The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [150]
“N.F.S.,” said Mr. Bouchier firmly, guiding his client toward 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 line that stretched from the front door right across the parking lot and out onto the sidewalk. When she eventually reached the top of the wide staircase, she wished she were 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.
She stopped to admire a Craigie Aitchison of Christ on the cross, and checked in her little blue catalog 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 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 color, 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.