“How did you find it?” she asked, her curiosity aroused.
“Oh, thereby hangs a long tale. . . . I’m not sure you need to hear it.”
“Yes, I do,” she insisted, wanting to know more about him and his life.
“Well, it was like this. When I was young, a woman fell in love with me, good-looking lad that I was, and decided to let me have the villa at the cheapest price anyone ever heard of. . . .” He began to laugh when he saw the odd look on her face. “No, no, it’s not what you think. Let me tell you the real story. Madame Colette Arnaud owned the Villa Saint-Honoré and knew how much I loved the place. And this is what happened.”
Annette listened to him attentively, relishing what she was hearing. He told a story well. But then he would, wouldn’t he? He was a writer. Nonetheless, he embellished it in just the right places, and she found the story of the little boy and the old lady touching, and told him this when he had finished.
After this, lunch went very smoothly. They ate their risotto primavera, and Jack ordered two more glasses of white wine. And he kept her laughing for most of the next hour.
It was over coffee that he asked her if she could spare some time the following day. “I just need a couple of hours with you, Annette, to tie up a few loose ends. Also, I’d like to have a word with your sister on Sunday or Monday. I can do it on the phone if she prefers.”
“I am sure she would be happy to see you in person, whichever you want. And I can see you tomorrow afternoon, or Sunday. Marius has to go to Barcelona tomorrow on business, so I’m free.”
“How about tomorrow afternoon? At your apartment?”
“That will be fine,” she agreed, and instantly regretted this. But she could not take the words back without looking foolish. If she was still nervous tomorrow, she could always cancel the appointment.
Twenty-five
The shrill ringing of the telephone brought Annette out of the shower, and she grabbed the receiver and said, “Hello?”
“Hello Annette it’s Christopher and you’ve got to come down here immediately any way as soon as you can I’ve found something interesting—”
“Please slow down, Chris, I don’t understand you, you’re babbling. Start all over again, please.”
“Okay. Sorry. I said, Hello, Annette, you’ve got to come down here immediately, anyway as soon as you can, I’ve found something interesting, and then you interrupted me.”
“Because I couldn’t understand, you were speaking in such a rush of words. So what have you found?”
“Some paintings.” He sounded excited.
“Let me take this in my office, Christopher. I’ll put you on hold for a moment.”
“Okay.”
Pulling on a terry-cloth robe and sliding her feet into a pair of matching slippers, she almost ran down the corridor to her office, excited by this news herself. Sitting down at the desk, she picked up the phone and said, “Well, no wonder you’re babbling. I’d be babbling, too. Tell me all about it.”
“Several weeks ago I decided to spruce up some of the rooms here, including my bedroom, and my uncle’s upstairs den next to it—”
“I thought you didn’t use the master bedroom because of . . . the suicide incident,” she interrupted, appalled at the thought of him sleeping there.
“God no, of course I don’t use it! I’m shuddering at the thought. I’m talking about another bedroom, which I’ve made my own, along the corridor. Anyway, I hired a contractor to do the work. He started last week, but only began renovation on my uncle’s den yesterday. And guess what? One of the painters was scraping off the old paint when he leaned against a wall, and it caved in. He fell down three steps. Into a small room. A hidden room. There was a filing cabinet, and some paintings.”
“Good paintings?” she asked, hardly daring to breathe.
“I’ll say! A Degas, Annette, a Degas ballet dancer.”
“Oh, my God! That’s wonderful, fabulous. What else?”
“Two Manets, a Pissarro, and two Cézannes, and don’t worry, there’s no soot on the two Cézannes. In fact, the paintings all seem to be in pretty good condition, at least to me they are.”
“I can’t believe this, I just can’t!” Annette was almost speechless, thrilled by his discovery.
“Believe it. So what time can you get here today? In time for lunch?”
“Yes, I’ll do my best.” She glanced at the clock. It was not quite eight-thirty. “I’ll get ready at once. Oh, wait, I’ll have to phone Jack Chalmers and cancel my appointment with him this afternoon. I hope he’s going to agree. It’s his last interview with me before writing the profile.”
“Bring him with you, Annette. The more the merrier, I say. This is a fabulous discovery, and he could write about it, couldn’t he? Bet he’ll jump at the idea of coming with you.”
“But I don’t know that I should do that,” she said, thinking out loud, hesitating. “I don’t usually do my business with journalists sitting on the sidelines, listening to everything.”
“But you’re not really doing business, are you? Actually, you’re coming to view some paintings . . . the paintings you believed were here somewhere, and you were right. As usual.”
“I did think some art had gone missing, yes, because your uncle was reputed to have quite an extensive collection.”
“Ask Jack to come, Annette. I liked him. He can finish his interview with you on the drive down.”
Although she was still hesitant, reluctant to invite Jack to accompany her, Annette finally said, “Let me talk to him, and I’ll play it by ear. But don’t worry, I will be there today for lunch, Christopher. This is too important. Maybe Jack will interview me tomorrow.”
“That’s fine. Do what’s best for you, Annette, but please call me back so I can tell Mrs. Joules how many will be having lunch here.”
“Give me ten minutes,” Annette answered, and hung up. She sat for a moment staring into space, her mind working rapidly. There was no question in her mind that she must go to Knowle Court today; this discovery was far too important to ignore. But the thought of bringing Jack along was worrisome, and for a variety of reasons. His presence disturbed her, because she reacted to him on an emotional level. His charming manner encouraged her to confide. Also she did not particularly want an audience when viewing the paintings.
A thought struck her, and she dialed Christopher’s number. He answered on the second ring. “Chris, it’s Annette,” she said.
“That was quick. And I bet he said yes.”
“I haven’t phoned Jack yet. I just wanted to ask you a question. Is James Pollard with you this weekend?”
“Yes, he is. Why?”
“I think that’s good. He can keep Jack company. If I decide to ask him, that is. Give me a couple of minutes.” Again she hung up, found Jack’s mobile number, and punched it in. It rang and rang. Voice mail did not pick up, and just as she was about to click off he answered.
“Jack Chalmers here.”
“Good morning, Jack. It’s Annette Remmington.”
“Hi, Annette, nice to hear your voice. Oh God, you’re not canceling, are you?”
“No, no, of course not. Something’s just come up, though, and I wondered if you could change our date. Can we meet tomorrow?”
“It’s going to make it tough for me. I’ve got to start writing the profile tomorrow. It has to be in on Tuesday.”
“But you said you’re not going to interview Laurie until Sunday or Monday.”
“That’s right. However, I can write the profile of you tomorrow, and simply insert her quotes later on Monday. . . . I’d like to help you, just let me think a minute. . . . Now how can I work this out?”
Detecting a note of worry in his voice, she made a sudden swift decision. “Never mind. Let’s not change our date for today. This is my problem, but maybe we can solve it together. Let me explain. I’ve just had a call from Christopher Delaware. He’s found several paintings at Knowle Court. He wants me to go down to Ken
t to see them and have lunch. And I really should do that. However, when I explained I had a date with you, he suggested I bring you along. How do you feel about that, shall—”
“I feel great about it,” he exclaimed, cutting her off. “I’d love to come with you.”
“All right. Can you be here in an hour?”
“Of course. I’m ready now.”
“But I’m not, I’m afraid. I’ll order a car and driver, and you can do the interview on the way down.”
“You don’t have to order a car, Annette. Kyle left for Paris today with his producer, Tony Lund. He gave me the key to his Aston Martin DB24. So I can drive us down.”
“But what about the interview?”
“I have a digital recorder, remember. All I have to do is turn it on. And you can hold it, can’t you?”
She simply laughed.
“So that’s okay, is it?”
“Yes. By the way, Knowle Court is quite close to Aldington.”
“Oh, I know Aldington quite well, and I once went to Goldenhurst. But not when Noël Coward lived there. I went to a charity event.”
Second-guessing him, Annette said, “I suppose you want to ask me about my mother, don’t you?”
“Indeed I do,” Jack said without looking at her, keeping his eyes on the road. “So you’re ready to start, are you?”
“Whenever you want.”
“Turn the recorder on, and then we can begin. Just a few questions, Annette.”
“All right, let me deal with this.” She checked the recorder as she spoke and added, “We can start.”
“You never did tell me your father’s name, by the way. What was it?” Jack asked.
“Arthur . . . Watson.”
“And your mother’s name?”
“Claire Watson.”
“You told me that after your father died, you and Laurie went to live with your grandparents in Ilkley. And your mother, too, I presume?”
“Yes. After my mother died several years later, we went to live with our mother’s sister. Our aunt lived in London. Her name was Sylvia Dalrymple. She was widowed and had no children. She was happy to take us in, actually. My aunt was very encouraging, liked my paintings, wanted me to have a career in art. It was she who sent me to the Royal College of Art, in fact. I thought I was very lucky.”
“Going back to your mother for a moment, did she ever do anything? What I mean is, did she work, or was she solely a wife and mother?”
“A wife and mother mostly, but she did have aspirations about going on the stage, being an actress. At times, she even did do some amateur acting when we were small. But her career never really developed or came to much,” Annette explained, reciting the revamp of her mother’s life, which she had worked out earlier.
“Perhaps that’s where Laurie’s desire to be an actress came from, right?” He cast a quick look at her, then focused on the road ahead.
“Probably,” Annette replied with a faint smile.
“How long have you been married to Marius?” Jack asked unexpectedly, changing the subject.
He had taken her by surprise. She said, “It will be twenty-one years this coming summer. I was nineteen.”
“That long! My goodness, you have had a successful marriage, haven’t you?” he murmured, and couldn’t help wondering about their union and how much the length of time mattered.
“Yes,” she said. “Aside from caring about me, Marius has been my mentor over the years, has taught me a lot about art, and he’s always encouraged me, been my champion.”
“But you do work separately from him now, don’t you? Since you founded Annette Remmington Fine Art? Why did you go out on your own?”
Turning slightly in her seat, looking at him, hoping the questions would soon be over, she answered, “I suppose it’s called ambition. I wanted to have my own company, under my own name, but I didn’t want the responsibility and the high overhead of a gallery. That’s why I started my consultancy business. I advise clients, find art for them, buy it, sell it for them, evaluate their collections, advise them about restoring their art, make decisions about whether the art needs restoration, and bring in other experts, if necessary. I provide a service, in other words. And I don’t have to carry a huge inventory of paintings and sculpture, which can be extremely costly, as you can imagine.”
“Thanks for explaining that last bit, and I understand now why you didn’t go for your own gallery. Just a couple more questions, Annette, and then that’ll be it, I think.”
“I’m glad to answer,” she said.
“Okay. What do you think drives you?”
“Gosh, that’s a hard one. . . . I suppose I’m driven . . . because it’s my nature. But I’ve always thought that in a way it’s the desire to succeed, the ambition, that creates that drive. Am I making sense?”
“Yes, you are. And I believe those two things do go hand in hand, plus an aptitude for a lot of hard work. You do work hard, I think, don’t you?”
She nodded. “Laurie often accuses me of being a workaholic.” She laughed. “Most people say that, actually. But I enjoy my work, and I love the sense of accomplishment I have when something’s gone really well.”
“I bet you felt this when you auctioned off that Rembrandt, didn’t you?” He glanced at her again and grinned.
“I certainly did. And I don’t mind admitting it was a wonderful feeling. The best. I can’t wait to feel it again.”
“That’s a great last line for my piece. Thanks, Annette, for a fabulous sound bite.”
“If you think of anything else, we can discuss it on the way back to London. And if the interview is really over, I’d like to ask you something.”
“Go ahead, ask me anything.”
“What did you think of Goldenhurst? And what was the charity event?”
“That’s two questions,” he teased. “I loved the house, it’s such a beautiful old place, and as I walked around I couldn’t help thinking about Noël Coward, who wrote some of his most marvelous plays and music there. Many years ago, of course. And the charity event was something my aunt Helen dragged me to. It was for a local hospice, and so worthwhile. I enjoyed the afternoon, in fact.”
“You know its full name is Goldenhurst Farm, and it was Noël Coward’s country home for thirty years. It’s close to the White Cliffs of Dover, a song he sometimes sang at the piano. Vera Lynn also sang it, and made it famous in the Second World War,” Annette volunteered.
“I happen to love the Romney Marsh, and in certain very flat parts of it the sea looks as if it’s higher up, above the land and part of the sky. Marvelous.”
“If I ever had a country house, I would like it to be in Kent,” Annette confided, and again wondered why she told him things she had never mentioned to anyone, not even Laurie.
“It would be near the marshes, I’m certain of that,” Jack said.
Annette merely smiled, and they went on talking about houses and art and country homes for the remainder of the trip to Aldington. Jack did not ask any questions about the paintings Christopher had found, nor did she volunteer anything.
But at one moment, she surprised herself when she suddenly asked, “Have you ever been married, Jack?” The words had just flown out of her mouth, and she regretted them.
He gave a quick glance and said, “No, never. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it. However, I don’t think I’ve met the right woman yet.”
“What kind of woman would be the right woman for you?”
“Someone like you.” He cleared his throat, and wondered if he’d made a mistake.
“Oh,” she said, swallowing, and then fell silent, her heart pounding. And panic took over again.
Twenty-six
They didn’t say much after this, and toward the end of the journey they fell completely silent, lost in their own thoughts. Annette was suddenly focused on the questions Jack had asked, which hadn’t been very many, and she couldn’t help thinking he had insisted on keeping the date
because he wanted to see her, to be with her. After all, he could have easily asked them over the phone.
She was well aware that she had invited him to come along, much against her better judgment, because she liked the idea of spending the day with him in Kent. But now she wondered if she had done the wrong thing. She did trust him, believed him to be honorable, but she was making him privy to her business. She had never done that before, did not even allow Marius to get involved, except on extremely rare occasions.
Well, so be it. Here she was, sitting next to him in the Aston Martin, and enjoying being with him. To her surprise she was no longer as nervous and agitated as she usually was when they were in close proximity. Was it because she had begun to realize that he was as attracted to her as she was to him?
Jack suddenly spoke, cutting into her thoughts. He asked, “How close are we now, Annette? In my estimate we must almost be there.”
“We are,” she answered, sitting up straighter in the car seat. “In a couple of minutes we’ll be in Aldington. You’ll drive through the town, pass by Goldenhurst, and within a few seconds you’ll see big iron gates. That’s Knowle Court.”
“I expect it’s a grand house, isn’t it?”
“Sort of. Actually it looks a bit like a small castle.” An involuntary shiver ran through her.
Jack noticed this through the corner of his eye and said, “You don’t like the place, do you?”
“No, I don’t, and neither did Laurie when she was here a few weeks ago. It’s sort of . . . creepy. We both felt that.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, starting to laugh. “You’ve got me to protect you.”
“I shall rely on you then.” Swiveling slightly, focusing on him, she said, “Jack, there’s something I want to say to you. Would you mind pulling over for a moment?”
“Of course not. What’s the matter?” he asked, as he slowed down, stopped, and pulled on the brake. He turned in the car seat to look at her. “Is something wrong? You sound worried.”
Playing the Game Page 22
