Playing the Game. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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silence, Annette said, ‘Going back to Cézanne, and our conversation earlier; even if Carlton does manage to clean and restore the painting, it presents a problem because there’s no provenance.’
His eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips. ‘It beggars belief that a man like Alec Delaware, who made a huge fortune in business, didn’t protect his investment in art.’ Marius shook his head, and looked off into the distance, his mind turning rapidly. Bringing his intense gaze back to his wife, he asked in a low voice, ‘How good is the provenance on the Degas dancer?’
‘It’s perfect. The lineage is a straight line of ownership. It was one of those cast in bronze at Hébrard’s, and it was eventually sold by the Hébrard Gallery to a French art dealer, who then auctioned it off to a wealthy collector in Paris. The bronze passed through a few hands after that – several art dealers, private collectors in New York and Beverly Hills – and finally it was bought at auction in New York by Alec Delaware in 1989. It was not the one sold in New York by Sotheby’s in 1997, by the way. The papers are at home and you can look at them later, and you’ll see they establish provenance beyond any doubt.’
‘Sounds like it. Does the bronze itself have any identifying mark, by the way?’
‘Yes, Laurie thoroughly checked it, and the bronze is marked with a “G". The bronzes that were cast in the 1920s were marked with a letter from “A” to “T", and those were intended for sale to the public. Others were reserved for the Degas family, and for Hébrard. They were marked differently.’
He gave her the benefit of a wide, approving smile. ‘You two are the very best,’ he grinned, and asked, ‘What about the other art from the Delaware collection? Where do you stand with those pieces?’
‘There are documents which establish provenance, I’m relieved to tell you.’
‘So what’s going on the block, Annette? As well as the Degas dancer?’
‘A Degas painting. It’s a carriage with passengers, parked at the races. There’s a Mary Cassatt of a mother and child, and also a Morisot, of a woman facing a mirror. Laurie thought these three Impressionist paintings worked well together, and the artists were contemporaries, friends. It makes a theme.’
Marius nodded, sat back, looking thoughtful. After a moment he said, ‘Laurie could help establish provenance for the Cézanne, perhaps. It’s a tough job, but she has the talent and patience to trace its history through old books, old catalogues, archives, bills of sale, if there are any. What do you think?’
‘She can give it a try; perhaps she’ll enjoy the challenge,’ Annette answered, and wondered if her sister would. She also wondered if it was worth the effort. Carlton Fraser had sounded extremely glum about the outcome of his cleaning and restoration work. But she did not mention this to Marius. She had learned long ago to be careful, to edit what she said to him. He had a short fuse and easily became annoyed and upset. This was the reason she had not mentioned the phone call Malcolm Stevens had received about Hilda Crump. Better that he didn’t know. And Malcolm would never say anything either. He knew her husband almost as well as she did. Marius didn’t deal in trivia. It was the big picture that counted.
The dining room at Mark’s was a favourite of Annette’s because of the art hanging on the walls. All of the paintings were of dogs and had been painted in the 19th and early 20th centuries. Beautifully framed, they had been cleverly arranged and hung by Mark Birley himself many years before.
The two of them sat on a banquette facing the longest wall in the room, at the table Annette considered to be the best in the room. From where they were sitting they had a perfect view of the oil paintings, all of which were beautiful as well as charming, amusing and often poignant; they never failed to bring a smile to her face, or touch her heart.
‘Oh, good, they’ve got bangers and mash on the menu tonight,’ Marius exclaimed as he eyed the menu. ‘Yes, it’s nursery food for me: sausages and spuds. Takes me back to my childhood. What would you like, Annette?’
‘You know I always have the potted shrimp when we come here, they’re the best in London, and I think I’ll have the grilled sole.’
‘A bit of a fishy dinner, darling, isn’t it?’ he teased. ‘But I’ll order a good Pouilly-Fuissé. How’s that?’
‘Lovely, Marius, and what are you going to have first?’
‘Like you, the potted shrimp.’ He indicated to the maître d’ standing near the doorway that they were ready to order, and he came over at once, smiling, his pad in hand.
Once they had ordered their dinner, Annette swivelled slightly on the banquette and put her hand on Marius’s arm. She said in a light voice, not wanting to be overly dramatic, ‘I really don’t want to do any interviews. Not even one. Can’t I just skip it?’
Turning to her, studying her for a moment, Marius took hold of her hand, held it in his. He said, finally, in a low voice, ‘No, you can’t skip it, Annette. And for a variety of reasons, which I’ll get to in a moment. I want to say something else first, and it’s this. I do interviews all the time, and the press these days are mostly interested in the art, and only the art. How much is the painting worth? What will you get for it? Who owned it before? Art is now equated with big money, huge money, and that’s what they love to write about. Money, provenance, who’s competing with each other to buy the latest and most important symbol of power and wealth. Please believe me, I’m right about this. And then there’s the sudden discovery of The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer. Your new prize piece. It’s vital to get tongues wagging about it, and what better way than in an important interview?’
A sigh escaped, and she said quietly, hesitantly, ‘I suppose so …’ She broke off, shrugged, looked directly at him. ‘I can’t tell you how much I hate the idea of doing even one interview, whoever the journalist might be,’ she added, her tone suddenly stronger.
‘I know that. But listen to me – you really do have to do one, at least. And it must be a big one. Art is a bit of a cutthroat business, you know that, and everyone is scrambling to be at the top. The competition is fierce; you’ve lived through it for years. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, you became a star overnight. Partially because Christopher Delaware remembered you were nice to him at a dinner, and he brought the Rembrandt to you. Luck. Sheer bloody luck, sweetheart! So you must keep your name up there. You can’t simply turn away and hope to go on making big deals without promoting yourself.’
He paused, took a sip of the wine the sommelier brought for him to taste, and nodded. ‘Very good. Nice and cold, too. Thank you.’
He gave the waiter a faint smile, and turned back to his wife. ‘You’ve done well with Annette Remmington Fine Art because of the route you went, setting yourself up as an art consultant and art expert, rather than opening your own gallery. You know only too well what that costs. But your overhead is in the medium range because you have a small office and a small staff. It all works in your favour. However you’ve got to keep making the big deals, the superlative deals, and publicity is mandatory. Your clients, the right clients for you, must be the wealthiest in the world. The tycoons, titans of industry, lawyers, bankers, the billionaire bunch who can afford those much-desired famous paintings and sculptures by the world’s greatest artists. Because expensive art is the status symbol today.’
Silent, she sipped her white wine, made no comment. She was taut inside.
In a much firmer voice he continued, ‘You’ve got to keep your eye on your ultimate goal. Okay? Focus. Determination. Drive. Ambition. Taste. Knowledge of art. Those are your special attributes and you must not lose sight of them. And there’s another thing. I won’t be here to protect you for the rest of your life. Let’s not forget, I’m much older than you. I want you to stay at the top; you must stay where you are today. A star in the art world. And you can do that. If you manage your career properly. That is an imperative.’
‘You’re right,’ she admitted, knowing that he was speaking