Playing the Game

Now another voice, lilting and sweet, came floating on the air. ‘I am Josephine, Empress of France. Come and dance. My husband’s name is Bonaparte, and he’s definitely stolen my heart. He’s a general, strong and bold, and we’re a legend, so I’m told. I have a crown, it shines very bright, and I wear it every night. I’m married to Napoleon. He’s my man so come to see us as fast as you can. And we’ll dance the whole night through, until the dawn breaks softly blue. My name is Josephine, an empress new and true. Come and dance and dance and dance, with an empress of La belle France.’

There was the sound of feet running up the stairs and a loving voice calling, ‘Girls, girls, come on, let’s go out to play, let’s have some fun.’ And she was there then, the tall, sweet cousin they loved with devotion, who looked after them, protected them. They ran to her and they left together, racing outside into the golden sunlight of this summer day.

They ran through meadows filled with wild flowers, the tall grass undulating under the light breeze blowing down from the hills. Their long hair flew out behind them and their summer frocks billowed around their legs. It was a clear bright afternoon and they ran together holding hands and laughing … golden girls on a golden day …

The memory stopped as abruptly as it had started. Annette sat up, got out of bed and went into the bathroom. Turning on the light, she saw that her face was damp with tears, and she was filled with a terrible longing, a yearning really, for that tall, willowy girl who had loved them so much, and whom they had loved in return. Will the yearning for her never go away? she wondered, and then she splashed her face with cold water, patted it dry. A few minutes later, back in bed, her thoughts were jumbled, sorrowful; as she struggled to sort them out, she fell into a deep sleep that was dreamless.

Although Marius had phoned twice over the weekend, Annette had not told him about the extraordinary find at Knowle Court. It had proved difficult for her to hold back, not to share with him her delight about the discovery of the bronze, but her desire to surprise him had won out in the end. She wanted to witness the expression on his face when he saw the famous Degas sculpture standing on the glass coffee table in the sitting room of their flat in Eaton Square.

As she sat at her desk in her Bond Street office on Monday morning, she began to make plans for her next big auction, which she fully intended to hold in New York. She was setting her sights high, but that was the way she was.

Because of her extensive knowledge of art, she knew that the Cézanne could not be cleaned as quickly as she would like. She also knew the job had to be done by a great restorer. And the only really great one was Carlton Fraser. He had been abroad and not available to clean the Rembrandt for her, but hopefully he would be able to take on the job of restoring the Cézanne.

Having always been a pragmatist, quick to make decisions, and expedient by nature, Annette was not one to waste time now. She picked up the phone and dialled Carlton Fraser’s studio in Hampstead.

His phone rang and rang, and the voicemail did not come on. Growing impatient, she was about to hang up when he finally answered with a faint, ‘Hello?', sounding far away.

‘Carlton, it’s Annette Remmington. How are you?’

‘Hello, darling!’ he exclaimed, his voice instantly stronger, convivial. ‘Lovely to hear you. And I’m grand. So sorry to have missed your gorgeous big bash. I hear it was spectacular, and look, I couldn’t come because I was in Rome. But you knew that.’

‘Doing some work for the Vatican, I suspect.’ He chuckled. ‘No flies on you, are there, my dear? And yes, I am.’

‘Congratulations. Listen, Carlton, I have a job for you, a painting to clean and restore, and I do hope you’re free to do it, at least to start it. You see, in my opinion, you’re the only one who can bring it back to life.’

‘Thank you for the compliment. I can only say I do the best I can, and I am free. The new Vatican job is planned for the autumn; I’ll be in Rome for a month. Cleaning some ancient frescoes. So, what’s the painting you want me to work on?’

‘It’s a Cézanne, and I’m fairly certain it was covered in soot which fell from a chimney, and also that somebody did attempt to clean it, or, let’s say, dust it.’

‘Good God, no!’ He let out a long groan, and cursed.

‘I’m afraid so,’ Annette responded quietly, alarmed by the intensity of the groan, his expletives. He had just underscored the feeling she had had about the painting right from the beginning. It was a mess, and it would need meticulous work.

There was a silence, and then Carlton muttered, ‘It could take me months. Soot’s the worst.’

‘I know. But can you take it on? Now? Or are you fulfilling other commitments?’

‘I’m working on an Old Master for a client, but I’ve just about finished it. I can start on yours this weekend, if that’s all right.’

‘It’s not all right, it’s fantastic! What a relief. I wouldn’t trust anyone but you with this job. I’ll have the owner deliver it to you tomorrow, if you can accept it then?’

‘I can, but in any case, Marguerite is always here. And who’s the owner?’

‘Christopher Delaware, my Rembrandt client. His uncle left him quite a collection, some really good paintings and a couple of fantastic sculptures. A Giacometti and a Degas. A bronze. A little dancer.’

‘Lucky blighter! And if I remember correctly from the massive publicity you so shrewdly engineered, his uncle was Sir Alec Delaware.’

‘Yes, that’s right. Did you know him?’

‘No, but I vaguely remember he was engaged to a painter I had been slightly acquainted with, very many years ago. I knew her in her student days, when she was still at the Royal College of Art … wait a minute … now what was her name? Oh, yes, I recall it now. It was Clarissa Normandy. I think there was something rather strange about that engagement, though. Or was it the marriage?’

‘Not the latter.’ Annette cleared her throat and plunged in. ‘She killed herself. I think it was only a few days before the wedding. Actually she was wearing her wedding dress. Just imagine that. It was something quite awful, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Oh, God, yes! I heard about it on the grapevine. But actually, Annette, there was a weird aspect to their relationship, a scandal of some kind. Unfortunately, it just slips my mind right now. Not unusual. Getting old, I suppose.’

‘The only thing I found out the other day was about the suicide,’ Annette remarked. ‘I don’t know anything else.’

‘Mmmm. However, there was another element. Something not quite right or, as my darling wife would say, not quite kosher. I think it was about stolen paintings … paintings going missing. And I do believe it was Marguerite who told me that at the time. Clarissa’s not quite kosher, she said to me. And there was the suggestion of some impending scandal.’

Always quick on the draw, Annette exclaimed, ‘Are you suggesting that by killing herself, Clarissa Normandy averted a scandal?’

‘I think “avoided” might be a better word.’

‘I see. Well, I didn’t know her, nor does any of that matter now. But I admit I am riddled with curiosity and I’d love to know more, just out of interest, if Marguerite can shed any light on it.’

‘So would I.’ There was a pause, before he added, ‘As I recall, Clarissa was controversial, and prone to drag trouble in her wake.’

Annette sat at her desk for a few minutes, after hanging up the phone. She was thinking about Clarissa Normandy. She had heard about her some years ago … about her being a painter of promise, one of those young artists everyone predicted would become famous but never did. Nothing much had happened to Clarissa’s career, and she had fallen by the wayside eventually. And yet now, after the conversation with Carlton, she, too, recalled gossip about a scandal. What kind of scandal it was she couldn’t remember. A flicker of a thought hovered at the back of her mind and was instantly gone. And she realized that the discussion had made her forget to invite Carlton to come over to see the dancer.

Sighing under her breath, and moving on in her head, Annette walked over to the cardboard blow-up of the Rembrandt, lifted it down.

Tonight she would take a picture of the Degas bronze, have a blow-up made, and within days her new piece of art would be propped up against the far wall.

A big, brilliant campaign, she said under her breath, and her eyes sparkled. She was about to start promoting The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer, and within days the whole world would know about the Degas sculpture again.

She glanced at her watch. It was only ten o’clock; too early to call her New York office, but she would be in touch with them later this morning, would share her thoughts with them about the impending auction.

Bigger and better. I must make it bigger and better. And there was no doubt in her mind that she would succeed. She sat staring into space, her mind racing, and after a while she began to make notes, jotting down the ideas that had begun to flow so freely. The thought of the auction, of holding it in New York, excited her, made the adrenaline rush through her. Quite aside from the Degas bronze, and the Degas horse painting, there was the Giacometti, and the Mary Cassatt painting of a mother and child. It was beautiful, but she had known from the start that Christopher would surely put this up for auction. It did not appeal to him, nor did he understand about Mary Cassatt and what an important Impressionist painter she had been, one of the original group working in Paris in the 1800s, a close friend of Degas, as well as his colleague, rival and benefactor.

After an hour, Annette stood up, walked across her office, stretching. Her eyes fell on the blow-up of the Rembrandt, and she went over to it, picked it up, carried it to the back of her office, and put it in the large cupboard where she kept such things. Closing the door, she turned around, her eyes sweeping over the room, liking what she saw: a huge space with two large windows, cream walls, a dark blue carpet and a paucity of furniture. The only pieces were her desk, an antique French bureau plat, resembling a large table with drawers, two chairs, one on each side of it, and the credenza along the end wall facing the desk.

She smiled to herself as she sat down at the desk, thinking of the clients who took one look around when they first came here, and asked where the art was. Her answer was always the same, ‘I’m waiting for it,’ she would say. ‘The art you are going to sell. Or buy.’

There was a knock on the door, and her assistant, Esther Oliver, came in, carrying a folder. ‘You asked for this the other day, Annette,’ she said, handing it to her. ‘Requests for interviews from every newspaper and magazine you can think of.’ She grinned at Annette as she took the chair on the other side of the desk. ‘You’ll be busy for months if you decide to do them all.’

‘Marius said he would go through them with me when he gets back from Barcelona later this week. I think he intends to pick out only a couple. We know I can’t do them all.’

‘There are quite a few top-notch journalists asking to meet you,’ Esther pointed out.

‘Marius will make the decision,’ Annette murmured.

Doesn’t he always?, Esther thought, but said, ‘In the meantime, you haven’t forgotten your appointment at noon with Mrs Clarke-Collingwood, have you? About her two Landseers.’

‘Oh, bother, I had.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘But I’m all right, she won’t be here for half an hour.’ Shaking her head, Annette explained, ‘I just got carried away with thoughts of the new auction I’m planning.’

‘It’s going to be exciting. You can certainly generate a great deal of publicity in the next few months. Where will you hold it? Sotheby’s or Christie’s?’

‘Sotheby’s. In New York.’ Esther stared at her, for a moment lost for words. ‘Fantastic,’ she responded finally, and wondered what the controlling Marius Remmington would have to say about that.

SEVEN

The Degas bronze was standing exactly where she had left it that morning … in the middle of the glass coffee table in the living room of their Eaton Square flat. Annette stood gazing at it, admiring it, almost gloating over it before she went to the storage room and got out two spotlights and various cameras.

Carrying the equipment back to the other room, she quickly set up, and was soon shooting the statue from various angles. She was an excellent photographer, especially when it came to inanimate objects, and after two hours she was satisfied she had a series of great photographs. Among them would be the one that would make a perfect blow-up.

Leaving everything where it was, in case she decided to take a series of pictures the following morning in daylight, Annette went into the kitchen. She found a note from Elaine telling her there was a cottage pie in the fridge that only needed heating up. Not feeling hungry, she poured herself a glass of sparkling water, and carried it to her small office at the back of the apartment, sat down on the sofa and dialled her sister.

‘It’s me, darling,’ she said when the phone was picked up.

‘Hi!’ Laurie exclaimed. ‘How did it go today?’

‘Really very well,’ Annette answered, and went on to explain, ‘I had several conversations with my New York office, and Penelope and Bryan were instantly geared up. Within minutes.’

‘I can well imagine. It’s your enthusiasm. It ignites everyone else’s.’

Annette laughed. ‘I hope so. Anyway, they’re one thousand per cent behind me and my plan to hold the auction in New York. They were bubbling over with ideas, quickly pulled up lists of their clients who would be potential buyers, were suggesting various dates, and even focusing on the design of the invitation.’

‘When do they want you to have the auction?’

‘September. After Labor Day weekend, obviously, and we finally did settle on a tentative date in the middle of the month. Tuesday the eighteenth of September. Or the next day, Wednesday, but not any later that week. I think I will settle on the Tuesday, since they seemed to think this was best. But they will have to check that out with Sotheby’s, to be certain that the date is still available.’

‘What thoughts did they have about the invitation?’ Laurie now asked, very curious, because she herself had been working on ideas for the invitation and a theme for the auction all day.

‘To be honest, they didn’t actually have anything special, or specific. I was a bit startled that they would even try to come up with something. They only just heard about the new art to be auctioned. Still, I didn’t want to discourage them.’

‘I have several thoughts,’ Laurie volunteered, ‘but only one idea works.’

‘And what’s that?’ Annette asked eagerly, knowing full well that her sister was immersed in Degas, and had a superior knowledge of Mary Cassatt’s work and her life in Paris. If anyone could come up with a theme for these two artists, it was Laurie. ‘So come on, tell me. You’re not saying anything.’

‘I went back to my research on Degas, just to refresh my memory, and I re-checked Cassatt again. As you know, they were great friends but not romantically involved. They fought. He was a difficult man, had a bad habit of slapping people down, mostly artists like himself. She stood up to him, stood her ground. She’d learned to do that with her difficult father – good practice, I suppose. Also, she was extremely independent. Anyway, to get to the point, you have two pieces of art by Degas, the great painting of the horses and carriage at the races, and the bronze dancer. But only one Cassatt. I wish you had another. Then we could build a theme on Degas and Cassatt – friends, rivals and admirers of each other’s work. Or master and pupil, since Cassatt learned so much from him.’

‘It had occurred to me that we could link them, but you’re correct, we do need another Cassatt. Incidentally where does that leave the Giacometti? He was a Modernist, and the sculpture we have was executed in the 1960s.’

‘I realize you wouldn’t want to keep that back for another auction at another time, but it might be the wisest thing to do.’

‘Oh,’ Annette said, and fell silent, thinking.

Laurie waited for a moment before asking, ‘Are you there, Annette? I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?’

‘Yes, you have, and in a way it’s not exactly my decision, is it? There’s Christopher Delaware to consider.’

‘That’s true,’ her sister agreed. ‘But he will take your advice. I mean, after all, that’s what you’re there for. To advise him.’ When Annette did not answer, Laurie decided to press on, and said in a quiet tone, ‘Listen, whatever you think, he does have a crush on you, and he’ll want to please you. God knows he doesn’t need money any more. He doesn’t have to sell the Giacometti now, not after the twenty million quid you got him with the sale of the Rembrandt.’

‘Yes, you’re right on all points.’

‘So you do know he has a crush on you?’

Annette sighed. ‘It’s not such a big crush, and I have been very cool with him, not risen to the bait, or even addressed it. I’ve ignored it, and actually I think the crush is beginning to subside, if that’s the right word to use. I know how to be indifferent, show a total lack of interest without hurting feelings.’ ‘I know that. But does Marius?’

‘Laurie, don’t be so silly!’ Annette was both startled and shocked by this comment, and added in a firm voice, ‘Marius was only teasing me the other day – surely you of all people know that? Perhaps Christopher had ogled me a little at the party, but he’s very young, and I’m absolutely sure he’s getting the message.’

‘If you say so,’ Laurie murmured, and continued swiftly, ‘Why don’t you pick another Impressionist painting from his collection? I did notice a Morisot. Perhaps Christopher would agree to sell that.’

‘But Berthe Morisot was influenced by Manet, and later Renoir, not Degas.’

‘I know, but don’t forget she and Mary Cassatt were friends, used to paint together. And here’s another point: they were the two most important women to be involved in the Impressionist movement in the 1800s.’

‘My God, you’re right! How could I have forgotten that?’ Annette’s mind began to race, as she went on, ‘That would do it, don’t you think? If we could link the three of them, rather than Degas and Cassatt only. I shall phone him tomorrow.’

‘I know he’ll agree.’ Laurie sounded confident. She was, because James Pollard had let something slip, inadvertently, on Saturday at Knowle Court. Christopher Delaware did not intend to keep any of the art that had been left to him by his uncle. For a very simple reason. He wasn’t interested in art. But he had to go slowly because of taxes. Taking a deep breath, Laurie confided this to Annette, as well as other comments Jim had made to her.

‘Very enlightening,’ Annette responded before they both hung up. Sleep was elusive. Annette would begin to doze off and then something would awaken her with a start. The ticking of the clock, the patter of rain against the window, the rustle of the bedroom curtains as a gust of wind blew in. She had always been a light sleeper and tonight she seemed unable to settle down. Turning on her side, she shut her eyes and endeavoured to visualize the Morisot painting at Knowle Court. It was one of the artist’s earlier works, and not her greatest. On the other hand, Morisot had acquired something of a following in recent years. The painting hanging in the gallery at Knowle Court was of a woman sitting at a mirror doing her hair. Annette had liked it when she first saw it, and now, given the idea Laurie had presented to her, perhaps it would work if shown with the Cassatt. It was worth a try, and so it was worth a call to Christopher, to ask him to put it in the auction. She would phone him tomorrow.

Throwing back the bedclothes, Annette got up, went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of milk, then hurried down the corridor to her small office. Turning on the light, she sat down at her desk, began making notes to herself regarding the auction. Marius had teased her for years, calling her a workaholic, and she was, but she couldn’t help that. It was the way she was made. Her nature. She enjoyed work, was well-organized and adept at what she did, and she had a lot of stamina, could sit at a desk for hours.

After half an hour she put down her pen and sat back in her chair, thinking about her younger sister Laurie, who was now thirty-six.

Because of the horrific car crash, she had never been able to fulfil her desire to become an actress. Or perhaps she had lost the desire and the drive. But encouraged by Marius and herself, she had studied to be an art expert, focusing on certain Impressionist painters, mainly Degas and Cassatt. Laurie had worked for them for a number of years now, as a research assistant, and was brilliant at it. Once Marius had agreed that Annette could start her own business, Annette Remmington Fine Art, she had made Laurie the only other director of her company, and her sole heir, wanting to protect her sister’s future, give her security.

It pleased Annette that Laurie was as interested in art as she was, and that she had a job she loved, and which gave her a life. Also, she was proud of her little sister, who had made a career for herself with courage and determination. I’ll take her to New York, she decided all of a sudden. I’ll take her to the auction. We’ll go by ship: that would be a nice way to travel for a change, a little holiday. When they went to Europe they used a private plane, so flying was easy, but she was not sure Marius would let her charter a plane to take Laurie to the States. Seven and a half hours was a long flight for her sister. Yes, a sea voyage would do her good.

This decision to include Laurie brought a smile, a sudden feeling of happiness, and Annette finally left her desk, went back to bed, knowing she would soon fall asleep. But she did not … the past intruded; another memory slid out from one of its dark hiding places, and she heard them again, those innocent little girls, heard their voices in her head and floating all around her …

‘My name is Marie Antoinette and I am Queen of France. Come and dance.’ Another lilting voice echoed in the air. ‘I am Empress Josephine, favourite of the French, and there’s my husband Napoleon sitting on the bench. Emperor of France. Come and dance …’

Their voices fell away in receding echoes, and the light changed in the cold and silent house where evil lurked in the shadows … and as night came down, the girls lay trembling in their beds, always afraid now that he had come back. The monster, they called him.

‘He’s coming,’ Josephine whispered, her voice trembling. ‘I can hear him outside the room.’

‘Stay quiet, stay still,’ Marie Antoinette whispered back. ‘Slide down, pull the blankets over your head. Don’t make a sound.’

The door opened. He came creeping in, knelt down next to Marie Antoinette’s bed. He slid his hand under the bedclothes, touching her legs, lifting her nightgown, pushing his fingers into her, harder and harder, pushing them higher, hurting her. Pain shot through her. His head came down on her mouth; she tasted stale beer, averted her face and began to shake all over. ‘Please, please don’t do this,’ she begged. But he did not stop, pushed harder. She cried out again in pain. His head came down next to hers on the pillow. He harshly snarled, ‘If you make another sound, I’ll kill her. Understand?’ Terrified, she took a deep breath, pleaded with him: ‘Don’t hurt her. Please don’t hurt her. ‘ He did not answer. His response was to pull off the bedclothes, drop his trousers and climb on top of her. He was more intoxicated than usual and could not do it tonight. He fell against her, breathing hard, his weight heavy on her. She tried to push him off, tried to slither out from under him, found she could not. Suddenly, in a rush, the door was flung open and bright light from the hall flooded the room. Alison was flying in, shouting angrily. Their cousin pulled her drunken brother off Marie Antoinette, dragged him out of the room. He was like a limp rag at first. Unexpectedly he came to life. He jumped up, pushing Alison away, but she grabbed him, struggled with him, fought him. She was tall, strong and sober. Even though she was more terrified than ever, Marie Antoinette peeped around the door again. Her grandfather appeared, hurrying out of his room, shouting at Gregory. He was fighting Alison, beating her. They had moved across the landing, were struggling hard, were too close to the top of the stairs. It happened in a flash. Marie Antoinette brought a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream as they both fell down the stairs. They landed in a heap in the hallway at the bottom. They lay still. Neither moved.