Playing the Game. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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what she was about to say now.
‘That you stop talking about being older than me, intimating that you won’t be around to protect me as you have in the past.’
‘I have, haven’t I? Because I love you. And I’ve protected Laurie as well,’ he pointed out.
‘Yes, that’s true, darling, and I’m grateful. Please don’t think I don’t know you have my best interests at heart, because I do.’ She forced a laugh. ‘I’m just being silly about the past, aren’t I?’
‘Absolutely. Nobody cares what you did when you were eighteen.’
I wish that were true, she thought. I wish the law didn’t have different ideas. She merely smiled, and said nothing. A still tongue and a wise head. She started to eat the potted shrimp, which had just been placed in front of her. After a few seconds had elapsed, she remarked casually, ‘I think I’d prefer to do an interview for one of the Sunday papers, and you can make the decision which one it should be.’
‘Good girl,’ he responded, and took a long swallow of the wine, pleased that she had come around, saw things his way. He believed he did know what was best, but he was aware she felt the need to fight him sometimes.
They talked about a number of other things during dinner, and it was when they had finished the main course that Marius suddenly said, ‘By the way, you haven’t told me when you plan to have the next auction. Have you given it any thought?’
‘Of course I have, Marius! I’ve planned everything,’ she exclaimed, a ring of excitement in her voice. ‘I’m going to have it in September. In New York. The office there have already sent me client lists and ideas, and Laurie has been working on it—’ She stopped abruptly when she noticed the look on her husband’s face. It was a combination of surprise and anger. She sat quite still, waiting for the explosion.
‘New York!’ His voice was low but vehement. ‘Why there, not here in London? And why have you gone ahead with everything without even discussing it with me?’
She took a deep breath, answered as evenly as possible. ‘Because I usually make these decisions myself. I chose London for the Rembrandt sale because it felt right to hold it here. I had the same visceral feeling that the Degas ballet dancer and the Impressionist paintings would do better if auctioned in New York. At Sotheby’s.’
‘I certainly don’t think the auction would do better in the States! You’d be better off doing it at Sotheby’s here,’ he said.
She noticed that he was holding his temper in check, now spoke in a lighter voice, erasing the anger from it as best he could. She knew he didn’t want to quarrel with her in public, and also because he had been away for a week. She never knew what he did on those many trips he took alone, nor had she ever asked. But he was always slightly different when he came back: more considerate, less bossy, not as controlling.
But deep inside herself she knew he was going to manipulate her tonight, as he so frequently did. He had to have his own way. He had to win. She thought about mentioning her idea of taking Laurie to New York, and decided against it. What would be the point? He wouldn’t care about that. For his own reasons, he wanted the auction to be held in London, and what she thought didn’t matter. It never had. That was the way it had always been and always would be.
Annette sank down into herself, filled with disappointment, annoyance and a strange sadness. He had given her a degree of independence when he had agreed that she could open her own office, but he was still the boss. As far as he was concerned. Don’t argue with him; let it go, she told herself. And so she did.
The silence that fell between them was long and somewhat awkward. Annette was determined not to be the first one to speak, and she was strong willed when she wanted to be.
Eventually, Marius was forced to say something. ‘What would you like for dessert, sweetheart?’ he asked, his manner mild.
‘Nothing, thanks,’ she responded swiftly, then added, ‘Camomile tea will be enough.’
‘Not hungry?’ he asked, peering at her, taking hold of her hand, holding it in his. ‘You know you like the puddings here.’
‘Not tonight, Marius. Honestly, I’m not hungry any more.’
‘Don’t be angry with me, darling. I want what’s best for you. I know you must concentrate on doing important things in London at the moment. This is where you live, where you’re based, and where your career is. Where you had your first huge auction, your great success. I don’t think things would work in your favour in New York. Just as they wouldn’t if you chose to do it in Paris.’
‘Whatever you say. After all, you’ve been playing this game longer than I have. Anyway, I trust your judgement.’ A smile wavered on her mouth and was instantly gone. ‘London, Paris and New York, the biggest art cities in the world. So then, let’s pick London this time around, and why not? You’ve made some good points, Marius.’
A sense of relief rippled through him, and he felt himself relaxing against the banquette. He did not like to quarrel with her, and rarely did he have to, because she was usually acquiescent. But he had noticed of late that her inbred independent streak had grown stronger, and this rattled him occasionally. He needed her to be in step with him, not bucking his decisions. Thankfully she had fallen into line once more.
Looking at her, he said softly, ‘I promise you this will be the biggest auction London has ever seen in decades. And it will be far more important than your Rembrandt sale.’
‘And obviously bigger than it would be in New York? Is that what you mean?’
‘Yes, if you put it that way. London is better in this instance.’
‘All right, I’ll cancel the plans I made, and concentrate on making everything work here.’
He couldn’t help thinking how beautiful she was tonight. She was wearing a delphinium-blue silk suit and aquamarine earrings and the two blues emphasized the colour of her eyes. Her blonde hair was well cut and styled, shining in the candlelight, and she had the air of an accomplished, successful and sophisticated woman about her.
In a flash, in his mind’s eye, he saw that starveling girl he had first met when she was eighteen; so thin she was like a wafer, a look of poverty and deprivation clinging to her. She had come to him for a job at the Remmington Gallery in the early days, when it was first located in Cork Street, and he had taken her on to do weekend work out of pity.
She was neat and clean and nicely spoken, and she had tugged at his heart. And how clever she had been, so talented, a top student at the Royal Academy of Art. Her sense of colour, perspective and composition were extraordinary, and he was impressed with her paintings, which she had shown him so proudly. Yet, with his innate taste, his extraordinary understanding of art, his superior knowledge and experience, he had realized that although she was good, even brilliant in certain ways, she would never be a great artist. She would be one of many good painters, never a star.
He had given her a receptionist job at the gallery, taken her under his wing, looked after her. Within only a few days he had recognized the inherent beauty of her face: the high cheekbones, the delicate, perfect features, and those heart-stopping eyes; huge, bright blue, filled with intelligence. He had seen her potential as a woman, started to take an interest in her, instilling a sense of personal style in her, grooming her, teaching her about art, sharing his knowledge. And then one day she had let him down. It was only then that he understood about himself, his feelings for her. And he was shocked at his emotional entanglement. He had fallen in love with the starveling girl who had been stolen from him. Briefly.
She had come running back when serious trouble wrapped its tentacles around her. Frightened, panic-stricken, afraid of the police and what might happen to her, he had done the only thing he could do to make her feel safe, secure. He had married her. A few days after her nineteenth birthday, in early June. Twenty-one years ago this summer.
Slowly, painstakingly, with love and skill, he