The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [155]
“Only half?” said Sally, unable to hide her disappointment.
“That wouldn’t be at all bad for your first attempt, young lady,” said Simon. “I only sold one Leslie Anne Ivory at her first exhibition, and now she sells everything in the first week.”
Sally still looked crestfallen, and Simon realized he had perhaps been a little tactless.
“Don’t worry. Any unsold ones will be put into stock, and they’ll be snapped up the moment you start getting good reviews.”
Sally continued to pout.
“How do you feel about the frames and mounts?” Simon asked, trying to change the subject.
Sally studied the deep golden frames and light gray mounts. The smile returned to her face.
“They’re good, aren’t they?” said Simon. “They bring out the color in the canvases wonderfully.”
Sally nodded her agreement, but was now beginning to worry about how much they must have cost, and whether she would ever be given a second exhibition if the first one wasn’t a success.
“By the way,” Simon said, “I have a friend at the P.A. called Mike Sallis who—”
“P.A.?” said Sally.
“Press Association. Mike’s a photographer—always on the lookout for a good story. He says he’ll come around and take a picture of you standing next to one of the pictures. Then he’ll hawk the photo around Fleet Street, and we’ll just have to cross our fingers and pray that Natasha has taken the day off. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but someone just might bite. Our only line at present is that it’s your first exhibition since leaving the Slade. Hardly a front-page splash.” Simon paused, as once again Sally looked discouraged. “It’s not too late for you to have a fling with Prince Charles, you know. That would solve all our problems.”
Sally smiled. “I don’t think Tony would like that.”
Simon decided against making another tactless remark.
Sally spent that evening with Tony at his home in Chelsea. He seemed a little distracted, but she blamed herself—she was unable to hide her disappointment at Simon’s estimate of how few of her pictures might be sold. After they had made love, Sally tried to raise the topic of what would happen to them once the exhibition was over, but Tony deftly changed the subject back to how much he was looking forward to the opening.
That night Sally went home on the last train from Charing Cross.
The following morning she woke up with a terrible feeling of anticlimax. Her room was bereft of canvases, and all she could do now was wait. Her mood wasn’t helped by the fact that Tony had told her he would be out of London on business until the day of her opening. She lay in the bath thinking about him.
“But I’ll be your first customer on the night,” he had promised. “Don’t forget, I still want to buy The Sleeping Cat That Never Moved.”
The phone was ringing, but someone answered it before Sally could get out of the bath.
“It’s for you,” shouted her mother from the bottom of the stairs.
Sally wrapped a towel around her and grabbed the phone, hoping it would be Tony.
“Hi, Sally, it’s Simon. I’ve got some good news. Mike Sallis has just called from the P.A. He’s coming around to the gallery at midday tomorrow. All the pictures should be framed by then, and he’ll be the first person from the press to see them. They all want to be first. I’m trying to think up some wheeze to convince him that it’s an exclusive. By the way, the catalogs have arrived, and they look fantastic.”
Sally thanked him, and was about to call Tony to suggest that she stay overnight with him, so that they could go to the gallery together the following day, when she remembered that he was out of town. She spent the day pacing anxiously around the house, occasionally talking to her most compliant model, the sleeping