Playing the Game. Barbara Taylor Bradford

the sun in Barcelona, had acquired a deeper tan that showed up well against his silver hair. Also, he appeared to be slimmer. ‘Have you lost weight? You’re extremely trim,’ she announced in an approving tone.

      ‘A little bit, and you would’ve too, if you’d been scampering around the Picasso Museum, up and down stairs and through large exhibition halls.’ He released his grip on her shoulders and confided, ‘But I’m pleased I went, because it refreshed my memory about Picasso’s earlier works now lodged there permanently. I’ll tell you something else. I thought it was rather useful to meander through the city where he lived for so many years, and where his family remained after he went to Paris. I got a good sense of the place. It was truly a good trip, and totally necessary for the book.’

      ‘So it’s full speed ahead now, right?’

      Marius nodded, his eyes still on her, his expression warm. ‘So, continue with your tale about Christopher’s find.’

      ‘You know everything. There’s not much else to tell. Except that I did ask for the provenance, which he didn’t have. Fortunately we found it in the cardboard box where the bronze had been stored.’

      ‘Good to have, obviously, but there wouldn’t be much doubt about its authenticity. This is too famous as a piece of sculpture. I’m assuming Laurie has examined it?’

      ‘She did, and she says it’s the genuine thing.’

      ‘So you’re going to put it on auction fairly soon, are you?’ he asked, his curiosity aroused.

      Annette nodded, walked over to the drinks table, poured two glasses of champagne from the bottle she had opened a few moments ago. She carried them over, handed him one.

      Marius said, touching his glass to hers, ‘Congratulations, my darling. Here’s to you.’

      She smiled at him lovingly. ‘And to you, Marius – you who taught me everything I know.’

      He laughed a little dismissively. ‘Well, not quite, let’s say almost everything.’ As he spoke he sat down on the sofa, and focused on the sculpture again. ‘What an amazing life this little dancer has had … let’s hope you can sell her to a collector who will keep her and keep her safe.’ There was a pause, then he asked, ‘When do you plan to hold the auction?’

      ‘I’ll tell you over dinner, Marius,’ Annette answered, and continued rather swiftly, ‘I’ve booked a table at Mark’s Club, because it’s quiet and we can talk. I know you prefer more jazzy places, but I’ve lots to tell you.’

      ‘I like Mark’s well enough, and it’s a good choice for this evening. By the way, I saw the folder of requests for interviews with you on my desk in the den. You’ve caused quite a sensation, haven’t you?’ He grinned at her, his delight in her sudden fame apparent, and shook his head. ‘Over one hundred and fifty requests. Talk about the new movie star in town …’ He chuckled.

      ‘I suppose some people would find it flattering. However, I don’t. It worries me. Even agreeing to do a few of them would take up too much of my valuable time. I’m very busy at the moment. And anyway, you know I don’t like talking about myself. I’m rather a boring person.’

      ‘Come, come, Annette, don’t be so modest!’ he exclaimed, eyeing her oddly. ‘You’re not boring … you’re a talented woman – gifted, in fact, and you can hold your own with anyone in business and socially, and in any conversation.’

      ‘As long as it’s about art,’ she countered quietly.

      ‘No, no, that’s not true. You can talk about a lot of things. Books, the theatre, music and politics, so don’t be so silly, and don’t put yourself down. There are too many people ready, willing and able to do that.’

      ‘I don’t want to talk about myself to the press, Marius, honestly I don’t; it frightens me.’

      Leaning closer to her, fixing those mesmeric eyes of his on her, he said authoritatively, ‘There is no reason for you to be afraid. The past is the past, Annette, and nobody’s going to bring that up, or start digging. Who you are today, what you’ve become is all that matters.’

      She stared into his face, trusting his judgement as she had for as long as she’d known him, yet thinking about the phone call someone had made to Malcolm Stevens about Hilda Crump. Marius didn’t know about that phone call, or the mention of Hilda’s name after all this time. Should she tell him? No, it didn’t matter. It didn’t. She had to believe that.

      Slowly, she said, ‘I think it would be better if I turned everyone down. There was a lot of publicity when I sold the Rembrandt. So why does another interview matter now?’

      ‘Another doesn’t. However, a really important interview in a major national newspaper does. The Rembrandt auction wasn’t your last, in fact, you’ve got another one coming up, which has now become even more newsworthy because of the discovery of The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer. Let’s put it this way, darling, you’re doing the selling, not the buying. You’re always going to need a big splashy feature about yourself – every renowned art dealer does, whatever you think. I’ll tell you what, as I promised we’ll go over the requests tomorrow morning, and I’ll select a few journalists with you. I will then ask around about the ones we choose, get the dope on them. How’s that?’

      ‘All right,’ she agreed; nonetheless she sounded reluctant.

      Changing the subject, Marius said, ‘You told me you’d had the Cézanne sent to Carlton Fraser. What did he have to say?’

      ‘It’s not great news. Carlton is troubled about it. He’s not sure he can get the soot off parts of the canvas.’ She paused, and sounded genuinely worried when she murmured, ‘He said something really peculiar—’ She cut herself off, shook her head, her expression dismayed all of a sudden.

      ‘What did he say?’ Marius asked. ‘Come on, tell me, Annette.’

      ‘That a fall of soot from a chimney would definitely float in the air and could easily fall on to a painting hanging in the room. Then he muttered something about deliberate damage; that it looked to him as if someone had deliberately rubbed the soot into some areas of the painting.’

      ‘Good God! Who on earth would do such a horrendous thing? It’s verging on the criminal! To destroy a painting by the great Cézanne, or any other artist for that matter, is wicked.’ Marius sounded angry, and there was a look of genuine pain in his eyes. He sat rigid on the sofa, staring at her.

      Annette recognized his fury at once. He could not bear to see anything of great beauty desecrated, and neither could she. Wanting to soothe him, she said, ‘I’m not sure Carlton is right about the deliberate damage part. I myself thought that someone had attempted to clean one side of it, not an expert but an amateur, and that they made a mess. Accidentally.’

      Marius sat back on the sofa and closed his eyes. After a moment he snapped them open, and exclaimed, ‘Whoever did that is an idiot. And that person should be stood up against a wall and shot!’

       NINE

      Mark’s Club on Charles Street in Mayfair was quiet tonight, but then it usually was on Friday, since many of its members had already gone off to their country homes for the weekend. Although his preference was for jazzier places to dine, Marius was suddenly glad Annette had booked a table for them here. He’d had a hectic week in Barcelona and Mark’s was always a haven of calm tranquillity.

      They climbed the stairs to the bar, which years ago Mark Birley, the founder of the club, had decorated in the manner of an English country house parlour. A fire blazed in the hearth and, since the room was only partially occupied with fellow diners, they had a choice of comfortable chairs and sofas on which to sit.

      ‘I’m always a sucker for a fire, as you well know,’ Marius remarked as they