Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  “’Bye, Mum,” she shouted, and quickly closed the door behind her before her mother could see what she was wearing.

  Sally took the next train back to Charing Cross. She stepped onto the platform unwilling to admit to any passerby that she had no idea where the Ritz was, so she hailed a taxi, praying she could get to the hotel for four pounds, because that was all she had on her. Her eyes remained fixed on the meter as it clicked past two pounds, and then three—far too quickly, she thought—three pounds twenty, forty, sixty, eighty … She was just about to ask the cabbie to stop, so she could jump out and walk the rest of the way, when he drew up to the curb.

  The door was immediately opened by a statuesque man dressed in a heavy blue trench coat who raised his top hat to her. Sally handed over her four pounds to the cabbie, feeling guilty about the measly twenty pence tip. She ran up the steps, through the revolving door and into the hotel foyer. She checked her watch: 6:10. She decided she had better go back outside, walk slowly around the block, and return a little later. But just as she reached the door, an elegant man in a long black coat approached her and asked, “Can I help you, madam?”

  “I’m meeting Mr. Tony Flavelli,” Sally stammered, hoping he would recognize the name.

  “Mr. Flavelli. Of course, madam. Allow me to show you to his table in the Palm Court.”

  She followed the black-coated man down the wide, deeply carpeted corridor, then up three steps to a large open area full of small circular tables, almost all of which were occupied.

  Sally was directed to a table at the side, and once she was seated a waiter asked, “Can I get you something to drink, madam? A glass of champagne, perhaps?”

  “Oh, no,” said Sally. “A Coke will be just fine.”

  The waiter bowed and left her. Sally gazed nervously around the beautifully furnished room. Everyone seemed so relaxed and sophisticated. The waiter returned a few moments later and placed a fine cut-glass tumbler with Coca-Cola, ice, and lemon in front of her. She thanked him and began sipping her drink, checking her watch every few minutes. She pulled her dress down as far as it would go, wishing she had chosen something longer. She was becoming anxious about what would happen if Tony didn’t turn up, because she didn’t have any money left to pay for her drink. And then suddenly she saw him, dressed in a loose double-breasted suit and an open-neck cream shirt. He had stopped to chat with an elegant young woman on the steps. After a couple of minutes he kissed her on the cheek and made his way over to Sally.

  “I am so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting. I do hope I’m not late.”

  “No, no you’re not. I arrived a few minutes early,” Sally said, flustered, as he bent down and kissed her hand.

  “What did you think of the Summer Exhibition?” he asked as the waiter appeared by his side.

  “Your usual, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you, Michael,” he replied.

  “I enjoyed it,” said Sally. “But …”

  “But you felt you could have done just as well yourself,” he suggested.

  “I didn’t mean to imply that,” she said, looking up to see if he was teasing. But the expression on his face remained serious. “I’m sure I will enjoy the Hockney more,” she added as a glass of champagne was placed on the table.

  “Then I’ll have to come clean,” said Tony.

  Sally put down her drink and stared at him, not knowing what he meant.

  “There isn’t a Hockney exhibition on at the moment,” he said. “Unless you want to fly to Glasgow.”

  Sally looked puzzled. “But you said—”

  “I just wanted an excuse to see you again.”

  Sally felt bemused and flattered, and was uncertain how to respond.

  “I’ll leave the choice to you,” he said. “We could have dinner together, or you could simply take the train back to Sevenoaks.”

  “How did you know I live in Sevenoaks?”

  “It was inscribed in big bold letters on the side of your canvas folder,” said Tony with a smile.

  Sally laughed. “I’ll settle for dinner,” she said. Tony paid for the drinks, then guided Sally out of the hotel and a few yards down the road to a restaurant on the corner of Arlington Street.

  This time Sally did try a glass of champagne, and allowed Tony to select for her from the menu. He could not have been more attentive, and seemed to know so much about so many things, even if she didn’t manage to find out exactly what he did.

  After Tony had called for the bill, he asked her if she would like to have coffee at “my place.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” she said, looking at her watch. “I’d miss the last train home.”

  “Then I’ll drive you to the station. We wouldn’t want you to miss the last train home, would we?” he said, scrawling his signature across the bill.

  This time she knew he was teasing her, and she blushed.

  When Tony dropped her off at Charing Cross he asked, “When can I see you again?”

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Bouchier at 11:30—”

  “Next Monday morning, if I remember correctly. So why don’t we have a celebration lunch together after he’s signed you up? I’ll come to the gallery at about 12:30. Goodbye.” He leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips.

  Sitting in a cold, smelly carriage on the last train back to Sevenoaks, Sally couldn’t help wondering what coffee at Tony’s place might have been like.

  Sally walked into the gallery a few minutes before 11:30 the following Monday to find Simon Bouchier kneeling on the carpet, head down, studying some paintings. They weren’t hers, and she hoped he felt the same way about them as she did.

  Simon looked up. “Good morning, Sally. Dreadful, aren’t they? You have to look through an awful lot of rubbish before you come across someone who shows any real talent.” He rose to his feet. “Mind you, Natasha Krasnoselyodkina does have one advantage over you.”

  “What’s that?” asked Sally.

  “She would draw the crowds for any opening.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she claims to be a Russian countess. Hints she’s a direct descendant of the last czar. Frankly, I think the Pearly Queen in the East End is about the nearest she’s been to royalty, but still, she’s the ‘in’ face at the moment—a sort of ‘Minah Bird’ of the nineties. What did Andy Warhol say—‘In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes’? By that standard, Natasha looks good for about thirty. I see this morning’s tabloids are even hinting she’s the new love in Prince Andrew’s life. My bet is they’ve never met. But if he were to turn up at the opening, we’d be jam packed, that’s for sure. We wouldn’t sell a picture, of course, but we’d be jam packed.”

  “Why wouldn’t you sell anything?” asked Sally.

  “Because the public is not that stupid when it comes to buying paintings. A picture is a large investment for most people, and they want to believe that they have a good eye, and that they’ve invested wisely. Natasha’s pictures won’t satisfy them on either count. With you, though, Sally, I’m beginning to feel they might be convinced on both. But first, let me see the rest of your portfolio.”

  Sally unzipped her bulging folder and laid out twenty-one paintings on the carpet.

  Simon dropped to his knees, and didn’t speak again for some time. When he eventually did offer an opinion, it was only to repeat the single word “consistent.”

  “But I’ll need even more, and of the same quality,” he said after he had risen to his feet. “Another dozen canvases at least, and by October. I want you to concentrate on interiors—you’re good at interiors. And they’ll have to be better than good if you expect me to invest my time, expertise, and a great deal of money in you, young lady. Do you think you can manage another dozen pictures by October, Miss Summers?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Sally, giving little thought to the fact that October was only five months away.

  “That’s good, because if you deliver, an
d I only say if, I’ll risk the expense of launching you on an unsuspecting public this autumn.” He walked into his office, flicked through his diary and said, “October the seventeenth, to be precise.”

  Sally was speechless.

  “I don’t suppose you could manage an affair with Prince Charles lasting, say, from the end of September to the beginning of November? That would knock the Russian countess from the Mile End Road off the front pages and guarantee us a full house on opening night.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Sally, “especially if you expect me to produce another dozen canvases by then.”

  “Pity,” said Simon, “because if we can attract the punters to the opening, I’m confident they’ll want to buy your work. The problem is always getting them to come for an unknown.” He suddenly looked over Sally’s shoulder and said, “Hello, Tony. I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

  “Perhaps that’s because you’re not seeing me,” Tony replied. “I’ve just come to whisk Sally off to what I was rather hoping might be a celebratory lunch.”

  “The Summers Exhibition,” Simon said, grinning at his little play on words, “will open not in June at the Royal Academy, but in October at the Bouchier Gallery. October the seventeenth is to be Sally’s day of reckoning.”

  “Congratulations,” said Tony, turning to Sally. “I’ll bring all my friends.”

  “I’m only interested in the rich ones,” said Simon, as someone else entered the gallery.

  “Natasha,” said Simon, turning to, face a slim, dark-haired woman. Sally’s first reaction was that she should have been an artists’ model, not an artist.

  “Thanks for coming back so quickly, Natasha. Have a nice, you two,” he added, smiling at Tony, who couldn’t take his eyes off the new arrival.

  Natasha didn’t notice, as her only interest seemed to be in Sally’s pictures. She was unable to conceal her envy as Tony and Sally walked out of the gallery.

  “Wasn’t she stunning?” said Sally.

  “Was she?” said Tony. “I didn’t notice.”

  “is wouldn’t blame Prince Andrew if he were having an affair with her.”

  “Damn,” said Tony placing a hand in his inside pocket. “I forgot to give Simon a check I promised him. Don’t move, I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Tony sprinted off in the direction of the gallery, and Sally waited on the corner for what seemed like an awfully long minute before he reappeared back on the street.

  “Sorry. Simon was on the phone,” Tony explained. He took Sally’s arm and led her across the street to a small Italian restaurant, where once again he seemed to have his own table.

  He ordered a bottle of champagne, “to celebrate your great triumph.” As Sally raised her glass in response, she realized for the first time just how much work she would have to do before October if she was going to keep her promise to Simon.

  When Tony poured her a second glass, Sally smiled. “It’s been a memorable day. I ought to phone my parents and let them know, but I don’t think they’d believe me.”

  When a third glass had been filled and Sally still hadn’t finished her salad, Tony took her hand, leaned across, and kissed it. “I’ve never met anyone as beautiful as you,” he said. “And certainly no one as talented.”

  Sally quickly took a gulp of the champagne, to hide her embarrassment. She still wasn’t sure whether to believe him, but a glass of white wine, followed by two glasses of red, helped to convince her that she should.

  After Tony had signed the bill, he asked her again if she would like to come back to his place for coffee. Sally had already decided that she wasn’t going to be able to do any work that day, so she nodded her agreement. In any case, she felt she had earned an afternoon off.

  In the taxi on the way to Chelsea, she rested her head on Tony’s shoulder, and he began to kiss her gently.

  When they arrived at his town house in Bywater Street, he helped her out of the taxi, up the steps, and through the front door. He led her along a dimly lit corridor and into the living room. She curled up in a corner of the sofa, as Tony disappeared into another room. Most of the furniture, and the pictures that covered every inch of the walls, were a blur to her. Tony returned a moment later, carrying another bottle of champagne and two glasses. Sally didn’t notice that he was no longer wearing his jacket, tie, or shoes.

  He poured her a drink, which she sipped as he sat down next to her on the sofa. His arm slipped around her shoulders, and he drew her close to him. When he kissed her again, she felt a little silly dangling an empty glass in midair. He took it from her and placed it on a side table, then held her in his arms, and began to kiss her more passionately. As she fell back, his hand slipped onto the inside of her thigh, and began moving slowly up her leg.

  Every time Sally was about to stop him going any further, Tony seemed to know exactly what to do next. She had always felt in control in the past whenever an overenthusiastic art student had started to go a little too far in the back row of a cinema, but she had never experienced anyone as subtle as Tony. When her dress fell off her shoulders, she hadn’t even noticed that he had undone the twelve little buttons down the back.

  They broke apart for a second. Sally felt she ought to make a move to go, before it was too late. Tony smiled, and undid the buttons of his own shirt before taking her back in his arms. She felt the warmth of his chest, and he was so gentle that she did not complain when she realized that the clasp of her bra had come loose. She sank back, enjoying every second, knowing that until that moment she had never experienced what it was like to be properly seduced.

  Tony finally lay back and said, “Yes, it has been a memorable day. But I don’t think I’ll phone my parents to let them know.” He laughed, and Sally felt slightly ashamed. Tony was only the fourth man who had made love to her, and she had known the other three for months beforehand—in one case, years.

  For the next hour they talked about many things, but all Sally really wanted to know was how Tony felt about her. He gave her no clue.

  Then, once again, he took her in his arms, but this time he pulled her onto the floor and made love to her with such passion that afterward Sally wondered if she had ever made love before.

  She was just in time to catch the last train home, but she couldn’t help wishing she had missed it.

  Over the next few months Sally devoted herself to getting her latest ideas onto canvas. When each new painting was finished, she would take it up to London for Simon to comment on. The smile on his face became broader and broader with each new picture he saw, and the word he kept repeating now was “original.” Sally would tell him about her ideas for the next one, and he would bring her up to date with his plans for the opening in October.

  Tony would often meet her for lunch, and afterward they would go back to his house, where they would make love until it was time for her to catch the last train home.

  Sally often wished she could spend more time with Tony. But she was always conscious of the deadline set by Simon, who warned her that the printers were already proofreading the catalog, and that the invitations for the opening were waiting to be sent out. Tony seemed almost as busy as she was, and lately he hadn’t always been able to fit in with her expeditions to London. Sally had taken to staying overnight and catching an early train home the following morning. Tony occasionally hinted that she might consider moving in with him. When she thought about it—and she often did—she reflected that his attic could easily be converted into a studio. But she decided that before such a move could even be contemplated, the exhibition had to be a success. Then, if the hint became an offer, she would have her answer ready.

  Just two days before the exhibition was due to open, Sally completed her final canvas and handed it over to Simon. As she pulled it out of the canvas folder he threw his arms in the air, and shouted, “Hallelujah! It’s your best yet. As long as we’re sensible about our prices, I think that, with a touch of luck, we should sell at least half of your pictures befor
e the exhibition closes.”

  “Only half?” said Sally, unable to hide her disappointment.

  “That wouldn’t be at all bad for your first attempt, young lady,” said Simon. “I only sold one Leslie Anne Ivory at her first exhibition, and now she sells everything in the first week.”

  Sally still looked crestfallen, and Simon realized he had perhaps been a little tactless.

  “Don’t worry. Any unsold ones will be put into stock, and they’ll be snapped up the moment you start getting good reviews.”

  Sally continued to pout.

  “How do you feel about the frames and mounts?” Simon asked, trying to change the subject.

  Sally studied the deep golden frames and light gray mounts. The smile returned to her face.

  “They’re good, aren’t they?” said Simon. “They bring out the color in the canvases wonderfully.”

  Sally nodded her agreement, but was now beginning to worry about how much they must have cost, and whether she would ever be given a second exhibition if the first one wasn’t a success.

  “By the way,” Simon said, “I have a friend at the P.A. called Mike Sallis who—”

  “P.A.?” said Sally.

  “Press Association. Mike’s a photographer—always on the lookout for a good story. He says he’ll come around and take a picture of you standing next to one of the pictures. Then he’ll hawk the photo around Fleet Street, and we’ll just have to cross our fingers and pray that Natasha has taken the day off. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but someone just might bite. Our only line at present is that it’s your first exhibition since leaving the Slade. Hardly a front-page splash.” Simon paused, as once again Sally looked discouraged. “It’s not too late for you to have a fling with Prince Charles, you know. That would solve all our problems.”