Playing the Game. Barbara Taylor Bradford

adjoined the Dorchester ballroom, and she leaned forward, kissed Malcolm on the cheek, thanked him.

      As she stepped back, his glance swept over her once more, taking in the stunning ice-blue strapless gown, worn with a matching satin stole lined with scarlet silk. That was the surprising touch, the brilliant red against the cool blue, plus the huge cabochon ruby earrings hanging from her ears, echoing the vibrant colour of the silk.

      Annette Remmington was elegance personified, her blonde hair, usually worn loose, was swept back from her face, wound up into a chignon at the back of her head. It suddenly struck him that her eyes looked bluer than ever tonight; perhaps it was the evening gown that heightened their colour.

      Gripping Marius’s outstretched hand, Malcolm went on, ‘And you don’t look half bad yourself! In fact, the two of you are so glamorous you’ll put all your guests to shame.’

      Marius chuckled. ‘I’m afraid you haven’t seen anything yet. Wait until the show-business crowd arrive, they’re much more glamorous than we are. But thanks for the compliments, Malcolm. And welcome. We’re very glad you’re here.’

      Now, turning to his wife, Marius shook his head, chided lightly, ‘I told you how beautiful you looked, but you didn’t believe me. Now that you’ve just witnessed Malcolm’s stunned reaction, you must know I’m right.’

      ‘I did believe you,’ she protested, slipping her arm through his, leaning against him. ‘You’re always right.’

      Clearing his throat, Malcolm interjected, ‘It’s great to be here, and thanks for having me, but now I think I’d better move on, so you can greet your other guests. See you later.’

      Marius nodded, immediately turned around, stretched out his hand to welcome some of the new arrivals streaming through the door.

      Malcolm slipped away.

      Moving down the room, he took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and walked around, mingling with the crowd. He spoke to a few people he knew, then positioned himself near a pillar, leaned against it, watching the show unfold.

      And quite a show it was. He spotted two beautiful American movie stars with their husbands, done up to the nines and dripping diamonds from every pore, a famous, recently knighted writer of literary fiction, a controversial politician with his busty wife, a duchess renowned for her young lovers, and quite a few old friends and acquaintances, as well as a number of other art dealers.

      The world and his wife, he thought. Everyone’s here. And why not? When Marius gives a party on this scale, he usually pulls out all the stops. That is why everybody wants to be invited.

      Actually it was Annette’s party this evening. She had long planned it for Marius’s sixtieth, and she had put a lot of time and effort into it. Just the way Marius had taught her. That was his way. He tended to be a teacher by nature.

      Certainly he had been Malcolm‘s teacher, mentor, friend and colleague as well. Their association had lasted a long time, and yet Marius didn’t seem a day older than when they had met fifteen years ago. He stared down the length of the room, focused on him, thinking that he looked especially well this evening. Tall, slender, as immaculately dressed as ever, wearing an impeccably tailored dinner jacket, no doubt from his favourite Savile Row tailor. His mane of silver hair gleamed above his lightly tanned face; Marius was forever popping off somewhere to catch the sun, and the tan gave him a youthful look. But it was his hair that Malcolm envied, and it was his hair, of course, that had inspired his nickname: The Silver Fox. Although he and a few others knew that it also referred to Marius’s nature. He was considered to be decidedly foxy by some.

      Malcolm had gone to work for Marius fifteen years ago, when he was twenty-seven, had been thrilled to be one of the team at the Remmington Gallery in St James’s. When Marius decided to sell the gallery ten years ago, he had borrowed the money from his father in order to buy it. He had kept up its fine reputation, garnered many new clients, and Marius said he was proud of him, was forever praising him for upholding the great tradition of the Remmington.

      Wanting a less hectic life, Marius took offices in Mayfair, became an art consultant and private dealer with only a handful of steady and very rich clients. They had remained close and Malcolm was an admirer of the older man.

      Not everyone felt the same way he did. There were those who bad-mouthed Marius Remmington. They said he was arrogant, mercurial, temperamental, driven, and something of a manipulator. But there were lots of people in this world who loved to carp. Malcolm knew that only too well.

      There had always been gossip about the Remmingtons for as long as he could remember. In his opinion it was because they attracted attention, caused resentment and jealousy. Talented, socially acceptable, upwardly mobile and highly successful, they were quite a remarkable couple. Reasons enough for tongues to wag. And wag they did.

      Then there was the difference in their ages. Marius was twenty years older than Annette … sixty to her thirty-nine. But she would be forty in June, and the twenty-year gap between them didn’t seem so startling now. But once it had, when she was eighteen and he was thirty-eight, and something of a man about town, considered to be a bit of a roué. Cradle-snatcher he had been called, and worse.

      There was mystery surrounding Annette’s background. No one really knew where she had sprung from. Except, of course, for the Marius Mafia, who bragged that they knew. His mafia, so called, was a cadre of young men who constantly surrounded him, whom he called his protégés, which is exactly what they were. Young men who’d been singled out for their talent; who had worked for Marius at some time, or still did; who were loyal, devoted and forever at his beck and call. They enjoyed being around him because something was always happening. It seemed to Malcolm that there was a constant show going on … famous people, people in the know, and in the news, gravitated to Marius. That was an essential part of his success as an art dealer, that charisma of his, the gregariousness, the bucketsful of charm and the clever way he had of pulling everyone into his orbit.

      Malcolm was one of Marius’s favourites and he had received special treatment from the very beginning. The Marius Mafia had told him about Annette.

      Seemingly she had come to London from some Northern city, he wasn’t sure which, to study art. But there was not enough talent to lift her up into the stratosphere of genius that equalled eventual fame. Good looking. But the looks were obscured by her hesitant manner, according to some of the Marius Mafia; it was a sort of diffidence, they said. Blonde, blue eyed, slender as a reed, and exceedingly bright. But ordinary. That was the way they had described her to him. He himself had not known her then.

      Not so ordinary now, though, Malcolm thought, his eyes settling on her. It was an elegant creature who stood there. Not the most beautiful woman in the world, but good looking, well put-together, whatever the occasion, and the current golden girl in the art world. Her auction of the Rembrandt had assured her a place in the front row, had given her art consultancy business a big boost …

      ‘What are you doing here all alone, Malcolm?’ a familiar voice exclaimed.

      Swinging around, Malcolm grinned. ‘Watching the show and having a bit of the old bubbly. How about you, David? And where’s Meg?’

      His old friend David Oldfield shook his head. ‘Still in New York. On business. I’m solo tonight.’ Reaching into his pocket, David pulled out a small envelope, looked inside, and said, ‘I’m at table ten. What about you?’

      ‘The same. I have a feeling it’s Marius’s table. Come on, let’s try and get to the bar. I’d like a vodka.’

      ‘Good idea,’ David responded, and together they struggled through the throng. Once they had secured their Grey Goose on the rocks, they went off into a quiet corner. Clinking glasses, they both said cheers in unison, and David asked, ‘Is it true that Christopher Delaware inherited a lot of really great art from that uncle of his? And that Annette’s going to be representing him?’

      Malcolm said in an even tone, ‘I haven’t heard about any great art. But I know he’s Annette’s client. Oh, look, there’s Johnny Davenport. He’s