Every few moments he glanced toward the door, but as there was no sign of them, he began to study his daughter’s work more carefully. Although only ten, she already had a style of her own; the brushwork was bold and confident with no suggestion of second attempts. And then he stopped in front of the painting entitled My Father and understood why Dr. Wolfe had singled it out as quite exceptional. The image of a man and woman holding hands seemed to Seb to have been influenced by René Magritte. The woman could only have been Samantha, the warm smile and the kind eyes and even the tiny birthmark that he would never forget. The man was dressed in a gray suit, white shirt and blue tie, but the face hadn’t been filled in, just left blank. Seb felt so many emotions: sadness, stupidity, guilt, regret but, most of all, regret.
He quickly checked the door again before walking over to a desk where a young woman was sitting behind a sign that read SALES. Sebastian turned the pages of his catalogue, then asked for the price of items 9, 12, 18, 21, 37 and 52. She checked her list.
“With the exception of number thirty-seven, they are all a hundred dollars each. And, of course, all the money goes to charity.”
“Please don’t tell me number thirty-seven has already been sold?”
“No, sir. It is for sale, but I’m afraid it’s five hundred dollars.”
“I’ll take all six,” said Seb, as he removed his wallet.
“That will be one thousand dollars,” said the woman, making no attempt to hide her surprise.
Seb opened his wallet and realized immediately that, in his rush to get the cab, he’d left most of his cash in the hotel safe. “Can you reserve them for me?” he asked. “I’ll make sure you have the money long before the show closes.” He didn’t want to explain to her why he couldn’t just sign a check. That wasn’t part of plan A.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t do that,” she said. Just then, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
Seb froze and turned in panic to see Dr. Wolfe smiling at him.
“Miss Tomkins,” she said firmly. “That will be quite all right.”
“Of course, headmistress.” Looking back at Seb, she asked, “What name shall I put on the sales sheet?”
“Put them all in my name,” said Dr. Wolfe before Seb could reply.
“Thank you,” said Seb. “When can I collect them?”
“Any time on Sunday afternoon,” said Miss Tomkins. “The show closes at five.”
“Thank you again,” said Seb, before turning back to Dr. Wolfe.
“I came to warn you that I’ve just spotted Samantha and Jessica driving into the car park.” Seb looked across to the door, which seemed to be only one way out. “If you follow me,” said Dr. Wolfe, “I’ll take you to my study.”
“Thank you,” said Seb as she led him to the far end of the hall and through a door marked PRIVATE.
Once she’d closed her study door, Dr. Wolfe asked, “Why won’t you let me tell Samantha that you’ve flown over specially to see Jessica’s work? I’m sure they’d both be delighted to see you and Jessica would be so flattered.”
“I’m afraid that’s a risk I’m not willing to take at the moment. But can I ask how Jessica’s getting on?”
“As you can see from the paintings you’ve just bought, your bursary proved a wise investment, and I’m still confident that she’ll be the first girl from Jefferson to win a scholarship to the American College of Art.” Seb couldn’t hide a parent’s pride. “Now, I’d better get back before they begin to wonder where I am. If you go to the far end of the corridor, Mr. Clifton, you’ll find a back door leading into the yard, so no one will see you leaving. And if you change your mind before Sunday, you have my number. Just give me a call and I’ll do everything I can to help.”
* * *
Hakim Bishara climbed the aircraft steps, feeling his journey to Nigeria had been a complete waste of time. He was a patient man but on this occasion even his patience had been stretched to the limit. The oil minister had kept him waiting for five hours and, when he was finally ushered into his presence, he didn’t seem to be fully briefed on the new port project and suggested they meet again in a couple of weeks’ time, as if Bishara’s office was just around the corner. Bishara left fifteen minutes later with a promise that the minister would look into the matter and get back to him. He wasn’t holding his breath.
He returned to his hotel, checked out and took a taxi to the airport.
Whenever Hakim stepped onto a plane, he always hoped for one of two things: to be seated next to either a beautiful woman who would be spending a few days in a city where she was a stranger, or a businessman he normally would not have come across and who he might be able to interest in opening an account with Farthings. He corrected himself, Farthings Kaufman, and wondered how long it would take him to think it without thinking. Over the years, he’d closed three major deals because of someone he’d sat next to on a plane, and met countless women, one of whom had broken his heart after five idyllic days in Rome when she told him she was married and then flew home. He made his way to seat 3A. In the next seat was a woman of such extraordinary beauty it was hard not to just stare at her. Once he’d fastened his seatbelt, he glanced across to see she was engrossed in a novel Harry Clifton had recommended he should read. He couldn’t imagine how a book about rabbits could have any appeal.
Hakim always enjoyed trying to work out a person’s nationality, background and profession simply by observing them, a skill his father had taught him, whenever he was trying to sell a customer an expensive carpet. First, check the basics, her jewelry, his watch, their clothes and shoes, and anything else unusual.
The book suggested intelligence, the wedding ring, and even more obviously the engagement ring, spelled understated wealth. The watch was a classic Cartier Tank, no longer in production. The suit was Yves Saint Laurent and the shoes Halston. An untutored observer might have described her as a woman of a certain age; a discerning one, like Sky Masterson, as a classy broad. Her slim, elegant figure and long fair hair suggested she was Scandinavian.
He would have liked to begin a conversation with her, but as she seemed so engrossed in her novel and didn’t give him so much as a glance, he decided to settle for a few hours’ sleep, although he did wonder if he’d later regret it.
* * *
Samantha walked slowly around the exhibition with a nervous Jessica just a pace behind.
“What do you think, Mom? Will anybody buy one?”
“Well, I will for a start.”
“That’s a relief. I don’t want to be the only girl who couldn’t sell a picture.”
Samantha laughed. “I don’t think that will be your problem.”
“Do you have a favorite?”
“Yes, number thirty-seven. I think it’s the best thing you’ve ever done.” Samantha was still admiring My Father when Miss Tomkins came up and placed a red dot next to it. “But I was hoping to buy that one,” said Samantha, unable to hide her disappointment.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Brewer, but all of Jessica’s pictures were sold within a few minutes of the show opening.”
“Are you sure?” asked Jessica. “I put a price of five hundred dollars on that picture to make certain nobody would buy it because I wanted to give it to my mom.”
“It was also the gentleman’s favorite,” said Miss Tomkins. “And the price didn’t seem to bother him.”
“What was this gentleman’s name?” asked Samantha, quietly.
“I’ve no idea. He came just before the show opened and bought every one of Jessica’s pictures.” She looked around the room. “But he seems to have left.”
“I wish I’d seen him,” said Jessica.
“Why?” asked Samantha.
“Because then I could have filled in the face.”
* * *
“How much?” said Ellie May in disbelief.
“About a million and a half dollars,” admitted Cyrus.
“That must be the most expensive one-night stand in history, and
I’m damned if I’m going to let the little hussy get away with it.”
“But she’s a lady,” said Cyrus.
“She won’t be the first lady who recognizes a sucker when she sees one.”
“But there’s still a possibility that little Freddie is mine.”
“I have a feeling,” said Ellie May, “that little Freddie isn’t even hers.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“Make damn sure Lady Virginia realizes she hasn’t got away with it.”
* * *
Hakim drifted out of a shallow sleep. He blinked, pressed a button in his armrest and his seat straightened up. Moments later a stewardess offered him a warm flannel. He gently rubbed his eyes, forehead and finally the back of his neck, until he felt half awake.
“Would you like some breakfast, Mr. Bishara?” the stewardess asked as she removed the flannel with a pair of tongs.
“Just orange juice and a black coffee, please.”
He glanced at the woman on his right but he could see that she only had a few more pages of her book to read, so he reluctantly decided not to interrupt her.
When the pilot announced they would be landing in thirty minutes, the woman immediately disappeared into the lavatory and didn’t reemerge for some time. Hakim concluded that there had to be a lucky man waiting for her at Heathrow.
Hakim always liked to be among the first passengers to disembark, especially when he was only carrying hand luggage and wouldn’t be held up in the baggage hall. His chauffeur would be waiting for him outside the terminal building and, although it was a Sunday, he still intended to go into the office and tackle the mountain of unanswered mail that would have piled up on his desk. Once again, he cursed the Nigerian oil minister.
Since he’d become a British citizen he was no longer held up at passport control and didn’t have to endure the lengthy nonresidents queues. He walked past the baggage carousels and headed straight for the green channel as he hadn’t purchased anything while he was in Lagos. The moment he put his foot in the corridor, a customs officer stepped forward and blocked his path.
“Can I check your bag, sir?”
“Of course,” said Bishara, putting his small overnight bag on the low slatted table.
Another officer appeared and stood a pace behind his colleague, who was systematically going through Hakim’s single piece of luggage. All he found was a wash bag, two shirts, two pairs of pants, two pairs of socks and two silk ties; all he’d needed for a two-day visit. The customs officer then unzipped a small side pocket that Hakim rarely used. Hakim watched in disbelief as the man extracted a cellophane bag packed with a white substance. Although he’d never taken a drug in his life, he knew exactly what it must be.
“Does this belong to you, sir?” asked the officer.
“I’ve never seen it before in my life,” Hakim answered truthfully.
“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to come with us, sir.”
31
DESMOND MELLOR SMILED when he read the headline in the Daily Mail.
CITY BANKER ARRESTED IN HEROIN SWOOP
He was only halfway through the article when he looked up at Adrian Sloane and said, “This couldn’t be much better, Adrian, if you’d written it yourself.”
Sloane tossed over his copy of the Sun. “I think you’ll find this one tops it.”
BANKER BISHARA BEHIND BARS
Mellor laughed.
“He can’t hope to survive headlines like this,” said Jim Knowles. “Even the FT is saying, and I quote, ‘The Bank of England confirms that it has not received an application to merge Farthings and Kaufman’s banks, and will not be issuing any further statements on the subject.’”
“Shorthand for ‘don’t bother us again, we’ve kicked the ball into the long grass.’” said Sloane.
“What a coup,” said Mellor. “Dare I ask how you managed to pull it off, Adrian?”
“It’s probably better that you don’t know the details, Desmond, but what I can tell you is that the main participants are already safely back in Nigeria.”
“While Bishara is locked up in Wandsworth prison.”
“What’s more, I can’t see him enjoying any better accommodation for the next few months.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Jim Knowles. “That smooth-talking QC of his will probably get him out on bail.”
“Not if Bishara’s charged with unlawful possession of a Class A drug with intent to supply,” said Sloane.
“And if he’s found guilty,” asked Knowles, “how long could he be sent down for?”
“The minimum sentence is five years, according to the Times. I’m not too fussed about the maximum, because I’ll be chairman of Farthings long before then,” said Mellor.
“What do you think will happen to the two banks’ shares?”
“They’ll collapse, but we should hold fire for a few days until they bottom out,” said Mellor. “That’s when I intend to pick up another couple of percent, before I join the Farthings board. While the trial’s taking place I’ll position myself as a white knight who’s reluctantly willing to come to the rescue of the beleaguered shareholders. And after Bishara’s been found guilty, I’ll allow myself to be persuaded to return as chairman of Farthings in order to save the bank’s reputation.”
“Sebastian Clifton’s unlikely to just sit around twiddling his thumbs while all this is going on,” said Knowles.
“He’ll hang in there until Bishara’s convicted,” said Mellor. “And once I’m chairman, I’ll be the first to commiserate with him and say how sorry I am that he feels he also has to resign.”
* * *
Sebastian was sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and, like the sixteenth president, was deep in thought. He would have returned to England that morning if the school had been willing to release Jessica’s paintings, but Miss Tomkins wouldn’t allow him to collect them until Sunday afternoon.
He had decided to go back to the school and have another look at Jessica’s work, but not before he had convinced himself it was unlikely that she or Samantha would return on a Saturday afternoon. Or did he actually hope they would?
He finally left Lincoln and went in search of Jefferson. He took a cab back to the school with the excuse he ought to pay off his debt as soon as possible. As he entered the exhibition hall, he was relieved to see how few parents were there; it was clear from the plethora of red dots that most of them must have attended the opening night. One fixture remained dutifully in place behind her desk. Seb walked across to Miss Tomkins and handed over a thousand dollars in cash.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m sure you’d like to know that several people were disappointed not to be able to get hold of any of Jessica’s paintings. Including her mother, who had wanted to buy My Father. She asked me who’d bought it, but of course I couldn’t tell her, because I didn’t know your name.”
Seb smiled. “Thank you. And if I may, I’ll collect them all tomorrow afternoon.”
He left Miss Tomkins to have another look at Jessica’s paintings. He took his time studying the half dozen works he now owned and, with the satisfaction of a seasoned collector, he ended up in front of My Father, which he had already decided would hang over the mantelpiece in his flat. He was just about to leave when a voice behind him said, “Are you looking in a mirror?”
Sebastian swung around to see his daughter, who immediately threw her arms around him and said, “What took you so long?”
It was rare for Sebastian to be struck speechless, but he just didn’t know what to say, so he clung onto her before she took a step back and grinned up at him. “Well, say something!”
“I’m so sorry,” he eventually managed. “You’re right. I did see you once, years ago, but I didn’t have the courage to say hello. I’ve been such a fool.”
“Well, we can at least agree on that,” said Jessica. “But then, to be fair, Mom hasn’t exactly covered herself in glory either.” Jessica took
his hand and led him out of the room, continuing to chat as if they were old friends. “Actually, she’s just as much to blame as you are. I told her to get in touch with you after my stepfather died.”
“You never thought he was your father?”
“I may not be that good at math, but even I can work out that if I was six and they’d met only five years before…”
Seb laughed.
“Just after Michael died, Mom confirmed what I already knew, but I still couldn’t persuade her to get in touch with you.”
They walked around the park, arm in arm, dropped into a Farrell’s ice-cream parlor and shared a hot fudge sundae, while she chatted about her friends, her painting, her plans for the future. As he listened he wondered hopelessly how he could make up for all the lost years in a couple of hours.
“It’s getting late,” he said eventually, looking at his watch. “Won’t your mother be wondering where you are?”
“Sebastian,” she said, placing her hands on her hips, “I’m ten years old.”
“Well, if you’re so grown-up, what do you think I should do next?”
“I’ve taken care of that. You’re taking Mom and me to dinner at the Belvedere tonight. I’ve already made a reservation for three at seven thirty. Then all we’ll need to decide is if we’re going to live in London or Washington.”
“But what if I hadn’t come back to the school this afternoon?”
“I knew you’d come back.”
“But I didn’t know myself.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“You seem to have everything worked out,” said Seb.
“Of course I have. I’ve had a long time to think about it, haven’t I?”
“And is your mother happy to fall in with your plans?”
“I haven’t actually told her yet. But we can sort all that out tonight, can’t we?”
Cometh the Hour Page 23
