Playing the Game. Barbara Taylor Bradford

wasn’t so, not in his opinion. He truly loved her; he had from the moment he had first seen her.

      His best friend at the time had accused him of cradle-snatching, and he had laughed in his face. He had been thirty-eight, she a mere eighteen, so perhaps there was some truth in that, as he looked back now.

      ‘Marius, darling, what is it?’ Annette asked, touching his hand, staring at him. ‘Are you all right?’

      She had roused him from his memories and, as he turned to her, he pulled himself together. ‘I’m fine. I was lost in my thoughts, that’s all.’ He cleared his throat, took a sip of wine.

      ‘What were you thinking about?’ she probed.

      ‘Something dragged me back into the past, to when I first met you, and I was thinking how beautiful you were.’

      Annette stared at him, her brows puckering and she shook her head. ‘I was such a funny thin little thing,’ she countered. ‘Half starved, half demented, and hardly beautiful.’

      ‘Don’t say that … you were beautiful to me then, and you still are now.’

       TEN

      There is something quite splendid about Marius this morning, Annette decided, as she sat opposite him in the breakfast room, drinking her coffee. Showered, shaved, and with his mane of silver hair brushed back sleekly, he looked the epitome of good health and wellbeing. Dressed in a blue-and-white checked shirt, open at the neck, and grey trousers, he had a youthful look about him, due in no small measure to the tan he had acquired in Spain and his remarkably unlined face. He wears well, she thought; he looks so much younger than he is.

      He was genial and affectionate with her as he ate his toast and marmalade and, between sips of coffee, chatted to her about the book he was writing on Picasso.

      From experience, she knew he was in a good mood because he had won hands down last night. But then he always does win, doesn’t he? Whenever he manipulated her into doing what he wanted, he was like this. Warm and purring. And then, of course, she had assuaged his anxiety about her mood, because she had succumbed to his overtures in bed. As she always did, although sex was not a big part of her life. If she never had sex again, she wouldn’t miss it.

      He had been a passionate yet tender lover since their first sexual encounter when she was eighteen. Nothing had changed: he still was. Marius knew how to arouse a woman, and she had learned long ago to accept his overtures gracefully. He could not tolerate any kind of rejection, in bed or out of it. Also, that addictive charm of his was in place most of the time, and it could be irresistible even to her.

      ‘Whatever’s wrong, darling?’ he asked, interrupting her thoughts, aware she wasn’t paying attention to him.

      ‘Nothing,’ she answered, sitting up straighter, offering him a warm smile. ‘Sorry.’

      ‘You look as if you have the troubles of the world on your shoulders.’ He gave her a penetrating look, and went on in a knowing voice, ‘You’re worrying about the Giacometti sculpture, aren’t you?’

      She wasn’t, but she seized on this immediately, exclaimed, ‘Yes, I am, actually. I just don’t know whether to put it in the next auction or wait for my third. I’m not sure that it quite fits into the theme Laurie and I developed … you know, the three Impressionist painters being the link.’

      ‘I wonder if that really matters,’ Marius responded, engaged instantly and looking thoughtful. ‘Giacometti sculptures are going for high prices these days, so why hold it back? Perhaps there’s a way to change the theme, or expand it. Or not have a theme for the art at all.’

      ‘All are options,’ she agreed. ‘Christopher has a few modern paintings which would fit into a modernist theme, but he doesn’t want to put them on sale right now. Otherwise I suppose we could create a second theme.’

      ‘Which painters?’

      ‘Ben Nicholson and Lowry.’

      ‘Hats off to Sir Alec! My God, he certainly knew what he was doing when he chose his art, if not when it came to cataloguing it. And why doesn’t Christopher want to put those on the block? Did he tell you?’

      She nodded. ‘He wants to go slowly because of taxes. As you know, his uncle left everything to him, so there has been a huge amount of inheritance tax.’ She noticed the sudden gleam flashing in his dark eyes, and said, ‘And if you’re thinking I can make him change his mind, you’re absolutely wrong.’

      Marius was no fool, and he knew his wife extremely well, and so he said, ‘I believe you. Therefore, I suggest you start the auction with the Degas and the Giacometti sculptures first, and then bring on the three paintings. You might tag them great sculptures from two centuries and let them stand alone. Then you could tie the three paintings into the Impressionist theme. But don’t hold the Giacometti back; sell it while the going’s good.’

      ‘Not bad for quick thinking! And thank you, Marius, you’ve solved my problem.’

      ‘My pleasure. And how about solving another one? Together?’

      ‘You want to go through the requests for interviews, is that it?’

      ‘It is,’ he answered, and pushed back his chair. ‘Let’s go and sit in my den and scan them. It won’t take long.’

      

      Annette was glad to escape the flat after several hours had been spent on deciding about the journalist who would do the interview with her. Marius had finally settled on the one he wanted, who he thought would draw the best portrait of her in words.

      The man’s name was Jack Chalmers, and Marcus knew a little about him already. But in order to check him out properly, glean a few more facts, he had phoned Malcolm Stevens a short while ago – ‘just to get the lowdown', was the way he put it.

      According to Malcolm, who was a fund of information about all sorts of people and things, Chalmers was a young hotshot reporter who had swiftly risen up through the ranks of British journalism to make a name for himself. He had also written two brilliant histories of World War II, and was highly respected by editors and colleagues alike. At the moment, Chalmers was under contract to the Sunday Times, and wrote profiles of people in the news for the paper.

      Apparently he was considered to be a nice chap, never needed to go for the jugular, or felt it necessary to stick a knife into the heart of an interviewee. Yet he managed to write riveting copy that everybody lapped up. ‘Without resorting to invective or bitchiness,’ Malcolm had finished, adding, ‘That’s a formidable talent.’

      After repeating the rest of Malcolm’s conversation to her, Marius had made the final decision, although he had also said, ‘If that’s all right with you, darling.’ He always said that, and had for years, but it meant nothing.

      Of course it was all right with her. She had never had any choice, actually. About anything. Marius was the law.

      As she walked down Eaton Square, heading for her sister’s flat in Chesham Place, Annette suddenly filled up with anger. It rose like bile in her throat, choking her. But it was not anger at Marius; rather it was anger with herself.

      Why was she so weak-kneed? Why did she accept whatever he said as the gospel? She had done that last night, had allowed him to manipulate her out of having the auction in New York.

      She had sat back this morning as Marius had chatted away to Malcolm, and again had nodded in agreement when he had settled on Jack Chalmers.

      She was a fool, and she knew it. She could be, and had been, very strong about a lot of things in the last twenty-one years, and yet when it came to herself and what she wanted, she just gave in without a protest.

      Oh, to hell with it, she thought, trying to push all these worrisome thoughts away. Who the hell cares about Jack Chalmers!