Playing the Game

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “Oh, my God, that sounds fantastic.” A pause. Then, “Will Marius be coming with us to New York?”

  She stared at him again. Intently. She said, noncommittally, “I don’t know. He has his own art business, as you’re well aware, and I have mine. We’re quite separate entities. However, he might be there because of his own work.” She shrugged. “I can’t say whether he’ll be in New York or not. Why?”

  “I just wondered,” Christopher muttered, and held her a little more tightly, brought her closer, although she wasn’t too surprised by this. Vaguely, she had sensed he had a crush on her for some time now. She wasn’t troubled by it because she rarely saw him, and could handle it anyway. He was young, only twenty-three. But to bring up the love triangle among Lysander, Hermia, and Demetrius, characters in a Shakespearean comedy, was somewhat pointed. Still, it amused her. “We’ll just play that by ear. If Marius does happen to be there, he’ll be helpful.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand,” he said quickly, having picked up on something, she wasn’t exactly sure what. Her tone, perhaps?

  Now it was her turn to change the subject. “What time do you want me to get there on Saturday?”

  “That’s up to you, Annette. Ten? Eleven? Whatever time you want to arrive is all right by me. I was hoping you would be able to stay to lunch.” A blond brow lifted.

  She smiled at him. “Lunch would be lovely, especially since I’m planning to be there all day. We’ve a lot of work to do.”

  His face instantly brightened. He gazed at her. “Oh good, very good, and I’ll try to be as helpful as possible with the collection, decisive.”

  She merely smiled at him again, made no further comment.

  Annette had just returned to her seat at the table when Marius caught her eye. He glanced in the direction of the podium and nodded.

  She understood what he meant immediately. He was going to go up there within a few minutes, say nice things abut her, and congratulate her. Once he was finished she would thank him and invite Malcolm to join them, to come up and make the birthday toast.

  After this the birthday cake would be wheeled in, the orchestra would play “Happy Birthday,” and Marius would cut the cake. The plan had been made yesterday and it was all very straightforward.

  But she was taken aback when Marius rose almost immediately and headed in the direction of the band. A moment later Malcolm was at her side along with David Oldfield, and the three of them followed Marius, stood with him to one side of the band.

  When the last song finished, there was a loud drumroll, and everyone left the dance floor and went back to their tables. Another drumroll echoed as David walked over to the podium and picked up the mike. “Good evening, everyone, and welcome. Now, please don’t get worried. This is not going to be an hour of speeches. No, not at all. Neither Annette nor Marius wanted that. However, there will be a few words from Marius before he cuts his birthday cake.”

  There was a round of applause when Marius stepped forward. He went to the podium to join David, who handed him the mike.

  “I want to thank you all for coming,” Marius began. “I’m thrilled and flattered to see you all here tonight at my sixtieth . . . so many good friends and colleagues. But this is not simply a birthday party for me, but a celebration of Annette as well. The other day I decided it must be a double-headed event; I felt my wife should share it with me. Because I believe she deserves to be honored . . . for conducting one of the greatest art auctions ever held. Her sale of the lost Rembrandt was extraordinary, and she is extraordinary. In every way . . . a wonderfully talented painter, an art consultant of enormous expertise, a dealer par excellence, and for a number of years my right hand when I still owned the Remmington Gallery. Altogether a unique woman.”

  Marius paused, looked across at Annette, and said, “Come and join me, darling.”

  She did so. Putting an arm around her, he said, “Congratulations, Annette. You really pulled off a big one, and have now entered the big league of art dealers.” He laughed. “I suppose I could say you’re now one of my competitors. But why not? I love it, and I love you.”

  A waiter brought glasses of champagne. “Here’s to you, Mrs. Remmington,” Marius toasted.

  There was a burst of applause and Annette kissed him on his cheek, and then just stood there holding her glass, smiling, enjoying for a moment being in the limelight. And then unexpectedly she felt that small knot inside her stomach, and the lead pellet of anxiety lodged there once again. She managed to keep the smile on her face as she thanked the guests, thanked Marius once more for his lovely words, and then introduced Malcolm Stevens.

  Taking hold of Marius’s hand, she led him to one side so that Malcolm could take over. He was witty, clever, insightful, serious, and cheeky by turn. He had everyone laughing within seconds as he drew a verbal portrait of a man he obviously admired and cared about, and whom he truly understood, and who would not be troubled by his irreverence.

  The audience loved Malcolm and his words, and there was much laughter and applause, and at times a few whistles, hoots, and cat calls. Hilarity prevailed, as Malcolm had intended.

  Marius loved Malcolm’s speech as much as everyone else, and he came over with Annette to stand with him when a waiter rolled in a table. Standing in the middle was a giant birthday cake, and sixty candle flames fluttered on top of it as the waiter pushed the table across the ballroom.

  Stepping forward, Marius picked up the cake knife and stared out at their guests, his face creased with laughter. He blew out all the candles and plunged the knife into the cake.

  At this moment the orchestra began to play; the entire ballroom began to sing “Happy Birthday.” And everyone raised their glasses to Marius.

  Annette joined in, but she suddenly felt her throat constricting. Thoughts of that phone call about Hilda Crump intruded. What was that about? That name from her youth was linked to trouble in Annette’s mind, and she shivered as her past loomed large. You never escaped your past, did you? Inevitably, it came back to haunt you. The past was immutable.

  Three

  She went to see her sister on Friday morning. She usually spent part of Saturday with her, but this week she was going to Kent to make decisions about Christopher Delaware’s paintings and the auction of them.

  Laurie was waiting for her, full of smiles and eagerness, happy to see her. As she usually was. There wasn’t a day when Laurie hadn’t welcomed her with a loving, wide-open heart and open arms, her pleasure to be with Annette reflected on her face. Laurie. The real beauty in the family, with her green eyes and golden-red hair. Laurie, who had wanted to be an actress when she was a child and had been cheated of the chance.

  The two of them sat together in front of the fire, in Laurie’s den in her flat in Chesham Place, just around the corner from their home in Eaton Square. It pleased Laurie that she and Marius lived nearby, because it gave her a sense of security; Annette felt the same. If ever Laurie needed her urgently or in any kind of emergency, she could be there within minutes on foot.

  Almost immediately she told her sister about the phone call from Malcolm Stevens earlier that week, and how he had brought up the name of Hilda Crump.

  Laurie was focused on her, listening, her face calm, the expression in her intelligent eyes changing ever so slightly by the time Annette finished.

  There was a small silence, and Annette realized Laurie was running everything through her mind in that analytical way she had. Finally Laurie said softly, “I hope you’re not worrying about this.”

  “I have been. Well, a little bit. It was such a jolt, hearing that name, out of the blue, and I couldn’t help wondering who could possibly be looking for Hilda Crump.”

  “Yes. Who? Yes, indeed, who? And also why? But listen, it doesn’t really matter. Hilda went away years ago, she’ll never be found, not unless you break the promise you made. You’re not going to do that, are you?”

  “No, I’m not. Obviously.”

  “We’ll never know wh
o’s looking for her anyway, not unless the private detective informs Malcolm, and he then tells us. But whoever it is doesn’t matter. Hilda’s not available and we can’t give anybody any information.”

  “But we were so involved with her, we were privy to so much.”

  “Only you and I know that, and it happened long ago. Over twenty years, Annette. Believe me, it doesn’t matter.”

  Annette leaned back in the chair, staring at her younger sister. “If that’s the case, all right.”

  “There’s no question in my mind. Just please stop worrying, because if you don’t I’ll start worrying about you.” Laurie laughed. “Now, please tell me more about the party. On the phone you’ve been awfully sketchy. I’m longing to hear everything.” She meant this, eagerness reflected in her eyes.

  Annette said, “I wish you’d been there, enjoyed it with us, Laurie. I can’t understand why you were so adamant about not coming, and neither can Marius. He wanted you to be with us as much as I did.”

  “In this? In this wheelchair? Don’t be silly. I’d have been a useless encumbrance. An inconvenience.”

  “Don’t say that! You’re none of those things. We really did hope you’d change your mind, that you would join us, and you know I never lie to you.”

  “I’m sorry, don’t get upset. And I do know how sincere you were about my coming. But I see things differently than you at times, Annette. I didn’t want to be a burden. And look, I didn’t want you to have questions to answer later. About me. People asking you why I was in a wheelchair, et cetera, et cetera. All that nonsense. I’ve told you before, you don’t need a cripple hanging on to your apron strings—”

  “Don’t say that, you know how I hate you to say that!” Annette exclaimed, her voice rising.

  “But I am a cripple, no two ways about it. I was in a bad car crash and now I’m a paraplegic.”

  “You’ve lost the use of your legs, yes, but you survived. The others died, and you’re still a beautiful woman. Intelligent, charming, and clever, and you are not an embarrassment to me. Nor to Marius. Besides, you’ve been with us on many occasions with friends and—”

  “Very close friends,” Laurie interjected.

  Annette continued, “And there’s never been any problem.”

  “That’s quite true. The birthday party was different, though. You’d invited two hundred people, and they’d all accepted. I knew it would be a heavy-duty evening for you.”

  “I would have put you at my table, or with Marius, and you know so many of our close friends, like Malcolm and David, Johnny Davenport. You’d have been perfectly fine.”

  Laurie smiled. “I know. Don’t go on about it. Please. Look, I preferred not to come.” Laurie made a face. “It would have been quite an effort for me, actually.”

  “Are you all right? You’re not feeling ill, are you?”

  “No, I’m not ill. Listen, it would have been a bit tough for me, that’s all, the crowds, lots of people I don’t know.” She gave her sister another loving smile, her eyes reassuring. Laurie had not gone because she had not wanted to be a reminder of the bad days, not on this particularly special night in Annette’s life. But then a name from the past had done that. Unfortunately. Taking a deep breath, Laurie said, “Please tell me about the party. And don’t you dare miss out one detail.”

  There were not many people about as Annette walked next to Laurie in the motorized wheelchair, crossing Eaton Square, making for her flat on the far corner. But then it was cold, breezy, a typical early March day, with a hint of rain in the air. People stayed home on days like this.

  They were moving along at a fairly quick pace, both wanting to get inside, into the warmth. She glanced up at one moment and was startled to see that the sky had changed in the last hour she had been at her sister’s flat. It had become a deeper, brighter blue.

  “We’ve suddenly got a Renoir sky,” she exclaimed, glancing at her sister. “It was pale, almost gray, earlier.”

  Laurie lifted her eyes and nodded. “Yes, it is that lovely blue he used for his own skies and bodies of water, and frequently for the dresses he painted on his incomparable women.” Swiveling her head, she looked up at Annette and smiled. “Only you would call it a Renoir sky.”

  “I know. But then he is my favorite Impressionist.”

  “And mine. And of course Rembrandt’s a favorite now! Let’s face it, he’s a painter who has been lucky for you. Does Christopher Delaware have any more tucked away in his house?”

  “If only.” Annette laughed.

  “He might find some other treasure put away, you know,” Laurie ventured. “Collectors like his peculiar uncle often bought paintings and simply stashed them away, hid them actually. Because they didn’t want anyone else to look at them.”

  “That sometimes did happen, and it still does. However, I imagine that by now Christopher has scoured that house from top to bottom.”

  “You bet he has.” Laurie suddenly shivered, turned up the collar of her coat, brought her scarf to her chin, and, continuing to shiver, fumbled with the scarf through her cashmere gloves.

  Annette, who missed nothing when it came to her sister’s well-being, asked swiftly, “Are you feeling the cold?”

  “No, not too much. And I’m glad to be out and about with you. Thank you for taking the day off to spend it with me.”

  “I’m happy to be with you. A whole day with you is one of my real luxuries.”

  Her sister smiled at this comment, snuggled into her coat, and let her gaze wander around Eaton Square. “The trees are sad today, bereft, lifeless. Twigs in the wind. This is such a beautiful square, but I must admit I like it best in the summer, when the gardens are filled with leafy branches. They make such a lovely cool green tent over our heads when we picnic there.” Laurie let out a long sigh. “I’ll be glad when spring comes. It’s been a dreary, weary winter.”

  “We’ll go somewhere warm soon. In the spring. We’ll make plans,” Annette assured her, love echoing in her voice for her only relative. Well, there was their brother, Anthony, but he was long gone from their lives. Who knew where he was, and their parents were dead. They only had each other. She’s enough, Annette thought. She has such a big heart and so much to give. She’s strong and determined and filled with compassion for others, and then there’s her bravery and courage, and her selflessness. Yes, she’s enough. She might be petite and delicate, but she packs a wallop. Also, Laurie was her good right hand, a brilliant researcher and an integral part of her art business.

  “Here we are,” Annette exclaimed a moment or two later.

  Annette now came to a stop in front of a dark-green front door, turned the wheelchair around, and backed up the two steps, pulling the wheelchair after her. Once she was on the top step, she rang the intercom bell which had the brass nameplate engraved with the name REMMINGTON next to it.

  “It’s us,” she answered when Marius’s disembodied voice echoed down to them.

  There was a loud buzz and a click; Annette pushed the door open, and Laurie took control of her chair again once they were in the hall of the building. She headed straight for the lift. A few seconds later they were on the landing, where Marius was standing at the open door of the flat.

  Beaming at Laurie, he leaned over her, kissed her cheek. “Hello, sweetheart,” he said warmly. “Let’s get you in front of the fire. Your face looks pinched.”

  “It’s lovely to see you, Marius,” Laurie responded, removing her gloves and scarf, shrugging herself out of her coat. After pulling the coat out from under her sister, Annette went to hang it up in the coat closet, and took off her own, put it away.

  Marius said, “We’ll go into the living room, darling.”

  “Good idea. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Laurie loved this large, beautifully proportioned room, which overlooked Eaton Square, with its tall windows and a white marble fireplace at one end. The color scheme was a mixture of yellows, which gave it a sunny feeling whatever the weathe
r outside, and the accent colors were blue and white. A fire was burning brightly in the hearth and the scent of flowers was fragrant on the air. There were bowls filled with blooms scattered about, but Laurie knew Annette always used Kenneth Turner’s scented candles throughout the flat to get the proper effect she wanted.

  Once she had positioned herself near the fire, Marius went to the drinks table nearby and took a bottle of Dom Pérignon out of the silver ice bucket. As he popped the cork, he looked at Laurie and said, “You’re a naughty girl, not coming to my sixtieth, you know. I was very disappointed.”

  Before she could answer, Annette came hurrying in with a plate of canapes. “Marius, don’t chastise her! I’ve done that already!”

  “Well, of course you have,” he remarked with a cheerful laugh, then asked, “So, who wants a glass of bubbly? Both of you, I hope. Certainly I’m going to have one.”

  “Can’t wait,” Laurie answered, beginning to thaw out in front of the blazing fire. She was filled with happiness to be with them; she adored Annette and loved Marius, who had never been anything but nice to her, and very kind.

  “I’ll have one, too,” Annette said, and went and sat on the sofa. As Marius poured the champagne, she asked, “What time’s your plane this afternoon?”

  He glanced across at her, still pouring the wine. “I had a bit of luck a short while ago. Jimmy Musgrave has offered me a lift on his private jet.”

  “Who’s Jimmy Musgrave?” Annette asked, a brow lifting. “Do I know him?”

  “No, you haven’t met him yet because he’s been in Los Angeles. He’s a new client of mine, came to me through one of my Hollywood contacts. He called to tell me he was flying to Barcelona later today and couldn’t see me next week. I said, What a coincidence, so am I. And he was quick to invite me to fly with him. He said he’d like my company; that we could talk art was the way he put it. To answer your question, I have to be at the airport at five.”