Jeffrey Archer - Twelve Red Herrings

Her parents were convinced that their daughter had real talent, but what do parents know when you’re their only child? thought Sally. Especially when one of them was a music teacher and the other an accountant who were the first to admit that they didn’t know much about art, but they knew what they liked. Still, they seemed quite willing to support her for another year if she wanted (to use an expression of the young) to go for it.

Sally was painfully aware that, although her parents were fairly comfortably off, another year in which she produced no income could only be a burden for them. After much soul-searching she told them, “One year, and one year only. After that, if the paintings aren’t good enough, or if no one shows any interest in exhibiting them, I’ll be realistic and look for a proper job.”

For the next six months Sally worked hours that she hadn’t realised existed when she’d been a student. During that time she produced a dozen canvases. She allowed no one to see them, for fear that her parents and friends would not be frank with her. She was determined to finish her portfolio and then listen only to the toughest opinions possible, those of the professional gallery owners, and, tougher still, those of the buying public.

Sally had always been a voracious reader, and she continued to devour books and monographs on artists from Bellini to Hockney. The more she read, the more she became aware that however talented an artist might be, it was industry and dedication that ultimately marked out the few who succeeded from the many who failed. This inspired her to work still harder, and she began to turn down invitations to parties, dances, even weekends with old friends, making use of every spare moment to visit art galleries or to attend lectures on the great masters.

By the eleventh month, Sally had completed twenty-seven works, but she still wasn’t sure whether they displayed any real talent. Nevertheless, she felt the time had finally come to allow others to pass judgement on them.

She looked long and hard at each of the twenty-seven paintings, and the following morning she packed six of them in a large canvas folder her parents had given her the previous Christmas, and joined the early-morning commuters on their journey from Sevenoaks into London.

Sally began her quest in Cork Street, where she came across galleries exhibiting works by Bacon, Freud, Hockney, Dunston and Chadwick. She felt overawed at the prospect of even entering their portals, let alone submitting her own humble work to the appraisal of their proprietors. She humped her canvas folder a couple of blocks north to Conduit Street, and in the windows she recognised the works of Jones, Campbell, Wczenski, Frink and Paolozzi. She became even more discouraged and unwilling to push open any of the galleries’ front doors.

Sally returned home that night exhausted, her canvas folder unopened. She understood for the first time how an author must feel after receiving a string of rejection slips. She was unable to sleep that night. But as she lay awake she came to the conclusion that she must know the truth about her work, even if it meant being humiliated.

She joined the commuters again the following morning, and this time headed for Duke Street, St James’s. She didn’t bother with the galleries exhibiting old masters, Dutch still lifes or English landscapes, and therefore walked straight past Johnny van Haeften and Rafael Vails. Halfway down the street she turned right, and finally came to a halt outside the Simon Bouchier Gallery, which was exhibiting the sculptures of the late Sydney Harpley and the paintings of Muriel Pemberton, whose obituary Sally had read in the Independent only a few days before.

It was the thought of death that made Sally settle on the Bouchier Gallery. Perhaps they would be looking for someone young, she tried to convince herself, someone who had a long career ahead of them.

She stepped inside the gallery and found herself in a large, empty room, surrounded by Muriel Pemberton’s watercolours.

“Can I help you?” asked a young woman who was sitting behind a desk near the window.

“No, thank you,” Sally replied. “I was just looking.”

The girl eyed Sally’s canvas folder, but said nothing. Sally decided she would do one circuit of the room, and then make good her escape. She began to circle the gallery, studying the pictures carefully. They were good, very good — but Sally believed she could do just as well, given time. She would have liked to see Muriel Pemberton’s work when she was her age.

When Sally reached the far end of the gallery, she became aware of an office in which a short, balding man, wearing an old tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, was closely examining a picture. He looked about the same age as her father. Also studying the picture was another man, who caused Sally to stop in her tracks. He must have been a little over six foot, with those dark Italian looks that people normally only come across in glossy magazines; and he was old enough to be her brother.

Was he Mr Bouchier? she wondered. She hoped so, because if he owned the gallery she might be able to summon up the courage to introduce herself to him, once the little man in the scruffy jacket had left. At that moment the young man looked up and gave her a huge grin. Sally turned quickly away and began to study the pictures on the far wall.

She was wondering if it was worth hanging around any longer when the two men suddenly strolled out of the office and began walking towards the door. She froze, pretending to concentrate on a portrait of a young girl in pastel blues and yellows, a picture that had a Matisse-like quality about it.

“What’s in there?” asked a cheeky voice. Sally turned round and came face to face with the two men. The smaller one was pointing at her canvas bag.

“Just a few pictures,” Sally stammered. “I'm an artist.”

“Let’s have a look,” said the man, “and perhaps I can decide if you’re an artist or not.”

Sally hesitated.

“Come on, come on,” he teased. “I haven’t got all day. As you can see, I have an important client to take to lunch,” he added, indicating the tall, well-dressed young man, who still hadn’t spoken.

“Oh, are you Mr Bouchier?” she asked, unable to hide her disappointment.

“Yes. Now, am I going to be allowed to look at your pictures or not?”

Sally quickly unzipped her canvas bag and laid out the six paintings on the floor. Both of the men bent down and studied them for some time before either offered an opinion.

“Not bad,” said Bouchier eventually. “Not bad at all. Leave them with me for a few days, and then let’s meet again next week.” He paused. “Say Monday, 11.30. And if you have any more examples of your recent work, bring them with you.”

Sally was speechless.

“Can’t see you before Monday,” he continued, “because the RA’s Summer Exhibition opens tomorrow. So for the next few days I won’t have a moment to spare. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

The younger man was still examining Sally’s pictures closely. At last he looked up at her. “I’d like to buy the one of the interior with the black cat on the windowsill. How much is it?”

“Well,” said Sally, “I’m not sure…”

“N.F.S.” said Mr Bouchier firmly, guiding his client towards the door.

“By the way,” the taller man said, turning back, “I am Antonio Flavelli. My friends call me Tony.”

But Mr Bouchier was already pushing him out onto the street.

Sally returned home that afternoon with an empty canvas folder, and was prepared to admit to her parents that a London dealer had shown an interest in her work. But it was, she insisted, no more than an interest.

The following morning Sally decided to go to the opening day of the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition, which would give her the chance to find out just how good her rivals were. For over an hour she stood in the long queue that stretched from the front door, right across the carpark and out onto the pavement. When she eventually reached the top of the wide staircase, she wished she was six feet six tall, so that she could see over the tops of the heads of the mass of people who were crowding every room. After a couple of hours strolling round the many galleries, Sally was confident that she was already good enough to enter a couple of her pictures for next year’s exhibition.