Playing the Game. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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 into 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 carer 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 as Laurie headed 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. Malcolm was a lovely man, and part of the business ‘family’, in a certain sense. 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 of 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 why. They did not need someone delving into their past. Their past spelled trouble for them.

      Laurie closed her eyes, focusing on her sister. She had been everything to her. Mother, father, protector, saviour, guardian angel. And also chief carer 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 goose flesh speckled 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 Aunt Sylvia’s voice. She 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 jewellery 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.

      They had never gone back to their grandfather’s house in Ilkley, nor did they ever see that ineffectual man again. He died alone in that silent house of gloom.

      Laurie sat bolt upright in her wheelchair, recalling Knowle Court and their trip there last Saturday. She had taken a dislike to the place at once, and now she knew why. It reminded her of Craggs End, where their grandparents had lived all of their married life, where their mother had dumped them after their father’s death.

      Architecturally, they were totally different – Craggs End was much smaller, not like a castle at all. Yet curiously the atmosphere in both places was the same. An icy coldness and a sense of evil pervaded them.

      Dragging her thoughts away from that dark and silent house in the north of England, she focused on the paintings of Manet, one of the founders of the Impressionist Movement. And she was able to lose herself in his genius, the enormous beauty of his art.

       EIGHT

      It had been worth waiting for, this astonished look on Marius’s face, which instantly changed to total disbelief and then unadulterated pleasure. He stood staring down at The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer, and it was quite obvious to Annette that he had been taken by surprise … by the statue … by her. The latter was something of a novelty in itself, since he could usually second-guess her.

      When he finally looked up, stared at her, a silver brow lifting, and asked, ‘Where on earth did this little beauty spring from?', she simply smiled enigmatically.

      Walking over to stand opposite him, the glass coffee table and the Degas bronze between them, she said, ‘I’ll give you three guesses.’

      He seemed puzzled, pondered for a moment, then responded in a doubtful tone, ‘It couldn’t possibly have come from Sir Alec Delaware’s art collection, could it?’

      ‘Aren’t you the clever one! However did you guess, darling?’

      ‘Because I usually have my nose to the ground, sniffing out art, as you well know, and there have been no strange whispers about a Degas dancer on the float. And since you represent Christopher Delaware, I simply made a quick assumption. But why didn’t you know about it before?’

      ‘Even he didn’t know he had it, because it wasn’t on view in the house. However, he’d begun to poke around in boxes stacked in the attics several weeks ago, and came up with this, and thought it was nothing of importance. Actually, he didn’t tell me about it until last Saturday, when we went to Knowle Court for lunch. And even then he was awfully dismissive. He didn’t think it was worth anything, because it was old and dirty … that was the way he put it.’

      ‘Silly bugger, but, as my mother used to say, it takes all sorts to make a world.’ Marius strode around the table, stopped next to Annette, took hold of her and hugged her to him. Then, a split-second later, he held her away, as he so often did, his dark