The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [34]
Joe was afraid Tom Copper was one of the sharks. It was all too fast; the guy had come from nowhere and suddenly he was running Sammy′s life. A husband she needed: a new agent she did not.
His decision was made. He leaned over his desk and pressed a buzzer. The intercom hissed: ″Yes, Mr. Davies?″
″Come in right away, will you, Andy?″
He sipped his coffee while he waited, but it was cold. Andrew Fairholm—he pronounced it Fareham—was a smart lad. He reminded Joe of himself. The son of a bit-part actor and an unsuccessful concert pianist, he had realized at an early age that he had no talent. Bitten with the show business bug all the same, he had gone into management and made a couple of second-rate rock groups into big earners. About that time Joe had hired him as a personal assistant.
Andy entered without knocking and sat down in front of the desk. He was a good-looking youngster, with long, dean, brown hair, a wide-lapelled suit and an open-necked shirt with a Mickey Mouse pattern. He had been to university and cultivated a posh accent. He was good for Joe′s agency: gave it a slightly more modern image. His brain and youthful trendiness complemented Joe′s experience and renowned cunning.
″Trouble with Sammy Winacre, Andy,″ Joe said. ″She′s told a newspaper reporter that she′s in love and she′s giving up acting.″
Andy rolled his eyes up. ″I always said that chick was weird. Who is the guy?″
″Name′s Tom Copper.″
″Who the hell is he?″
″Thatʹs what I want to find out.″ Joe ripped the sheet of paper from his pad and handed it over. ″Quick as you like.″
Andy nodded and left. Joe relaxed slightly. He felt better with Andy working on the problem. For all his charm and fine manners, the lad had very sharp teeth.
It was a warm evening, with a summery smell in the still air. The sunset over the rooftops leaked blood into the high, sparse clouds. Samantha turned away from the basement window and went to the cocktail cabinet.
Tom put a jazz record on the player and sprawled on the sofa. Samantha handed him a drink and curled up beside him. He put his large arm around her thin shoulders, and bent his head to kiss her. The doorbell rang.
″Ignore it,″ he said, and kissed her mouth.
She dosed her eyes and worked her lips against his. Then she got up. ″I′d rather keep you in suspense.″
It took her a few moments to recognize the short, velvet-suited man at the door. ″Julian!″
″Hello, Samantha. Am I bothering you?″
″Not at all. Would you like to come in?″
He stepped inside the door, and she led him down the stairs. ″I won′t keep you very long,″ he said apologetically.
Julian looked a little embarrassed when he saw Tom on the sofa. Samantha said: ″Tom Copper, Julian Black.″ Tom towered over Julian as they shook hands. Samantha went to the bar. ″Whisky, isn′t it?″
″Thank you.″
″Julian runs an art gallery,″ Samantha said.
″That′s a little premature. I′m opening one. What do you do, Tom?″
″You could call me a financier.″
Julian smiled. ″You wouldn′t like to put some money into an art gallery, by any chance?″
″Not my line.″
″What is?″
″You might say I take money from A and give it to B.″
Samantha coughed, and Julian had the feeling he was being laughed at. He said: ″Actually, it′s gallery business that brings me here.″ He took the drink Samantha handed him, and watched her settle snugly in the crook of Tom′s arm. ″I′m looking for someone attractive and interested to open the place. Sarah suggested I ask you. Would you do it, as a favor to us?″
″I′d love to, but I′ll have to make sure I′m not supposed to be somewhere else on the day. Can I ring you later?″
″Sure.″ Julian took a card out of his pocket. ″All