her Rembrandt auction had been such a stupendous success, Marius had insisted that they turn the party into what he called ‘a double-headed event'. It would no longer celebrate only his birthday but the success of her auction as well. It didn’t change anything. The overall plan for the party remained exactly the same, much to Annette’s relief. Except that now he would get up and toast her and tell the world how clever she was.
Her sudden jump from relative obscurity in the art world to the big league was nothing short of miraculous, and no one was more surprised than she. Marius had taken it in his stride, and when she had said how startled she was by her success, after the auction was over, he had been swift to answer her, exclaiming, ‘But not I. I knew you would do something spectacular one day.’ And then he had suggested they give the party a new twist …
Her private line rang, and she reached out, picked up the red phone. ‘Hello?’
‘Annette, it’s Malcolm. Do you have a minute?’
‘Of course I do. Is everything all right?’
‘Absolutely. I just wondered if I could go over the birthday toast I’ll be making to Marius tonight? If you could listen now it would be helpful.’
‘I can, and I’m sure anything you’ve prepared will be right on the mark.’ She laughed. ‘After all, you’re one of Marius’s favourite protégés, and you own his beloved Remmington Gallery. No one knows him better than you.’
‘Except for you,’ Malcolm Stevens shot back, chuckling, then swiftly went on, ‘So here goes.’ He began to read the words he had written about a man he admired, even revered. He had kept the accolades to a minimum, knowing Marius would squirm at an extravagance of hyperbole, but had included some hilarious stories and a few little digs which were amusing and made Annette laugh out loud.
When he finished he said, ‘And that’s about it, unless I can come up with a few appropriate ad-libs at the last minute.’
‘You’ve done a great job, Malcolm! He’s going to chuckle, be amused by some of it. You know he’s got a fantastic sense of humour.’
‘If you approve, then that’s it. I’m going to put it in my pocket until tonight. Listen, just one other thing. I had a rather strange phone call earlier today.’ Malcolm cleared his throat. ‘From a private detective looking for a woman called Hilda Crump, who he said used to work at the Remmington Gallery. About twenty years ago. He asked if we had an address for her. Apparently he has a client who wants to get in touch with her. Did you ever know someone called Hilda Crump?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Annette responded, clutching the phone tighter. ‘But if I recall correctly, you did work for Marius … When he first opened the Remmington Gallery, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s true. But I didn’t know anyone called Hilda Crump. Anyway, when Marius sold the gallery to you ten years ago I’m quite certain he put all of the files on the computer.’
‘Yes, he did, and there’s no mention of a Hilda Crump anywhere. But this chap was so … well, so insistent, I just had to ask you.’
‘Sorry, Malcolm, I can’t be of help.’
‘So be it then. No problem. Thanks for listening to the toast, and I’ll see you this evening. With bells on. And I know we’ll have the most marvellous time.’
‘That we will, Malcolm,’ she answered and hung up. For a moment Annette Remmington sat with her hand resting on the red phone, frowning. She was puzzled. Who was looking for Hilda? And why? What did they want? She had no answers for herself, but she did know one thing. She would never betray Hilda. Years ago she had promised not to divulge her whereabouts, and she never broke the promises she made.
Annette leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, sinking down into the past, thinking of those early years, all of the terrible things she had buried deep because she did not want to remember them. She shivered, and goose flesh sprung up on her arms. She felt a trickle of fear run through her. So many secrets, so much to hide …
‘There was that law of life so cruel and so just that one must grow or else pay more for remaining the same.’
Norman Mailer, The Deer Park
Much later that same day, Annette Remmington stood in front of the long mirrored door in her dressing room, staring at her reflection but not seeing herself. She was not focused on her image at this moment but on the small knot of anxiety that had settled in her stomach since she had returned home. She could visualize it quite easily … it was the size of a pea but as heavy as a lead pellet.
Unexpectedly, she felt slightly dizzy and reached out a hand, steadied herself against the dressing table. After taking several deep breaths she managed to get her suddenly swimming senses under control. Now she looked at her full image objectively, nodded approvingly at what she saw, chided herself for being so ridiculous.
The mention of Hilda Crump had unsettled her earlier in the day, and the call from Malcolm had been nagging at her all afternoon. But her troubles with Hilda Crump had happened long ago, and Hilda had moved on, and out of her life. The past was the past and she mustn’t let it come back to haunt her in this silly way.
I must put her out of my mind. And the past. It’s gone. I must focus on now. The present. And the future. I’ve always pigeonholed things and I have to do that again. Immediately. Hilda must go back into her pigeonhole and remain there. She is no longer part of my life and therefore unimportant. She can’t hurt me. No one can hurt me. And I can’t afford to waste time like this, reflecting on the past, a past I cannot change.
I’ve started a new phase of my life with the success of the auction. I pulled it off and I can pull it off again. Christopher Delaware doesn’t have another Rembrandt but he does have some fine paintings and I can auction them off the same way. Marius told me the sky’s the limit, and he’s right, but will he let me go to the limit? He always wants to be in control of everything. And me. I know how to handle him now after all these years. So I’ll manage. I always have. I think I’ll do my next auction in New York. It would be profitable. I’ve got good clients there—
‘Are you ready, darling?’
She swung around. ‘Yes, I am,’ she answered at once, forcing a smile for her husband, who was walking across the dressing room. Surreptitiously, she glanced at the clock on the dressing table. It was just five thirty. And of course he was ready on time, punctual as always.
‘You’re upset,’ he said, drawing to a standstill next to her, peering into her face.
‘No, I’m not, not at all,’ she answered, and immediately wished she hadn’t sounded so defensive.
‘Yes, you are, Annette,’ he insisted in his usual firm manner. ‘Look at
