Twelve Red Herrings (29 page)

“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 lunch, you two,” he added, smiling
at Tony, who couldn’t take his eyes off
th
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.”

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

“Damn,” said
Tony placing a hand in his inside pocket. “I forgot to give Simon a cheque 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
road 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 realised 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 drawing 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
round her shoulder and he drew her close to him. When he kissed her again, she
felt a little silly dangling an empty glass in mid-air. 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 over-enthusiastic 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 away
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 realised 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 afterwards 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 afterwards 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
proof-reading the catalogue, 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 before 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 realised 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-grey mounts.

The smile returned
to her face.

“They’re good,
aren’t they?” said Simon. “They bring out the colour 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 Sailis who...”

“P.A
. ?
” said Sally.

“Press
Association.
Mike’s a photographer – always on the lookout for a good story. He says he’ll
come round 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.” Sally
smiled. “I don’t think Tony would like that.” Simon decided against making
another tactless remark.

Sally spent that
evening with Tony at his home in Chelsea.

He seemed a
little distracted, but she blamed herself – she was unable to hide her
disappointment at Simon’s estimate of how few of her pictures might be sold.
After they had made love, Sally tried to raise the topic of what would happen
to them once the exhibition was over, but Tony deftly changed the subject back
to how much he was looking forward to the opening.

That night Sally
went home on the last train from Charing Cross.

The following
morning she woke up with a terrible feeling of anti-climax. Her room was bereft
of canvases, and all she could do now was
wait
. Her
mood wasn’t helped by the fact that Tony had told her he would be out of London
on business until the day of her opening. She lay in the bath thinking about
him.

“But I’ll be
your first customer on the night,” he had promised.

“Don’t forget, I
still want to buy “The Sleeping Cat that Never
Moved
”.”
The phone was ringing, but someone answered it before Sally could get out of
the bath.

“It’s for you,”
shouted her mother from the bottom of the stairs.

Sally wrapped a
towel around her and grabbed the phone, hoping it would be Tony.

“Hi, Sally, it’s
Simon. I’ve got some good news. Mike Sailis has just called from the P.A. He’s
coming round to the gallery at midday tomorrow. All the pictures should be
framed by then, and he’ll be the first person from the press to see them. They
all want to be first.

I’m trying to
think up some wheeze to convince him that it’s an exclusive. By the way, the
catalogues have arrived, and they look fantastic.” Sally thanked him, and was
about to ring Tony to suggest that she stay overnight with him, so that they
could go to the gallery together the following day, when she remembered that he
was out of town. She spent the day pacing anxiously around the house,
occasionally talking to her most compliant model, the sleeping cat that never
moved.

The following
morning Sally caught an early commuter train from Sevenoaks, so she could spend
a little time checking the pictures against their catalogue entries. When she walked
into the gallery, her eyes lit up: half a dozen of the paintings had already
been hung, and she actually felt, for the first time, that they really weren’t
bad.

She glanced in
the direction of the office, and saw that Simon was occupied on the phone. He
smiled and waved to indicate that he would be with her in a moment.

She had another
look at the pictures, and then spotted a copy of the catalogue lying on the
table.

The cover read
“The Summers Exhibition’, above a picture of an interior looking from her
parents’ drawing room through an open window and out onto a garden overgrown
with weeds. A black cat lay asleep on the windowsill, ignoring the rain.

Sally opened the
catalogue and read the introduction on the first page.

Sometimes judges
feel it necessary to say: It’s been hard to pick this year’s winner. But from
the moment one set eyes on Sally Summers’ work, the task was made easy. Real
talent is obvious for all to see, and Sally has achieved the rare feat of
winning both the Slade’s major prizes, for oils and for drawing, in the same
year. I much look forward to watching her career develop over the coming years.