Jeffrey Archer - Twelve Red Herrings

She stopped to admire a Craigie Aitchison of Christ on the cross, and checked in her little blue catalogue to find out the price: ten thousand pounds, more than she could hope to earn if she were to sell every one of her canvases. Suddenly her concentration was broken, as a soft Italian voice behind her said, “Hello, Sally.” She swung round to find Tony Flavelli smiling down at her.

“Mr Flavelli,” she said.

“Tony, please. You like Craigie Aitchison?”

“He’s superb,” Sally replied. “I know his work well — I had the privilege of being taught by him when I was at the Slade.”

“I can remember, not so long ago, when you could pick up an Aitchison for two, three hundred pounds at the most. Perhaps the same thing will happen to you one day. Have you seen anything else you think I ought to look at?”

Sally was flattered to have her advice sought by a serious collector, and said, “Yes, I think the sculpture of “Books on a Chair” by Julie Major is very striking. She has talent, and I’m sure she has a future.”

“So do you,” said Tony.

“Do you think so?” asked Sally.

“It’s not important what I think,” said Tony. “But Simon Bouchier is convinced.”

“Are you teasing me?” asked Sally.

“No, I’m not, as you’ll find out for yourself when you see him next Monday. He talked of little else over lunch yesterday — ‘The daring brushwork, the unusual use of colour, the originality of ideas.’ I thought he was never going to stop. Still, he’s promised I can have ‘The Sleeping Cat that Never Moved’ once you’ve both settled on a price.”

Sally was speechless.

“Good luck,” Tony said, turning to leave. “Not that I think you need it.” He hesitated for a moment before swinging back to face her. “By the way, are you going to the Hockney exhibition?”

“I didn’t even know there was one,” Sally confessed.

“There’s a private view this evening. Six to eight.” Looking straight into her eyes he said, “Would you like to join me?”

She hesitated, but only for a moment. “That would be nice.”

“Good, then why don’t we meet in the Ritz Palm Court at 6.30.”

Before Sally could tell him that she didn’t know where the Ritz was, let alone its Palm Court, the tall, elegant man had disappeared into the crowd.

Sally suddenly felt gauche and scruffy, but then, she hadn’t dressed that morning with the Ritz in mind. She looked at her watch — 12.45 — and began to wonder if she had enough time to return home, change, and be back at the Ritz by 6.30. She decided that she didn’t have much choice, as she doubted if they would let her into such a grand hotel dressed in jeans and a T-shirt of Munch’s “The Scream”. She ran down the wide staircase, out onto Piccadilly, and all the way to the nearest tube station.

When she arrived back home in Sevenoaks — far earlier than her mother had expected — she rushed into the kitchen and explained that she would be going out again shortly.

“Was the Summer Exhibition any good?” her mother asked.

“Not bad,” Sally replied as she ran upstairs. But once she was out of earshot she muttered under her breath, “Certainly didn’t see a lot that worried me.”

“Will you be in for supper?” asked her mother, sticking her head out from behind the kitchen door.

“I don’t think so,” shouted Sally. She disappeared into her bedroom and began flinging off her clothes before heading for the bathroom.

She crept back downstairs an hour later, having tried on and rejected several outfits. She checked her dress in the hall mirror — a little too short, perhaps, but at least it showed her legs to best advantage. She could still remember those art students who during life classes had spent more time staring at her legs than at the model they were supposed to be drawing. She only hoped Tony would be similarly captivated.

“Bye, Mum,” she shouted, and quickly closed the door behind her before her mother could see what she was wearing.

Sally took the next train back to Charing Cross. She stepped on to the platform unwilling to admit to any passer-by that she had no idea where the Ritz was, so she hailed a taxi, praying she could get to the hotel for four pounds, because that was all she had on her. Her eyes remained fixed on the meter as it clicked past two pounds, and then three — far too quickly, she thought — three pounds twenty, forty, sixty, eighty… She was just about to ask the cabbie to stop, so she could jump out and walk the rest of the way, when he drew in to the kerb.

The door was immediately opened by a statuesque man dressed in a heavy blue trenchcoat who raised his top hat to her. Sally handed over her four pounds to the cabbie, feeling guilty about the measly twenty pence tip. She ran up the steps, through the revolving door and into the hotel foyer. She checked her watch: 6.20. She decided she had better go back outside, walk slowly around the block, and return a little later. But just as she reached the door, an elegant man in a long black coat approached her and asked, “Can I help you, madam?”

“I’m meeting Mr Tony Flavelli,” Sally stammered, hoping he would recognise the name.

“Mr Flavelli. Of course, madam. Allow me to show you to his table in the Palm Court.”

She followed the black-coated man down the wide, deeply carpeted corridor, then up three steps to a large open area full of small circular tables, almost all of which were occupied.

Sally was directed to a table at the side, and once she was seated a waiter asked, “Can I get you something to drink, madam? A glass of champagne, perhaps?”

“Oh, no,” said Sally. “A coke will be just fine.”

The waiter bowed and left her. Sally gazed nervously around the beautifully furnished room. Everyone seemed so relaxed and sophisticated. The waiter returned a few moments later and placed a fine cut-glass tumbler with Coca-Cola, ice and lemon in front of her. She thanked him and began sipping her drink, checking her watch every few minutes. She pulled her dress down as far as it would go, wishing she had chosen something longer. She was becoming anxious about what would happen if Tony didn’t turn up, because she didn’t have any money left to pay for her drink. And then suddenly she saw him, dressed in a loose double-breasted suit and an open-neck cream shirt. He had stopped to chat to an elegant young woman on the steps. After a couple of minutes he kissed her on the cheek, and made his way over to Sally.

“I am so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting. I do hope I’m not late.”

“No, no you’re not. I arrived a few minutes early,” Sally said, flustered, as he bent down and kissed her hand.

“What did you think of the Summer Exhibition?” he asked as the waiter appeared by his side. “Your usual, sir?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you, Michael,” he replied.

“I enjoyed it,” said Sally. “But…”

“But you felt you could have done just as well yourself,” he suggested.

“I didn’t mean to imply that,” she said, looking up to see if he was teasing. But the expression on his face remained serious.

“I’m sure I will enjoy the Hockney more,” she added as a glass of champagne was placed on the table.

“Then I’ll have to come clean,” said Tony.

Sally put down her drink and stared at him, not knowing what he meant.

“There isn’t a Hockney exhibition on at the moment,” he said. “Unless you want to fly to Glasgow.”

Sally looked puzzled. “But you said…”

“I just wanted an excuse to see you again.”

Sally felt bemused and flattered, and was uncertain how to respond.

“I’ll leave the choice to you,” he said. “We could have dinner together, or you could simply take the train back to Sevenoaks.”