The Account. Roderick Mann

She was puzzled. Was he inviting her to an art show or lunch? For a moment she toyed with the fantasy that he wanted to buy the Burlington and was seeking her advice. She knew the first thing she would tell him: get rid of Guido Moscato.

      She got up and went to the mirror and inspected herself. Not bad, she decided, glad she had opted that morning for her plum-coloured Escada jacket with the big gilt buttons and a black skirt. With her black boots it was an attractive outfit.

      She went back to her desk and buzzed Emma. ‘I’m going to look at some art with Robert Brand,’ she said. ‘Impressed?’

      Emma chuckled. ‘I’m trying not to be,’ she said. ‘But yes, I am. Very.’

      The Delevingne Gallery was halfway down Duke Street next to a wine bar. When Julia arrived Brand was standing in front of an ornately framed painting of Venice’s Grand Canal, talking to a young man in a dark business suit. He broke off as she came through the door, greeting her quite formally. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘here you are. Miss Lang, this is Nigel Burley.’

      The young man extended a limp hand.

      ‘Well, what do you think?’ Brand demanded, nodding towards the painting.

      ‘Stunning,’ Julia said. ‘Canaletto – right?’

      ‘So Mr Burley believes,’ Brand said.

      Julia peered more closely at the canvas. ‘It’s not signed.’

      Burley cleared his throat. ‘Many of his works are not.’

      Julia studied the painting again.

      ‘There’s been a lot of interest,’ the dealer said. ‘It’s a beautiful work.’

      ‘But not Canaletto, I think,’ Brand said. ‘More likely one of his imitators.’

      ‘Imitators?’ Julia said. ‘How many did he have?’

      ‘Many.’ Brand stood back from the painting. ‘He was widely imitated both in Venice and during his stay here. He was in Britain for almost ten years, you know, painting country houses, London views. People like Michael Marieschi, Antonio Visentini, Antonio Joli – their work often passes under Canaletto’s name. I fancy this is Marieschi.’

      ‘How do people know?’ Julia was intrigued.

      ‘They don’t,’ Brand said. ‘Unless they are well informed.’ He turned to Nigel Burley, who was impassively fingering the carnation in his buttonhole. ‘How much are you asking?’

      ‘Two million.’

      ‘Pounds?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘A lot of money.’

      ‘Worth it, we feel.’

      ‘Bring it down a little,’ Brand said. ‘I might be interested. Though I doubt it’s Canaletto.’

      ‘I’ll have to talk to Mr Delevingne,’ the young man said. ‘He’s in France at the moment.’

      ‘Do that,’ Brand said. He took a card from his wallet. ‘You can reach me at the Burlington for the next few days. After that at my New York office.’

      ‘I’ll let you know by Friday,’ Burley said, accompanying them to the door.

      Brand and Julia walked slowly up the street, stopping now and again to look at paintings in other galleries before turning into Jermyn Street.

      ‘I trust you’re hungry?’ Brand asked. ‘Best fish in London right here.’ Without waiting for a reply he took her arm and steered her through the door of one of London’s most expensive restaurants. The staff seemed to know him. The manager made a great deal of fuss, ushering them to a booth in one corner. As soon as the menus were brought, Brand put on spectacles. They seemed, if anything, to enhance his attractiveness. They ordered – grilled sole for Brand; fried plaice for Julia, with chablis to accompany the meal.

      Brand sat forward, his hands together. ‘You like that Canaletto?’

      ‘But you said –’

      ‘It’s a Canaletto all right. Does no harm to throw people like Delevingne off balance, though. They think they know everything.’

      Julia laughed. ‘Shame on you.’

      Brand laughed too.

      ‘That other artist…’

      ‘Marieschi? He’s real enough. Imitated Canaletto a lot. But Canaletto was a superb draughtsman. His work stands out from the others.’

      ‘You seem to know a lot about him?’

      ‘I bought my first Canaletto when I was thirty. Began reading up on him –’ He broke off. ‘This is a private conversation, you understand.’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘It’s just … well, I realize you deal with the press a lot.’

      ‘Only in matters relating to the hotel.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t concern yourself.’

      ‘Good. I won’t.’

      Brand seemed to relax when the waiter brought the wine. He sampled it and nodded. The waiter filled their glasses and departed. Brand shrugged. ‘The truth is I don’t like talking about my collection. Even if you love art, which I do, there’s no way you can say: I have a Renoir, a Picasso and a Gauguin, without sounding crass.’

      Julia nodded.

      ‘I have one Rembrandt. I think it’s genuine. One of my friends swears it’s a Fabritius.’

      ‘I don’t know him.’

      ‘One of Rembrandt’s pupils. Rembrandt sometimes signed his students’ paintings to get a better price for them.’

      ‘Then you can’t tell?’

      ‘It’s difficult. The Rembrandt Research Group, subsidized by the Dutch Government, examined ninety of his works and claimed that half were not genuine. Which means a lot of galleries are out millions of dollars.’

      Julia, who had never spent more than £100 on a painting in her life and considered that extravagant, shook her head. ‘So there are no real experts?’

      ‘No.’

      The fish arrived. Brand turned to her. ‘When was your mother born?’

      ‘In 1920.’

      ‘Then your grandmother was probably born before the turn of the century. Do you realize if she’d had a little money to spend how many great artists were alive at that time? Cézanne, Monet, Renoir. Utrillo was still alive in the 1950s. Of course people here weren’t even aware of avant-garde French paintings until about 1910. Until then English taste rarely went further than paintings of Highland stags.’

      ‘I should have had a wealthy grandmother,’ Julia said.

      Brand busied himself dissecting his fish. ‘They’re still alive, your parents?’

      ‘They were killed in an air crash six years ago.’

      ‘Ah.’ She waited for the usual solicitous remark. He didn’t make it. ‘You’re not a Londoner?’

      ‘I was born in Birmingham.’

      ‘I’ve been there,’ Brand said.

      ‘It used to be a fine old Victorian town,’ Julia said. ‘Then the planners went to work. Now it’s a mess.’

      Brand picked up his wine glass and swirled the liquid around. He looked at her, his black eyes boring into hers. ‘Is it true what Bobby Koenig said? Are you one of the most eligible women in London?’

      ‘A slight exaggeration.’

      ‘But you’re not married?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Involved,