
“These hills are crazy!” Annette said. She reached out to hold onto the door handle as Rene angled the car up a steep slope.
“You should come here in the wintertime,” Rene replied. “Especially going down the hills – it can be quite exciting.”
“Maybe we will do that,” Clifford said, looking at Annette with a smile. “It’s a beautiful city to spend the holiday.”
Annette smiled prettily. Inside her mind was racing. It was very strange to hear Clifford speaking about the two of them as ‘we’; obviously Rene thought of them as a client and his assistant, but that wasn’t how Annette took it at all- in her ears, Clifford was speaking as if they were an official couple.
She closed her eyes and shook her head a little bit. It was important that she was clear headed and focused on the job at hand – assessing the paintings Clifford was potentially interested in buying. He was counting on her to stop him from making any bad purchases. She could worry about her love life later.
The building they stopped in front of looked like a castle. It had an octagonal tower built in one corner and tall windows that were covered with ornate iron bars.
“They’re going to turn this into condos?” Clifford said. “What a waste.”
“I know,” Rene said. He shrugged his shoulders. “But you cannot find the families who want a big home like this anymore. Too much upkeep. Too much expense.” He parked carefully in front of the home. “I am sure if you make an offer, you can save it from being desecrated.”
“Madison would kill me,” Clifford replied. “It’s bad enough I collect the beautiful paintings. If I start buying every beautiful building I see…” He shook his head. “I don’t even want to think about what I’d hear.”
“Women,” Rene said with a laugh. “They don’t understand what it is to have a good time.” He led the way up the narrow walk, through a pair of heavy double doors. “Most of what we’re going to want to look at is right here on the first floor.”
It was obvious that they weren’t the first buyers to come into this property. Annette could see spaces where furniture clearly had been; carpets were rolled up and tagged, awaiting pickup.
They went through one large room and then another, stepping up through an archway into a long, dark hallway. “There are three pieces here that perhaps will be of interest,” Rene suggested.
“The lighting’s terrible,” Clifford said. “I don’t know that we’ll be able to see anything.”
“Hold on,” Rene replied. “There’s a switch.” He strode down the hallway, leaving Annette and Clifford alone together.
“I want to kiss you right now,” Clifford said. “So very much.”
“We can’t do that!” Annette replied, scandalized. Rene could see both of them easily, even if he couldn’t hear every word they were saying.
“Why not?” Clifford reached his hand out, letting his fingertips brush against Annette’s forearm, just above her wrist. “What’s going to happen?”
Annette blushed.
“Don’t you want me to kiss you?” Clifford asked.
“I do,” she replied, letting her eyes flicker up to meet his own. “And if we were alone…”
“I would do more than kiss you,” Clifford proclaimed.
Rene found the switch. The hallway brightened, revealing three nearly identical prints. They were very colorful, with bright green and blue shapes intersected by swooping khaki colored lines.
“Oh, these are nice,” Annette said, stepping forward to take a closer look. She wanted to see the signatures, of course, but she also needed to put some space between herself and Clifford. The longer she stood close to him, feeling his nearness, smelling the scent of his cologne in her nose, the harder it became to maintain her focus.
Clifford raised an eyebrow. “Tell me about them.”
Rene had rejoined them. “They are Stanley Hayter,” he said.
“Hayter was part of Atelier 17,” Annette added. “Miró worked there for a time as well, as did Ernst.” She examined the prints for a long moment. “These are good examples of his work, but not really what we’re looking for.”
Rene’s eyes flashed, but he kept smiling. “Of course. Come this way. You mention Miró; I think you might like this.” He led them into the next room. There was a giant canvas on the wall. It was painted bright blue, with four black dots angled across it and a bright red slash of paint. The signature was unmistakable.
“Wow,” Annette said. “That’s lovely.” She took a moment to examine the painting. It didn’t hold Clifford’s interest, and he wandered further into the room.
“Annette,” he said, excitement clear in his voice. “Come here.” She looked up to see him beckoning to her. He was standing in front of a small frame. “You’ve got to see this.”
She joined him to see a sketch of Max Ernst, white haired with a sharp nose. “This is the Carrington?” she asked.
Rene nodded. “You see what he’s working on?”
“That’s his bird sculpture,” Annette said. She turned to Clifford. “After Leonora and Max became lovers, they moved in together. And they each sculpted protective animal spirits to guard over them and their new relationship. Max did the birds, Leonora made a horse’s head.”
Clifford was beaming. “I love the energy of this.” He was practically bouncing on his heels. “There’s such an intimacy in this moment.”
Rene agreed. “She was bearing witness to Max in the moment of creation. And of course, she was no small talent herself.”
“You know I have to ask,” Clifford said.
“The heirs would love to get fifteen for it,” Rene said. “But for you, it would be only ten.”
Annette nodded. “Why don’t you show us the rest,” she said. “And then we’ll talk numbers.”
Rene pressed on. “Of course, you can see here in the way she’s sloped his shoulders and angled the neck the same lines in the portrait,” he said, pointing to the sketch. “It’s dated on the back, September of 38.”
Annette nodded again, and then stepped to Clifford’s side. She took him by the elbow and guided him further into the room. “Let’s look at what’s over here.”
Clifford looked at her, puzzled. Annette gave a very quick shake of her head, hoping Rene didn’t see the gesture. “I just want to see everything before we make any decisions.”
“The Carrington is the best piece,” Rene said, following them. “I’ve already had two people calling about it.” Just then, his phone rang. He glanced at it and smiled. “That’s one of the gentlemen now.” He stepped away to take the call.
“You don’t think it’s worth ten million?” Clifford said.
“I don’t think it’s worth ten dollars,” Annette replied. “Go look at it again.”
Clifford walked back in front of the sketch. He peered at it intensely. “I’m not seeing what you’re seeing, obviously. I really love the energy. It’s got a freshness about it.”
“The reason it’s got a freshness about it
is because it’s fresh,” Annette said. She gestured toward Ernst’s arms working on the sculpture. “See those lines there? The swoop and glide? You’ve seen them before.”
“I have?” Clifford asked.
“In your Magritte,” Annette said. “There, they were painted, and here, they’re drawn, but the arm that made them was the same.” She gestured into empty space, indicating the way the artist moved while creating the work.
“Are you sure?” Clifford said.
“I’m absolutely sure,” Annette said. She lowered her voice. “On top of that, Carrington was notoriously private. She was known for destroying her preliminary work – and her breakup with Ernst was really, really ugly. You know she wound up in asylum after he left her.”
“I didn’t know that,” Clifford said.
“She did,” Annette said. “She had electroshock therapy, the whole nine yards. It was what they did at the time.”
“Horrible.”
“It was,” Annette agreed, “and from what I read, she never fully recovered. I find it hard to believe she would have kept any of her work from that time – especially this.”
“Maybe she didn’t,” Clifford replied. “She could have sold it then, or given it away. Maybe she gave it to Max.”
“After he got away from the Nazis, he took off,” Annette said. “And who could blame him?”
“You don’t think it’s real?”
“I know it’s not,” Annette replied. She felt absolutely certain of her position. “I can call Feigenbaum’s if you want me to, but they’ll tell you the same thing.” She cocked her head. “If you want to buy something, buy those prints in the hallway.”
“Not the Miró?” Clifford asked.
Annette shook her head. “If you like that one, there are better examples to be had. Sotheby’s has one coming to auction at the end of the month.”
“But I don’t like the prints,” Clifford pouted. “I do like this.”
Annette nodded. “It’s a gorgeous sketch.”
“And you’re still telling me no?”
“I am.” Annette cocked her head. “The question now is if you’re going to listen to me or not.”
Romance: The College Bad Boy: A Young Adult Romance Page 78