The New Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘Time for us to leave, I fear,’ said Gian Lorenzo, glancing at his watch, ‘especially if I’m to catch the first plane to Rome in the morning.’

  ‘Did you manage to sell my Canaletto to your friend?’ asked the Contessa, as she rose from her place.

  ‘No,’ replied Gian Lorenzo, as he waved in the direction of Paolo’s table, ‘but he did suggest that we keep in touch.’

  ‘And will you?’

  ‘That might be quite difficult,’ admitted Gian Lorenzo, ‘as he didn’t give me his number, and I have a feeling Signor and Signora Castelli may not be listed.’

  Gian Lorenzo took the first flight back to Rome the following morning. The Canaletto was to follow him at a more leisurely pace. No sooner had he set foot in the gallery than his secretary rushed out of the office, spilling out the words, ‘Paolo Castelli has already called twice this morning. He apologized for not giving you his number,’ she added, ‘and wondered if you would be kind enough to phone him, just as soon as you get in.’

  Gian Lorenzo walked calmly into his office, sat down at his desk and composed himself. He then tapped out the number his secretary had placed in front of him. The call was first answered by a butler, who transferred him to a secretary, before he was finally connected to Paolo.

  ‘After you left last night, my little angel spoke of nothing else,’ began Paolo. ‘She has never forgotten her visit to the Contessa’s home, where she first saw her magnificent art collection. She wondered if the reason you were meeting with the Contessa was—’

  ‘I don’t think it would be wise to discuss this matter over the phone,’ said Gian Lorenzo, whose father had also taught him that deals are rarely made on the telephone, but almost always face to face. One needs the client to view the picture, and then you allow them to hang it on a wall in their home for several days. There is a crucial moment when the buyer considers the painting already belongs to them. Not until then do you start to negotiate the price.

  ‘Then you’ll have to return to Venice,’ said Paolo matter-of-factly. ‘I’ll send the private jet.’

  Gian Lorenzo flew to Venice the following Friday. A Rolls-Royce was parked on the runway, waiting to take him to the Villa Rosa.

  A butler greeted Gian Lorenzo at the front door before escorting him up a large marble staircase to a suite of private rooms that exhibited barren walls – an art dealer’s fantasy. Gian Lorenzo was reminded of the collection that his father had put together for Agnelli over a period of thirty years, now considered to be one of the finest in private hands.

  Gian Lorenzo spent most of the Saturday – between meals – being escorted round the one hundred and forty-two rooms of the Villa Rosa by Angelina. He quickly discovered that there was far more to his hostess than he had anticipated.

  Angelina showed a genuine interest in wanting to start her own art collection, and had clearly visited all the great galleries round the world. Gian Lorenzo concluded that she only lacked the courage of her own convictions – a not uncommon problem for the only child of a self-made man – although she didn’t lack knowledge or, to Gian Lorenzo’s surprise, taste. He felt guilty for making assumptions based only on comments he had read in the press. Gian Lorenzo found himself enjoying Angelina’s company, and even began to wonder what this shy, thoughtful young woman could possibly see in Paolo.

  Over dinner that night, Gian Lorenzo could not miss the adoration in her eyes whenever Angelina looked at her husband, even though she rarely interrupted him.

  Over breakfast the following morning, Angelina hardly uttered a word. It was not until Paolo suggested that his wife show their guest round the grounds that his little angel once again came alive.

  Angelina escorted Gian Lorenzo round a sixty-acre garden that possessed no immovable objects, or even havens where they might rest to cool their brows. Whenever Gian Lorenzo made a suggestion, she responded with enthusiasm, clearly willing to be led, if only he would take her by the hand.

  Over dinner that night, it was Paolo who confirmed that it was his little angel’s desire to build a great collection in memory of her late father.

  ‘But where to begin?’ asked Paolo, stretching a hand across the table to take his wife’s hand.

  ‘Canaletto, perhaps?’ suggested Gian Lorenzo.

  Gian Lorenzo spent the next five years commuting between Rome and Venice as he continued to coax pictures out of the Contessa, before rehanging them in the Villa Rosa. But as each new gem appeared, Angelina’s appetite only became more voracious. Gian Lorenzo found himself having to travel as far afield as America, Russia and even Colombia, so that he could keep Paolo’s ‘little angel’ satisfied. She seemed determined to outdo Catherine the Great.

  Angelina became more and more captivated by each new masterpiece Gian Lorenzo put before her – Canaletto, Caravaggio, Tintoretto, Bellini and Da Vinci were among the natives. Not only did Gian Lorenzo begin to fill up the few remaining places on the walls of the villa, but he also had statues crated and sent from every quarter of the globe to be sited alongside other immigrants on the vast lawn – Moore, Brancusi, Epstein, Miró, Giacometti and, Angelina’s favourite, Botero.

  With every new purchase she made, Gian Lorenzo presented her with a book about the artist. Angelina would devour them in one sitting and immediately demand more. Gian Lorenzo had to acknowledge that she had become not only the gallery’s most important client but also his most ardent student – what had begun as a flirtation with Canaletto was fast turning into a promiscuous affair with almost all the great masters of Europe. And it was Gian Lorenzo who was expected to continually supply new lovers. Something else Angelina had in common with Catherine the Great.

  Gian Lorenzo was visiting a client in Barcelona, who for tax reasons had to dispose of a Murillo, The Birth of Christ, when he heard the news. He considered that the asking price for the painting was too high, even though he knew that Angelina would be willing to pay it. He was in the middle of haggling when his secretary called. Gian Lorenzo took the next available flight back to Rome.

  Every paper reported, some in great detail, the death of Angelina Castelli. A massive heart attack while she was in her garden trying to move one of the statues.

  The tabloids, unwilling to mourn the lady for a single day, went on to inform their readers in the second paragraph that she had left her entire fortune to her husband. A photograph of a smiling Paolo – taken long before her death – ran alongside the story.

  Four days later Gian Lorenzo flew to Venice to attend the funeral.

  The little chapel in the grounds of the Villa Rosa was packed with Angelina’s family and friends, some of whom Gian Lorenzo hadn’t seen since the wedding celebration, a generation before.

  When the six pallbearers carried the coffin into the chapel, and lowered it gently on a bier in front of the altar, Paolo broke down and sobbed. After the service was over, Gian Lorenzo offered his condolences, and Paolo assured him that he had enriched Angelina’s life beyond recompense. He went on to say that he intended to continue building the collection in her memory. ‘It is no more than my little angel would have wanted,’ he explained, ‘so it must be done.’

  Paolo didn’t get in touch with him again.

  Gian Lorenzo was about to dip a spoon into a pot of Oxford marmalade – another habit he had acquired from his father – when he saw the headline. The spoon remained lodged in the marmalade while he read the words a second time. He wanted to be sure that he hadn’t misunderstood the headline. Paolo was back on the front page, declaring it was ‘love at first sight – turn to page 22 for details’.

  Gian Lorenzo quickly flicked through the pages to a column he rarely troubled himself with. ‘Gossip Roma, we give you the truth behind the stories.’ Paolo Castelli, former captain of Roma, and the ninth richest man in Italy, is to marry again, only four years after the death of his little angel. ‘There’s more to her than meets the eye,’ declared the headline. The paper went on to assure its readers that there couldn’t be a bigger con
trast between his first wife, Angelina, a billionairess, and Gina, a twenty-four-year-old waitress from Naples, and the daughter of a tax inspector.

  Gian Lorenzo chuckled when he saw Gina’s photograph, aware that many of Paolo’s friends wouldn’t be able to resist teasing him.

  Every morning Gian Lorenzo found himself turning to Gossip Roma, in the hope of learning some new titbit about the forthcoming marriage. The wedding, it seemed, would be held in the chapel of the Villa Rosa, which only had enough space to seat a mere two hundred, so the guests would be restricted to close family and friends. The bride could no longer leave her little home without being pursued by a legion of paparazzi. The groom, they informed their readers, had returned to the gym, in the hope of losing a few pounds before the ceremony took place. But the biggest surprise for Gian Lorenzo came when Gossip Roma claimed – in an exclusive – that Signor Gian Lorenzo Venici, Roma’s leading art dealer, and old school chum of Paolo, would be among the fortunate guests.

  An invitation arrived in the morning post the following day.

  Gian Lorenzo flew into Venice on the evening before the ceremony and checked into the Hotel Cipriani. He decided a light meal and an early night might perhaps be wise when he thought about the previous wedding.

  Gian Lorenzo rose early the following morning and took some time dressing for the occasion. Despite this, he still arrived at the Villa Rosa long before the service was due to commence. He wished to stroll among the statues that littered the lawn and become reacquainted with some old friends. Donatello smiled down on him. Moore looked regal. Miró made him laugh, and Giacometti stood tall and thin, but his favourite remained the fountain which graced the centre of the lawn. Ten years before he had removed each piece of the fountain, stone by stone, statue by statue, from a courtyard in Milan. Bellini’s The Escaping Hunter looked even more magnificent in its new surroundings. It gave Gian Lorenzo particular pleasure to see how many other guests had also arrived early, clearly with the same thought in mind.

  A single usher in a smart dark suit walked among the guests suggesting that they might like to make their way to the chapel as the ceremony was about to begin. Gian Lorenzo was one of the first to heed his advice, as he wanted to be well placed to watch the bride make her entrance.

  Gian Lorenzo found a vacant seat on the aisle about halfway back that would allow him an uninterrupted view of the proceedings. He could see the little choir in their stalls, already singing vespers accompanied by a string quartet.

  At five minutes to three Paolo and his best man entered the chapel and walked slowly down the aisle. Gian Lorenzo knew he’d been a well-known footballer, but he still couldn’t remember his name. They both took their places by the side of the altar, while Paolo waited for his young bride to appear. Paolo looked fit, tanned and trim, and Gian Lorenzo noted that women still stared at him with adoring eyes. Paolo didn’t notice them and a grin that would have excited comment from Lewis Carroll never left the bridegroom’s face.

  There was a buzz of expectation as the string quartet struck up the opening chords of the Wedding March, to herald the entrance of the bride. The young woman walked slowly down the aisle on the arm of her father, and drew intakes of breath as she passed each new row.

  Gian Lorenzo could hear her approaching, so he turned to look at Gina for the first time. How would he respond, when asked to describe the bride, to someone who hadn’t been invited to the ceremony? Should he emphasize her beautiful long, thick, raven hair, or possibly comment on the smooth olive texture of her skin, or even add some remark about the magnificent wedding dress that he remembered so well? Or would Gian Lorenzo simply tell all those who enquired that it had become immediately clear to him why Paolo had declared that it was love at first sight. The same shy smile as Angelina, the same bright enthusiastic twinkle in her eyes, the same gentleness that was clear for all to see, or was it, as Gian Lorenzo suspected, that the journalists would only report that she fitted snugly into Angelina’s old wedding dress – the yards and yards of silk forming a magnificent train behind the bride as she walked slowly towards her lover.

  The End

  AND THEREBY HANGS A TALE

  For Simon Bainbridge

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank the following people for their valuable advice and assistance:

  Simon Bainbridge, Rosie de Courcy, Alison Prince, Billy Little, David Russell, Nisha and Jamwal Singh, Jerome Kerr-Jarrett, Mari Roberts, Jonathan Ticehurst and Brian Wead.

  GRUMIO

  First, know my horse is tired, my master

  and mistress fallen out.

  CURTIS

  How?

  GRUMIO

  Out of their saddles into the dirt, and

  thereby hangs a tale.

  CURTIS

  Let’s ha’t, good Grumio.

  The Taming of the Shrew

  IV, i, ll. 47–52.

  FOREWORD

  During the past six years I have gathered together several of these stories while on my travels around the world. Ten of them are based on known incidents and are marked as in my past collections with an asterisk, while the remaining five are the result of my imagination.

  I would like to thank all those people who have inspired me with their tales, and while there may not be a book in every one of us, there is so often a damned good short story.

  JEFFREY ARCHER

  May 2010

  STUCK ON YOU*

  1

  JEREMY LOOKED ACROSS the table at Arabella and still couldn’t believe she had agreed to be his wife. He was the luckiest man in the world.

  She was giving him the shy smile that had so entranced him the first time they met, when a waiter appeared by his side. ‘I’ll have an espresso,’ said Jeremy, ‘and my fiancée’ – it still sounded strange to him – ‘will have a mint tea.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Jeremy tried to stop himself looking around the room full of ‘at home’ people who knew exactly where they were and what was expected of them, whereas he had never visited the Ritz before. It became clear from the waves and blown kisses from customers who flitted in and out of the morning room that Arabella knew everyone, from the maître d’ to several of ‘the set’, as she often referred to them. Jeremy sat back and tried to relax.

  They’d first met at Ascot. Arabella was inside the royal enclosure looking out, while Jeremy was on the outside, looking in; that was how he’d assumed it would always be, until she gave him that beguiling smile as she strolled out of the enclosure and whispered as she passed him, ‘Put your shirt on Trumpeter.’ She then disappeared off in the direction of the private boxes.

  Jeremy took her advice, and placed twenty pounds on Trumpeter – double his usual wager – before returning to the stands to see the horse romp home at 5–1. He hurried back to the royal enclosure to thank her, at the same time hoping she might give him another tip for the next race, but she was nowhere to be seen. He was disappointed, but still placed fifty pounds of his winnings on a horse the Daily Express tipster fancied. It turned out to be a nag that would be described in tomorrow’s paper as an ‘also-ran’.

  Jeremy returned to the royal enclosure for a third time in the hope of seeing her again. He searched the paddock full of elegant men dressed in morning suits with little enclosure badges hanging from their lapels, all looking exactly like each other. They were accompanied by wives and girlfriends adorned in designer dresses and outrageous hats, desperately trying not to look like anyone else. Then he spotted her, standing next to a tall, aristocratic-looking man who was bending down and listening intently to a jockey dressed in red-and-yellow hooped silks. She didn’t appear to be interested in their conversation and began to look around. Her eyes settled on Jeremy and he received that same friendly smile once again. She whispered something to the tall man, then walked across the enclosure to join him at the railing.

  ‘I hope you took my advice,’ she said.

  ‘Sure did,’ said Jeremy. ‘
But how could you be so confident?’

  ‘It’s my father’s horse.’

  ‘Should I back your father’s horse in the next race?’

  ‘Certainly not. You should never bet on anything unless you’re sure it’s a certainty. I hope you won enough to take me to dinner tonight?’

  If Jeremy didn’t reply immediately, it was only because he couldn’t believe he’d heard her correctly. He eventually stammered out, ‘Where would you like to go?’

  ‘The Ivy, eight o’clock. By the way, my name’s Arabella Warwick.’ Without another word she turned on her heel and went back to join her set.

  Jeremy was surprised Arabella had given him a second look, let alone suggested they should dine together that evening. He expected that nothing would come of it, but as she’d already paid for dinner, he had nothing to lose.

  Arabella arrived a few minutes after the appointed hour, and when she entered the restaurant, several pairs of male eyes followed her progress as she made her way to Jeremy’s table. He had been told they were fully booked until he mentioned her name. Jeremy rose from his place long before she joined him. She took the seat opposite him as a waiter appeared by her side.

  ‘The usual, madam?’

  She nodded, but didn’t take her eyes off Jeremy.

  By the time her Bellini had arrived, Jeremy had begun to relax a little. She listened intently to everything he had to say, laughed at his jokes, and even seemed to be interested in his work at the bank. Well, he had slightly exaggerated his position and the size of the deals he was working on.

  After dinner, which was a little more expensive than he’d anticipated, he drove her back to her home in Pavilion Road, and was surprised when she invited him in for coffee, and even more surprised when they ended up in bed.