Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [88]
But then some people consider such suggestions nothing more than polite conversation. Gian Lorenzo turned to Angelina and bowed low before walking back across the restaurant to rejoin the Contessa.
“Time for us to leave, I fear,” said Gian Lorenzo, glancing at his watch, “especially if I’m to catch the first plane to Rome in the morning.”
“Did you manage to sell my Canaletto to your friend?” asked the Contessa, as she rose from her place.
“No,” replied Gian Lorenzo, as he waved in the direction of Paolo’s table, “but he did suggest that we keep in touch.”
“And will you?”
“That might be quite difficult,” admitted Gian Lorenzo, “as he didn’t give me his number, and I have a feeling Signor and Signora Castelli will not be listed in the Yellow Pages.”
Gian Lorenzo took the first flight back to Rome the following morning. The Canaletto was to follow him at a more leisurely pace. No sooner had he set foot in the gallery than his secretary rushed out of the office, spilling out the words, “Paolo Castelli has already called twice this morning. He apologized for not giving you his number,” she added, “and wondered if you would be kind enough to phone him, just as soon as you get in.”
Gian Lorenzo walked calmly into his office, sat down at his desk and composed himself. He then tapped out the number his secretary had placed in front of him. The call was first answered by a butler, who transferred him to a seeretary, before he was finally connected to Paolo.
“After you left last night, my little angel spoke of nothing else,” began Paolo. “She has never forgotten her visit to the Contessa’s home, where she first saw her magnificent art collection. She wondered if the reason you were meeting with the Contessa was—”
“I don’t think it would be wise to discuss this matter over the phone,” said Gian Lorenzo, whose father had also taught him that deals are rarely made on the telephone, but almost always face to face. One needs the client to view the picture, and then you allow them to hang it on a wall in their home for several days. There is a crucial moment when the buyer considers the painting already belongs to them. Not until then do you start to negotiate the price.
“Then you’ll have to return to Venice,” said Paolo matter-of-factly. “I’ll send the private jet.”
Gian Lorenzo flew to Venice the following Friday. A Rolls-Royce was parked on the runway, waiting to take him to the Villa Rosa.
A butler greeted Gian Lorenzo at the front door before escorting him up a large marble staircase to a suite of private rooms that exhibited barren walls—an art dealer’s fantasy Gian Lorenzo was reminded of the collection that his father had put together for Agnelli over a period of thirty years, now considered to be one of the finest in private hands.
Gian Lorenzo spent most of the Saturday—between meals—being escorted round the one hundred and forty-two rooms of the Villa Rosa by Angelina. He quickly discovered that there was far more to his hostess than he had anticipated.
Angelina showed a genuine interest in wanting to start her own art collection, and had clearly visited all the great galleries round the world. Gian Lorenzo concluded that she only lacked the courage of her own convictions—a not uncommon problem for the only child of a self-made man—although she didn’t lack knowledge or, to Gian Lorenzo’s surprise, taste. He felt guilty for making assumptions based only on comments he had read in the press. Gian Lorenzo found himself enjoying Angelinas company, and even began to wonder what this shy, thoughtful young woman could possibly see in Paolo.
Over dinner that night, Gian Lorenzo could not miss the adoration in her eyes whenever Angelina looked at her husband, even though she rarely interrupted him.
Over breakfast the following morning, Angelina hardly uttered a word. It was not until Paolo suggested that his wife show their guest round the grounds that his little angel once again came alive.
Angelina escorted Gian Lorenzo round a sixty-acre garden that possessed no immovable objects, or even havens where they might rest