Playing the Game Read online

  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 refrigerator 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. She sat down on the sofa and dialed 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 percent behind me and my plan to hold the auction in New York. They were bubbling over with ideas, quickly pulling up lists of their clients who might be potential buyers, 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 this 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, in my opinion.”

  “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 rechecked 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 nineteen-sixties.”

  “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 anymore. 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 who were involved in the Impressionist movement in the eighteen-hundreds.”

  “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 which 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. She began 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 endeavored 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 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 fulfill her desire to become an actress. Or perhaps she 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. She wanted 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 sudden decision to include Laurie brought a smile, a sudden feeling of happiness, and Annette finally left her desk and 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, favorite 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 up on 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.

  A cacophony of sounds. Grandfather shouting. Gregory shouting back. Not a sound from Alison. She went back to Josephine, crept into bed with her, put her arms around her, and held her close . . . protectively, lovingly. The six-year-old girl was sobbing; she endeavored to comfort her, stroking her red-gold hair, holding her close, promising to look after her always. And she did.

  They had been sent away from that dangerous house after that. . . . Those sweet, innocent girls . . . sent to live with their mother, and things got worse. . . .

  The scene was so vivid, so real, Annette wept into her pillow, filled with hurt for those tender little girls. She wept herself to sleep. And the memories of that fateful night of long ago stayed with her for days.

  “And I had this fantastic idea. I’m going to take you to New York with me in September. We’ll sail on the Queen Elizabeth and you’ll be at the auction and we’ll have fun. You would come, wouldn’t you?”

  Laurie could hardly believe it. Annette was inviting her to go with her to New York, where she’d never been, for the auction! Excitement rushed through her. “Of course I’d come. I’d love it, being there with you.”

  “Then it’s a done deal, darling.”

  “Wonderful! I’m thrilled.” There was a moment of hesitation before Laurie said, now haltingly, “But what about Marius? Will it be all right with him?”

  “It really doesn’t have anything to do with him, does it?” Annette answered swiftly, almost sharply. “Anyway, he’ll be pleased, I’m sure. He likes you to participate in things. And, more than likely, he’ll be there himself.”

  “That’s great. I can’t wait until September.” Laurie had a huge smile on her face as she said goodbye to her sister and put the phone down.

  As she sat at her desk in her flat, her happiness knew no bounds. The trip was going to be a fantastic experience, and her head was reeling. Slowly she settled down, peering at her computer, but within minutes her mind was far away from her work; she pushed her wheelchair back, rolled out of the office, across the foyer, and into the kitchen. Angie, her caregiver and live-in companion, was talking to Mrs. Groome, the housekeeper who came every day to clean and cook.

  They both glanced around as she paused in the kitchen doorway, and saw Laurie. Her face was flushed, her expression reflecting her enormous happiness.

  “Annette’s going to take me to New York in September!” she exclaimed. “When she has the next auction.”

  “Isn’t that wonderful!” Angie cried, beaming at her.

  Mrs. Groome looked surprised, but sounded pleased when she interjected, “It’ll be a really special trip, going there with your sister. And isn’t she the one, a proper darling, she is, always thinking about you, caring about you. She’s an angel.”

  “That’s true, and there’s nobody quite like her in this whole world,” Laurie agreed. “But I’d better get back to work, I just wanted you both to hear my exciting news.” The two women smiled at her, and Laurie turned the wheelchair around and went back to her office.

  It took Laurie a few minutes to settle down, to calm herself. Then she finally returned to her desk and her computer, to tackle the last three pages she had to write. She was completing an in-depth study on Manet for Malcolm Stevens, and he was coming to collect it later in the day. In the past six months she had done a great deal of research for him, and they worked well together. She liked Malcolm; he was a lovely man, and part of the business “family,” in a certain sense. Ever since Malcolm had bought the renowned Remmington Gallery, Marius’s great creation, he consulted with Marius, and frequently with Annette. Laurie knew he was one of her sister’s admirers, in a platonic way, and a good friend, forever reminding them all that he watched Annette’s back at all times.

  An unexpected cold shiver trickled through Laurie, and she sat back in her chair, stared blindly out the window in front of her desk. Her thoughts went to the phone call Annette had received from Malcolm, who had told her sister that someone was looking for Hilda Crump, was asking questions about her. This had alarmed Annette and she understood the reason why. They did not need someone delving into their past. Their past spelled trouble for them.

  Laurie closed her eyes, focusing on her siste
r. Annette had been everything to her. Mother, father, protector, savior, guardian angel. And also chief caregiver after the car crash. Her sister had given her a full life through her devotion and unconditional love, and by imbuing in her a sense of security. And finally she had helped her to create a career in the art world, a career she loved.

  Suddenly, a shiver ran through Laurie again, and gooseflesh spreckled the back of her neck. “I want you to have a career in art.” That sentence often replayed itself in her head, the words uttered in the voice of Aunt Sylvia, who had always promised, “And I am going to get it for you.”

  It was Sylvia, their mother’s older sister, who had taken them in at the time of their trouble, after they had left that dark and silent house, left the little town of Ilkley forever. They had been sent to live with their mother, who was residing in London with an actor called Timothy Findas, the two of them holed up in his ramshackle flat in Islington.

  Findas was a failure, not a very good actor, and a drunk and a drug addict; and by this time their mother wasn’t much better. An actor herself, she had led a rackety life after their father died. Their life with their mother and Findas had been one of deprivation, suffering, and pain. He beat their mother and he beat them, especially Annette. There was never any food or love or kindness. And no communication between them and their mother, who was always high on drugs, or out cold. It was Annette who had taken her hand, and her mother’s bit of jewelry hidden under the floorboards in their room, and led her out of that awful flat. Together they had run away, gone to Aunt Sylvia’s home in Twickenham. A good woman, she had taken them in, and with loving kindness. A widow, with some private means, she had been able to support them financially.

  Thank God Annette kept me safe; thank God Aunt Sylvia took us in without a second thought and sent my sister to art school, where she belonged. Laurie swallowed, fighting back the incipient and unexpected tears.