The dining room at Mark’s was a favourite of Annette’s because of the art hanging on the walls. All of the paintings were of dogs and had been painted in the 19th and early 20th centuries. Beautifully framed, they had been cleverly arranged and hung by Mark Birley himself many years before.
The two of them sat on a banquette facing the longest wall in the room, at the table Annette considered to be the best in the room. From where they were sitting they had a perfect view of the oil paintings, all of which were beautiful as well as charming, amusing and often poignant; they never failed to bring a smile to her face, or touch her heart.
‘Oh, good, they’ve got bangers and mash on the menu tonight,’ Marius exclaimed as he eyed the menu. ‘Yes, it’s nursery food for me: sausages and spuds. Takes me back to my childhood. What would you like, Annette?’
‘You know I always have the potted shrimp when we come here, they’re the best in London, and I think I’ll have the grilled sole.’
‘A bit of a fishy dinner, darling, isn’t it?’ he teased. ‘But I’ll order a good Pouilly-Fuissé. How’s that?’
‘Lovely, Marius, and what are you going to have first?’
‘Like you, the potted shrimp.’ He indicated to the maître d’ standing near the doorway that they were ready to order, and he came over at once, smiling, his pad in hand.
Once they had ordered their dinner, Annette swivelled slightly on the banquette and put her hand on Marius’s arm. She said in a light voice, not wanting to be overly dramatic, ‘I really don’t want to do any interviews. Not even one. Can’t I just skip it?’
Turning to her, studying her for a moment, Marius took hold of her hand, held it in his. He said, finally, in a low voice, ‘No, you can’t skip it, Annette. And for a variety of reasons, which I’ll get to in a moment. I want to say something else first, and it’s this. I do interviews all the time, and the press these days are mostly interested in the art, and only the art. How much is the painting worth? What will you get for it? Who owned it before? Art is now equated with big money, huge money, and that’s what they love to write about. Money, provenance, who’s competing with each other to buy the latest and most important symbol of power and wealth. Please believe me, I’m right about this. And then there’s the sudden discovery of The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer. Your new prize piece. It’s vital to get tongues wagging about it, and what better way than in an important interview?’
A sigh escaped, and she said quietly, hesitantly, ‘I suppose so …’ She broke off, shrugged, looked directly at him. ‘I can’t tell you how much I hate the idea of doing even one interview, whoever the journalist might be,’ she added, her tone suddenly stronger.
‘I know that. But listen to me – you really do have to do one, at least. And it must be a big one. Art is a bit of a cutthroat business, you know that, and everyone is scrambling to be at the top. The competition is fierce; you’ve lived through it for years. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, you became a star overnight. Partially because Christopher Delaware remembered you were nice to him at a dinner, and he brought the Rembrandt to you. Luck. Sheer bloody luck, sweetheart! So you must keep your name up there. You can’t simply turn away and hope to go on making big deals without promoting yourself.’
He paused, took a sip of the wine the sommelier brought for him to taste, and nodded. ‘Very good. Nice and cold, too. Thank you.’
He gave the waiter a faint smile, and turned back to his wife. ‘You’ve done well with Annette Remmington Fine Art because of the route you went, setting yourself up as an art consultant and art expert, rather than opening your own gallery. You know only too well what that costs. But your overhead is in the medium range because you have a small office and a small staff. It all works in your favour. However you’ve got to keep making the big deals, the superlative deals, and publicity is mandatory. Your clients, the right clients for you, must be the wealthiest in the world. The tycoons, titans of industry, lawyers, bankers, the billionaire bunch who can afford those much-desired famous paintings and sculptures by the world’s greatest artists. Because expensive art is the status symbol today.’
Silent, she sipped her white wine, made no comment. She was taut inside.
In a much firmer voice he continued, ‘You’ve got to keep your eye on your ultimate goal. Okay? Focus. Determination. Drive. Ambition. Taste. Knowledge of art. Those are your special attributes and you must not lose sight of them. And there’s another thing. I won’t be here to protect you for the rest of your life. Let’s not forget, I’m much older than you. I want you to stay at the top; you must stay where you are today. A star in the art world. And you can do that. If you manage your career properly. That is an imperative.’
‘You’re right,’ she admitted, knowing that he was speaking the truth. ‘All right, I’ll do it,’ she agreed at last. ‘On one condition.’
‘And what’s that?’ he asked, a brow lifting, wondering what she was about to say now.
‘That you stop talking about being older than me, intimating that you won’t be around to protect me as you have in the past.’
‘I have, haven’t I? Because I love you. And I’ve protected Laurie as well,’ he pointed out.
‘Yes, that’s true, darling, and I’m grateful. Please don’t think I don’t know you have my best interests at heart, because I do.’ She forced a laugh. ‘I’m just being silly about the past, aren’t I?’
‘Absolutely. Nobody cares what you did when you were eighteen.’
I wish that were true, she thought. I wish the law didn’t have different ideas. She merely smiled, and said nothing. A still tongue and a wise head. She started to eat the potted shrimp, which had just been placed in front of her. After a few seconds had elapsed, she remarked casually, ‘I think I’d prefer to do an interview for one of the Sunday papers, and you can make the decision which one it should be.’
‘Good girl,’ he responded, and took a long swallow of the wine, pleased that she had come around, saw things his way. He believed he did know what was best, but he was aware she felt the need to fight him sometimes.
They talked about a number of other things during dinner, and it was when they had finished the main course that Marius suddenly said, ‘By the way, you haven’t told me when you plan to have the next auction. Have you given it any thought?’
‘Of course I have, Marius! I’ve planned everything,’ she exclaimed, a ring of excitement in her voice. ‘I’m going to have it in September. In New York. The office there have already sent me client lists and ideas, and Laurie has been working on it—’ She stopped abruptly when she noticed the look on her husband’s face. It was a combination of surprise and anger. She sat quite still, waiting for the explosion.
‘New York!’ His voice was low but vehement. ‘Why there, not here in London? And why have you gone ahead with everything without even discussing it with me?’
She took a deep breath, answered as evenly as possible. ‘Because I usually make these decisions myself. I chose London for the Rembrandt sale because it felt right to hold it here. I had the same visceral feeling that the Degas ballet dancer and the Impressionist paintings would do better if auctioned in New York. At Sotheby’s.’
‘I certainly don’t think the auction would do better in the States! You’d
