Twelve Red Herrings (28 page)

After a couple
of hours strolling round the many galleries, Sally was confident that she was
already good enough to enter a couple of her pictures for next year’s exhibition.

She stopped to
admire a Craigie Aitchison of Christ on the cross, and checked in her little
blue catalogue to find out the price: ten thousand pounds, more than she could
hope to earn if she were to sell every one of her canvases. Suddenly her concentration
was broken, as a soft Italian voice behind her said, “Hello, Sally.” She swung
round to find Tony Flavelli smiling down at her.

“Mr. Flavelli,”
she said.

“Tony, please.
You like Craigie
Aitchison ?”

“He’s superb,”
Sally replied. “I know his work well – I had the privilege of being taught by
him when I was at the Slade.”

“I can remember,
not so long ago, when you could pick up an Aitchison for two, three hundred
pounds at the most. Perhaps the same thing will happen to you one day. Have you
seen anything else you think I ought to look
at ?”
Sally was flattered to have her advice sought by a serious collector, and said,
“Yes, I think the sculpture of “Books on a Chair” by Julie Major is very
striking. She has talent, and I’m sure she has a future.”

“So do you,’ said
Tony.

“Do you think
so?” asked Sally.

“It’s not
important what I think,” said Tony. “But Simon Bouchier is convinced.”

“Are you teasing
me?” asked Sally.

“No, I’m not, as
you’ll find out for yourself when you see him next Monday. He talked of little
else over lunch yesterday – “The daring brushwork, the unusual use of colour,
the originality of ideas.”

I thought he was
never going to stop. Still, he’s promised I can have “The Sleeping Cat that
Never Moved” once you’ve both settled on a price.” Sally was speechless.

“Good luck,”
Tony said, turning to leave. “Not
that !
think
you need it.” He hesitated for a moment before
swinging back to face her. “By the way, are you going to the Hockney
exhibition?”

“I didn’t even
know there was one,” Sally confessed.

“There’s a
private view this evening.
Six to eight.”
Looking
straight into her eyes he said, “Would you like to join
me ?”
She hesitated, but only for a moment. “That would be nice.” “Good, then why
don’t we meet in the Ritz Palm Court at
6.3o.
” Before
Sally could tell him that she didn’t know where the Ritz was, let alone
its
Palm Court, the tall, elegant man had disappeared into
the crowd.

Sally suddenly
felt gauche and scruffy, but then, she hadn’t dressed that morning with the
Ritz in mind. She looked at her watch – 12.45 – and began to wonder if she had
enough time to return home, change, and be back at the Ritz by 6.30.

She decided that
she didn’t have much choice, as she doubted if they would let her into such a
grand hotel dressed in jeans and a T-shirt of Munch’s “The Scream’. She ran
down the wide staircase, out onto Piccadilly, and all the way to the nearest
tube station.

When she arrived
back home in Sevenoaks – far earlier than her mother had expected – she rushed
into the kitchen and explained that she would be going out again shortly.

“Was the Summer
Exhibition any good?” her mother asked.

“Not bad,” Sally
replied as she ran upstairs. But once she was out of earshot she muttered under
her breath, “Certainly didn’t see a lot that worried me.”

“Will you be in
for supper?” asked her mother, sticking her head out from behind the kitchen
door.

“I don’t think
so,” shouted Sally. She disappeared into her bedroom and began flinging off her
clothes before heading for the bathroom.

She crept back
downstairs an hour later, having tried on and rejected several outfits. She
checked her dress in the hall mirror – a little too short, perhaps, but at
least it showed her legs to best advantage. She could still remember those art
students who during life classes had spent more time staring at her legs than
at the model they were supposed to be drawing. She only hoped Tony would be
similarly captivated.

“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 on to the platform unwilling to
admit to any passer-by 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 in to the kerb.

The door was
immediately opened by a statuesque man dressed in a heavy blue trenchcoat 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: 6.20. 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 recognise 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 doublebreasted suit and an open-neck cream
shirt. He had stopped to chat to 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 Chafing Cross he asked, “When can I see you again?”

“I have an
appointment with Mr. Bouchier at .3o...”

^”...
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 2.3o. 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 x.3o 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 tsar. Frankly, I think the Pearly Queen 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 packed
out, that’s for sure. We wouldn’t sell a picture, of course, but we’d be packed
out.”

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

“Because
the public are 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, and 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.”