knew. His mafia, so called, was a cadre of young men who constantly surrounded him, whom he called his protégés, which is exactly what they were. Young men who’d been singled out for their talent; who had worked for Marius at some time, or still did; who were loyal, devoted and forever at his beck and call. They enjoyed being around him because something was always happening. It seemed to Malcolm that there was a constant show going on … famous people, people in the know, and in the news, gravitated to Marius. That was an essential part of his success as an art dealer, that charisma of his, the gregariousness, the bucketsful of charm and the clever way he had of pulling everyone into his orbit.
Malcolm was one of Marius’s favourites and he had received special treatment from the very beginning. The Marius Mafia had told him about Annette.
Seemingly she had come to London from some Northern city, he wasn’t sure which, to study art. But there was not enough talent to lift her up into the stratosphere of genius that equalled eventual fame. Good looking. But the looks were obscured by her hesitant manner, according to some of the Marius Mafia; it was a sort of diffidence, they said. Blonde, blue eyed, slender as a reed, and exceedingly bright. But ordinary. That was the way they had described her to him. He himself had not known her then.
Not so ordinary now, though, Malcolm thought, his eyes settling on her. It was an elegant creature who stood there. Not the most beautiful woman in the world, but good looking, well put-together, whatever the occasion, and the current golden girl in the art world. Her auction of the Rembrandt had assured her a place in the front row, had given her art consultancy business a big boost …
‘What are you doing here all alone, Malcolm?’ a familiar voice exclaimed.
Swinging around, Malcolm grinned. ‘Watching the show and having a bit of the old bubbly. How about you, David? And where’s Meg?’
His old friend David Oldfield shook his head. ‘Still in New York. On business. I’m solo tonight.’ Reaching into his pocket, David pulled out a small envelope, looked inside, and said, ‘I’m at table ten. What about you?’
‘The same. I have a feeling it’s Marius’s table. Come on, let’s try and get to the bar. I’d like a vodka.’
‘Good idea,’ David responded, and together they struggled through the throng. Once they had secured their Grey Goose on the rocks, they went off into a quiet corner. Clinking glasses, they both said cheers in unison, and David asked, ‘Is it true that Christopher Delaware inherited a lot of really great art from that uncle of his? And that Annette’s going to be representing him?’
Malcolm said in an even tone, ‘I haven’t heard about any great art. But I know he’s Annette’s client. Oh, look, there’s Johnny Davenport. He’s bound to know. Let’s go and talk to him.’
‘Malcolm! Malcolm!’ He heard a woman’s voice calling his name. Trying to be heard above the clamour. Swinging his head, he spotted her at once. An old friend. It was Margaret Mellor, the editor of the best art magazine in Europe called, very simply, ART. She was waving to him.
Catching hold of David’s arm, he said, ‘Will you excuse me for a moment? Margaret Mellor’s beckoning to me. Go ahead, chat to Johnny. I’ll join you both shortly.’
‘No problem.’ David pushed ahead, moving adroitly between people, edging his way forward.
Malcolm went in the opposite direction towards his friend. When he finally reached her, he grinned. ‘I almost didn’t hear you above the din.’
‘It’s bedlam. I was just with Annette, she wants us to go and see the ballroom before it fills up with guests. She says it’s charming.’
‘Then let’s go now, before we get trapped in this corner. The place is suddenly milling with old friends and colleagues. Plus loads of photographers, I notice.’ He frowned.
‘Don’t tell me. The press are swarming all over the place!’
Malcolm sighed. ‘That’s Marius, he never does things by half and he does love the media. As far as he’s concerned, the more the merrier.’
‘He’s a glutton for punishment.’ She sounded sarcastic.
Malcolm laughed. That was Margaret. Spot on with her comments. He put an arm around her shoulders, guided her through the crush. Behind them, flashbulbs were already popping; it seemed to him that the crowd was swelling, getting bigger by the second. How many people had they invited? The whole world, he decided, and hoped the huge crowd wouldn’t ultimately spoil the event. Why do I worry? She knows what she’s doing, even if he doesn’t, sometimes. Marius. Such an enigma.
Finally, Malcolm was pushing open the door into the ballroom. Instantly, a waiter confronted them. ‘I’m very sorry, but you can’t come in. Mrs Remmington doesn’t want anyone in here for another half-hour. She was very precise.’ Polite but determined.
‘Yes, we know. Mrs Remmington sent us to see the ballroom before it fills up. I’m Margaret Mellor of ART magazine, and this is Mr Stevens, a colleague and friend of Mrs Remmington’s.’
The waiter inclined his head but didn’t budge, blocking their way. Still determined – to do his duty and keep them out.
‘My chief photographer Josh Brady was here earlier,’ Margaret added. ‘Taking pictures for the magazine. You must be Frank Lancel. Mrs Remmington told me to speak to you.’ Charm, a warm smile. Her tools.
‘Yes, I’m Frank,’ the waiter answered, relaxing, but only slightly. ‘And I did help Mr Brady a while ago, when he was taking his shots. So please, come in, look around. I have to stay here at the door. Stand guard. Mrs Remmington’s instructions.’ He sounded droll.
‘She explained that,’ Margaret answered. Taking hold of Malcolm’s hand, she led him forward. The two of them finally stood at the edge of the ballroom floor near the orchestra stand, their eyes sweeping around the room with interest and anticipation.
They were both taken aback by the unique beauty of the magical scene that Annette had designed. The room was a sea of pale green – that peculiar pale green with a hint of grey, so often found in the interiors of French châteaux, which seems to create a misty look. This pale green silk rippled down the walls from the ceiling to the floor, and was repeated for the tablecloths, napkins and chair seats.
But what was so unusual and wonderful about the setting were the green dendrobium orchids with pink centres. These were massed in banks in front of mirrored, folding screens, and also stood on mirrored consoles, Venetian style, placed against the green walls. There were literally hundreds of orchid plants in pale celadon green pots, and those banked in front of the mirrored screens instantly appeared to be twice the quantity because of their reflections. Centrepieces on the tables were crystal bowls filled with stems of green orchids, surrounded by lots of votive lights. Tall crystal candlesticks holding tall white tapers were on either side of the bowls of orchids. Everything glistened and sparkled in the candlelight: the crystal wine goblets and silverware, the silver service plates.
The two of them stood there for a few minutes longer, endeavouring to take everything in. Then Margaret said slowly, ‘It’s almost ethereal, dreamlike. What an effect Annette has created … it’s a garden … a garden of orchids. How clever.’
Malcolm turned to her, exclaimed, ‘Yes, it is. And you can be sure of one thing. It’s going to knock everybody’s socks off.’
