• • •
The next morning Katie found her mother emptying the studio of the easel and paints.
“What are you doing, Mummy?” she asked.
“I thought we would make this into a playroom,” she said. “What do you think?” Katie was only too happy to go along with that. And with a dollhouse where her easel had once been, Serena felt much safer.
CHAPTER 57
Fortunately for Nat Wilde, the potential embarrassment of the matter of the fakes that had been sold via his department was diluted by the dramatic news that a long-lost Ricasoli had suddenly resurfaced in London. The painting, known as The Virgin Before the Annunciation, had been revealed to the world by an anonymous Russian industrialist, who claimed to have found the picture in the attic of one of his houses in Ukraine. Believing it to be a clever pastiche and worthless, he had brought it from his holiday home to hang on the wall in his London office. Upon discovering that it was a genuine Ricasoli, however, verified by tests at the most respectable laboratories, the industrialist set about tracking down the family who had owned the painting before it was looted by the Nazis. He had found just two surviving members of the family, an elderly brother and sister in Warsaw. But the poor Wasowskis were never to know of the change in their fortunes. They died in a house fire just twenty-four hours after the industrialist found out where they were living.
And so, at last, the authorities agreed that the lucky Russian would have the benefit of this incredible windfall. The painting was his. It was a real Ricasoli. He could tell the world. And he was free to sell it.
Belanov turned to Yasha Suscenko for advice on how to get the best price for The Virgin. An auction seemed the best idea, said Yasha. Indeed, as soon as the news of the painting’s existence broke, every auction house in the world went into a frenzy as they tried to work out in whose hands the Ricasoli lay and how they could persuade him to consign his precious painting with them. Sotheby’s or Christie’s seemed like the obvious choice. Their Old Masters departments eagerly awaited the call. But Yasha had other ideas.
“Forget the big boys,” he told his client. “Try Ludbrook’s or Ehrenpreis. These little guys will give you a better deal on the seller’s premium. Could save you millions.” Yasha knew that in reality the big boys would cut Belanov a very good deal indeed, but Belanov didn’t question Yasha’s wisdom on that point.
“What about the prestige?” asked Belanov. “Marketing?”
“Nat Wilde and Carrie Klein are both pretty hot on that.”
“Are you sure? How will people know about the sale?”
“You don’t need to worry about that,” Yasha told him. “You’re selling a Ricasoli. Serious collectors don’t care about the auction house’s name.”
Belanov nodded. He decided that Yasha was right. There was no danger that the painting wouldn’t attract attention, and he could drive a much harder bargain on fees if he decided to sell through a smaller house. Plus, if he was honest, there were other, more emotional reasons for wanting to avoid the traditional channels.
Though he was considered to be one of the most frightening men of his generation both in the boardroom and the back alley, the über-rich Russian had never quite shaken the insecurity of his upbringing. The eldest of six children, he had been raised by a single mother in conditions for which the word “slum” was a little too generous. There had been no money for anything but the basics, and sometimes, not even for those. He left school as soon as he could and set to work to help provide for his youngest siblings. Fear of starvation had driven Belanov to take the first steps on the dodgy road that would eventually lead to his fortune.
However, though he would never say it to anyone, not even to his beloved wife, Belanov was intimidated by the cultured, overeducated people who thronged the European world of fine art. When he turned up to buy at auction, he often felt they were patronizing him and his choices. That was why he now sent Yasha Suscenko to do his shopping for him. As they discussed the future of the Ricasoli, Belanov couldn’t help remembering a woman he had met at one of the big houses and her condescending smile when he’d told her that he had recently purchased a painting by Jack Vettriano. “Biscuit tin art,” was how she had referred to the picture he had liked so much of a dancing couple on a beach. It didn’t matter to him then that he could have bought the entire auction house and had change for an Aston Martin. Her comment had left Belanov feeling humiliated. He knew he could never buy the sophistication and confidence that came from a childhood of privilege.
And so, by going with a smaller house, he would be giving the likes of that woman the finger. Belanov didn’t have to follow tradition. He was part of the new order, and he was going to do things his way. He decided he liked the way that Yasha was thinking.
“Try Ehrenpreis first,” he said. “The Americans are less arrogant than the English.”
“I’ll arrange for Carrie Klein to come and see the painting,” Yasha said.
Carrie Klein was not expecting to be asked to pitch to sell the Ricasoli. Like everyone else in the art world, she expected to next see it in a Sotheby’s catalog. So when the call came to visit the bank vault where the picture now lay in state, she was almost lost for words. She moved an afternoon full of meetings to be there at the earliest possible opportunity.
As she sat in the back of a taxi, wishing the traffic away, Carrie considered the momentous impact this painting could have on her career. She knew that despite her efforts, Ehrenpreis London was still at best the fifth house people thought of when they considered buying or selling at auction. This painting, lost for so many years, could change all that in a second. Like everyone else in her business, she had pored over the pictures in the papers. She had read the laboratory reports that had been circulated covertly among interested parties. She had read about the painting’s history and had seen copies of the documentation that confirmed its provenance, including the entry in an inventory of art claimed by the Nazis during the Second World War. As the taxi drew up outside the exclusive private bank, Carrie was almost breathless with anticipation. If she were asked to put a figure on how much she could sell it for, what could she say except, “It’s priceless.”
• • •
The owner’s associate met Carrie in the plush waiting room. They exchanged few words while they waited to be escorted into the vault itself. They were frisked for weapons. Carrie’s mobile phone and even her fountain pen were confiscated before they were allowed anywhere near the painting.
“In case you try to damage it,” said the Russian as Carrie handed over her Montblanc.
Carrie snorted. “Sir, asking me to damage a Ricasoli would be like asking me to put a bullet in someone’s head.”
The blank look she got in return suggested that her companion didn’t think putting a bullet in someone’s head was such a big deal.
At last, the painting was ready for them. The lights were harsh in the tiny room, which had walls thick enough to withstand nuclear Armageddon. There was nothing inside but the painting on an easel. It had been framed since its sojourn in Tuscany. That was frustrating to Carrie, who would have liked to examine the edges of the canvas herself. But that could be done later if she decided to proceed.
“What do you think?” asked the owner’s associate.
“It’s wonderful,” Carrie confirmed. She didn’t need to be an art expert to appreciate the first, visceral impact of the picture. The photographs she had seen did not do the painting justice. Even in the harsh artificial light of the vault, there was a luminous quality to the colors. They looked as fresh as if they had been painted that morning. And the subject had been rendered so exquisitely. Carrie could see the influence of Caravaggio in the Virgin’s sumptuous gown and the expertly drawn fruit she held in her hand. Carrie held her loupe to her eye and leaned forward so that she could see the individual pips in the flesh of the fig. The individual hairs on the Virgin’s head. Her lashes. The detail was exquisite. On the sea glimpsed through the window beh
ind the Virgin’s head, a small boat sailed. Its two sailors were clearly visible as they hauled in a net. With her magnifying glass, Carrie could even see the fish they caught.
“You think you can sell it?” The Russian interrupted Carrie’s reverie.
“There’s no doubt I know people who would like to buy it,” she replied.
“So, you going to tell me why my boss should let you be the one to put his Virgin up for auction?”
Carrie straightened up. She tapped the loupe against her bottom lip as she regarded the painting from a slight distance once more, taking in the overall effect, trying to tune in to something more important than her “expert opinion,” which took into account the paperwork and the lab results. She tried to tune in to her intuition.
Though it was almost two and a half years since she had unwittingly consigned that fake Constable, Carrie thought of the incident every time she looked at another painting she hoped to sell. Carrie had analyzed her big mistake a thousand times and had come to the conclusion that she had known something was awry. She had suspected that the painting that ended up in her auction was not entirely what it should be, but she had allowed herself to be convinced by the documents that accompanied it and, she finally admitted, had become greedy to have such a big ticket item on her hands. The idea of the prestige associated with selling such a painting had drowned out Carrie’s instinct that it wasn’t the real thing. Since then, since the humiliation of being wrong, she had vowed never to distrust her instincts again.
This painting, this “Ricasoli,” was so beautiful. Its beauty alone would have made it worth consigning. But the attribution to such an important artist meant it was impossible for Carrie to take a risk. There was no way she could suggest to this particular owner that they present the picture as “from the studio of.” Something deep inside her was telling her that all was not right here. She couldn’t put her finger on the problem. The provenance seemed to add up. The subject matter. The style. The lab results said it was old enough. And yet …
Carrie studied the face of the Virgin one more time. It had been painted with such care and love. Clearly, whoever had captured that face had known it well, but …
“I’m afraid I can’t take this painting,” Carrie told the owner’s representative.
The Russian was incredulous.
“Are you crazy?” he said. “It’s a Ricasoli. This could make your career.”
“I know,” said Carrie.
“So what’s with your arrogance?”
“Not arrogance,” said Carrie. “On the contrary, seeing this painting makes me feel rather humble.” She was grateful that she was able to couch her answer in business terms, rather than have to voice her nebulous doubts about the painting itself. “The thing is, your boss wants consignment terms that are impossible for me to offer. I’m sure that the bigger houses like Christie’s or Sotheby’s would actually be happy to sell this painting at no cost to your employer at all, making all their money on the buyer’s premium, but Ehrenpreis is a very small house, and we’re unable to make such concessions. The cost of insuring such a painting while it is in our possession would be prohibitive. We don’t have the necessary security infrastructure. I’m sure you understand.”
“I don’t,” said the Russian.
“I’m sorry,” said Carrie. “I apologize for having wasted your time.” She left the bank vault with her heart in her mouth, praying that she wasn’t wrong.
Next it was the turn of Ludbrook’s. Nat took Lizzy, of course. He didn’t want to, but she was his deputy and something like this required a trustworthy second opinion.
Nat joked with the owner’s representative in the private bank’s waiting room.
“Trying to make sure she stays a Virgin until the big day,” he commented on the decision to have the painting in a vault.
The Russian nodded.
“Right bundle of laughs,” Nat muttered as he and Lizzy followed the man into the vault.
The painting was on its easel, all the more stunning for its rather plain surroundings.
Nat made a lot of fuss with his black light and his loupe, though the black light was pretty useless since security in the vault meant that the main lights could not be turned off. Lizzy smiled tightly as Nat ran through the spiel he had learned just that morning. He talked about Ricasoli as though he had known the man himself. Lizzy knew that Nat’s encyclopedic knowledge came from a page of notes typed up by Sarah Jane.
“Utterly typical of the man,” Nat pontificated. “Figs were a popular motif. Of course they represent female sexuality, of which Ricasoli was a great connoisseur.”
Lizzy frowned. She couldn’t think of a single other Ricasoli fig painting. But she let Nat rattle on. “The artist was a veritable Casanova,” he continued. “It’s said that he left behind more children than paintings …”
“Can you sell it?” was the only question the Russian had to ask.
Nat leaped straight in with Ludbrook’s terms and conditions. He had practically shaken hands on the deal when Lizzy drew him aside.
“Nat,” she said, “I’m not quite sure about this. I want to go upstairs and talk about it.”
“What’s your issue? The owner is a renowned collector.”
“What? We don’t know who he is,” Lizzy pointed out.
“Okay. But the provenance checks out. And it looks like one of Ricasoli’s paintings to me. What exactly is your problem?”
“It’s just a feeling,” whispered Lizzy. “An instinct.”
“Ah, you girls and your instincts. I appreciate your integrity, my dear,” he said, with nothing “dear” in his tone, “but I do not want to lose the consignment of a century just because you’ve got your period. I say it’s the real thing.”
“I’m not sure. I’m not willing to consign this painting.”
“Overruled,” said Nat.
“Okay,” said Lizzy at last. There was little point arguing. And in any case, Nat’s certainty made Lizzy’s own convictions feel just a little unsteady. If she prevented Nat from consigning a genuine painting by Giancarlo Ricasoli, then she would never recover from the ignominy. If, on the other hand, the painting was eventually deemed to be a fake, it was off her conscience. Lizzy surprised herself with the Machiavellian nature of her calculation. Perhaps Nat’s influence had rubbed off on her in more ways than one.
“Okay. Let’s tell him we’ll take it,” Lizzy sighed. “It could be the high point of your career.”
Having made the decision that the painting was real, Nat wasted no time. Guessing what concessions Christie’s and Sotheby’s might have offered, not knowing that they hadn’t even been asked to pitch, he offered at once to waive any consignment fee.
“We’ll more than make up for it with the buyer’s premium,” he said conspiratorially.
The deal was soon done.
Nat walked back into the Ludbrook’s office with the swagger of a general returning from a successful campaign. The news that he had bagged the Ricasoli was around the building within minutes. Harry Brown stopped by Nat’s office to congratulate him and suggest that they nip out for a quick glass of something to celebrate. Nat didn’t refuse, though there was plenty of work to be done. He left that to the girls and boys in his office. Lizzy prepared a brief for the PR department, who set to work alerting all the daily newspapers about the upcoming sale. Ordinarily, the PR department targeted the broadsheets, since theirs was the readership most likely to be interested in something like fine art or sculpture, but the news that the painting would almost certainly fetch more than fifty million made it something that all the papers would write about. Even if the Express, The Sun, and the Daily Mail accompanied the news with headlines like, “Is This Painting Really Worth Fifty Mill?” or “Old Painting That Costs More Than a Hospital. Has the World Gone Mad?”
Yes, thought Lizzy. The world has gone mad. But it had been mad for a long time. She was increasingly aware of the difference between the lives of those people who consign
ed or bought items worth millions of dollars through her auction house and the lives of average Londoners. During the day, Lizzy routinely tucked paintings worth a couple of hundred grand under her arm and walked around the building with them as though they were just pieces of canvas and wood. Which in a way they were, if you thought about it. In the evenings she scoured the property pages of the Evening Standard and wondered how easy it would be to commute from Scotland to Mayfair on a daily basis. Because that’s what she expected to have to do if she ever wanted to have her own place.
Lizzy wanted more. The time had come for her to step out of Nat’s shadow. She knew that. But how was she going to be able to do it? She didn’t think Nat would write her a glowing reference if she tried to move to another house. Since Lizzy had blown the whistle about the fake Victorian paintings, Nat had been remarkably civil. To all intents and purposes, they seemed to have reached a détente. But she had a feeling that underneath the pretense that everything was as it should be—they just weren’t sleeping together anymore—Nat was planning some kind of payback.
At the end of the day, one of the girls from PR dropped by Lizzy’s office and handed her a sheet outlining her plans for promoting The Virgin.
“I’ve sent you a copy via email,” the girl explained, “but I thought I better print one out for Nat.” She rolled her eyes. Nat was a dinosaur when it came to in-house correspondence. He liked to have everything printed out. It made Lizzy wonder for a second whether he had printed out the cheeky emails she’d sent him back when he was still interested in seeing her after hours.
“This is going to be super-easy,” the PR girl continued. “The Telegraph and The Times have already confirmed that they’d like to run the piece. They were wondering if it would be possible to get a better picture, though.”
“I’ll get on that,” said Lizzy. “I think our photographer is going to take pictures for the catalog tomorrow morning.”
“Cool,” said the PR girl. “This is going to be one hell of a sale.”
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