BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD
Playing the Game
Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Published by HarperCollins Publishers 2010 I
Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 2010
Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
HB ISBN: 9780007304103
TPB ISBN: 9780007304110
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2010 ISBN: 9780007304257
Version: 2017-11-16
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For Bob,
with my love
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
PROLOGUE: London, March 2007
PART ONE: A Remarkable Woman
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
PART TWO: The Hotshot Journalist
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
PART THREE: A Dangerous Encounter
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
PART FOUR: An Accidental Informant
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
EPILOGUE: London, December 2007
Bibliography
Author’s Note
About the Author
Books by Barbara Taylor Bradford
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
London March 2007
Annette Remmington sat at her desk staring across the room at the painting, or rather at the photographic blow-up of the painting. It was propped up on the credenza, leaning against the wall, and the ceiling light, carefully angled, brought it into focus.
Her marvellous painting. Her masterpiece. Her Rembrandt. Well, not exactly hers any more, for it now belonged to someone else, the anonymous buyer who had bid for it over the phone, won it for the staggering price of twenty million pounds. The highest price ever paid for a work by the famous Dutch artist.
What would he feel if he were alive? Would he have experienced the same thrill she had at the auction, as the price had risen and risen to that final staggering amount? Rembrandt had become something of a recluse after finishing the painting in 1657, yet it had been in this period that he had created some of his greatest masterpieces; he had been unfashionable then. She smiled inwardly. He was hardly unfashionable now.
It was gone, hanging on somebody else’s wall, and all she had was the photographic blow-up. Anyway, it had never actually been hers. She had merely been custodian of it for a while. On the other hand, she had brought it back to life – by having it cleaned and restored. And by singing about it; singing its praises to the world. That’s what she thought she had done, anyway. Others said, rather mean-spiritedly, that she had hyped it to death.
Annette laughed out loud at the thought. No, not death. She had given it a new life. The Rembrandt had not been seen in public for over fifty years, hidden away in the dusty art collection of a man who perhaps no longer appreciated it. And she had put it on view and then sold it for an incredible amount of money and at a time when art prices had dropped.
Rising, she walked across the room, stood gazing at the photographic blow-up for several minutes, and admiringly so. The portrait was so lifelike, Annette felt that if she reached out to touch the woman’s hand her fingers would alight not on canvas but on real flesh. That was part of Rembrandt’s genius.
Back at her desk, Annette remembered what her sister had said the other day. Laurie called the Rembrandt the painting that had changed her life, and there was a certain truth in this statement, in that she had suddenly become the new star in the art world. At least for the moment.
There had been so much publicity about her auction of the Rembrandt it had been extraordinary. Even her husband Marius had been taken aback at the fuss, the attention given to her. He, a seasoned hand in the business, regarded as one of the great art experts and dealers, had been startled by the acclaim she had received.
Marius had a fine reputation, as did so many other dealers. Yet it was to her that Christopher Delaware had come, seeking her out because he remembered her from a social occasion over a year ago now, when they had discussed art. That long chat had centred on her areas of expertise – Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings and, at the other end of the art spectrum, Old Masters. He had been keen to listen to her, learn from her that evening.
And so he had arrived at this office one day, many months ago, asking for her help. He had told her about his ancient uncle, a bachelor, who had recently died and left him everything, including an art collection with a Rembrandt in it. Could she, would she, take him on as a client? She had, and the rest was history. The auction had taken place a few nights ago and the art world had collectively gasped when the hammer had come down on the final bid of twenty million pounds. The audience was stunned. So was she.
Her sister had a favourite saying, which was ‘God protects you', and of course Laurie could not resist saying this when she heard about Christopher Delaware’s first visit to her Bond Street office.
Recalling that now, Annette smiled faintly. In her mind, it was Marius who protected her. No, perhaps ‘guided her’ was a better phrase to use. The faint smile flickered again. There were those who might say he controlled her, because that was what they believed.
Annette opened the folder on her desk, and looked at the seating plans for the party tonight. It was her husband’s sixtieth birthday and she had been planning the event for months; it had taken her weeks to seat their guests appropriately, with those she thought they would want to be with, and at the right table. Marius had called it a work of art the other day, when he had gone over it with her for the final check and a few last-minute changes.
The party was very meaningful to him, and she had done everything she could to make sure it would be special. He had taught her never to leave anything to chance, whatever it was she was planning. She had always listened to him, and learned; and she had left nothing to chance in this instance either. It was being held in the ballroom of the Dorchester Hotel on Park Lane, and anybody who was anybody had been invited, whether they were from the art world, society or show business. It was an international crowd.
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