Playing
the Game
ALSO BY BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD
Series
THE EMMA HARTE SAGA
A Woman of Substance
Hold the Dream
To Be the Best
Emma’s Secret
Unexpected Blessings
Just Rewards
Breaking the Rules
THE RAVENSCAR TRILOGY
The Ravenscar Dynasty
The Heir
Being Elizabeth
OTHERS
Voice of the Heart
Act of Will
The Women in His Life
Remember
Angel
Everything to Gain
Dangerous to Know
Love in Another Town
Her Own Rules
A Secret Affair
Power of a Woman
A Sudden Change of Heart
Where You Belong
The Triumph of Katie Byrne
Three Weeks in Paris
BARBARA TAYLOR
BRADFORD
Playing
the Game
ST. MARTIN’S PRESS
New York
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
PLAYING THE GAME. Copyright © 2010 by Beaji Enterprises, Inc. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Bradford, Barbara Taylor, 1933–
Playing the game / Barbara Taylor Bradford. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-57808-4
1. Women art dealers—Fiction. 2. Husband and wife—Fiction. 3. Journalists—Fiction. 4. Secrecy—Fiction. 5. London (England)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3552.R2147P63 2010
813’.54—dc22
2010029215
First Edition: October 2010
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Bob,
with my love
Contents
PROLOGUE
London, March 2007
PART ONE
A Remarkable Woman
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
PART TWO
The Hotshot Journalist
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
PART THREE
A Dangerous Encounter
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
PART FOUR
An Accidental Informant
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
EPILOGUE
London, December 2007
Author Note
Bibliography
Prologue
LONDON,
MARCH 2007
Annette Remmington sat at her desk staring across the room at the painting, or rather at the photographic blow-up of the painting. It was propped up on the credenza, leaning against the wall, and the ceiling light, carefully angled, brought it into focus.
Her marvelous painting. Her masterpiece. Her Rembrandt. Well, not exactly hers anymore, for it now belonged to someone else, the anonymous buyer who had bid for it over the phone, had won it for the staggering price of twenty million pounds. The highest price ever paid for a work by the famous Dutch artist.
What would he feel if he were alive? Would he have experienced the same thrill she had at the auction, as the price had risen and risen to that final staggering amount? Rembrandt had become something of a recluse when the painting had been finished in 1657, yet this was the period he had created some of his greatest masterpieces; he had been unfashionable then. She smiled inwardly. He was hardly unfashionable now.
It was gone, hanging on somebody else’s wall, and all she had was the photographic blow-up of the Rembrandt. Anyway, it had never actually been hers. She had merely been custodian of it for a while. On the other hand, she had brought it back to life—by having it cleaned and restored. And singing about it; singing its praises to the world. That’s what she thought she had done anyway. Others said, rather mean-spiritedly, that she had hyped it to death.
Annette laughed out loud at the thought. No, not death. She had given it a new life. The Rembrandt had not been seen in public for over fifty years, hidden away in the dusty art collection of a man who perhaps no longer appreciated it. And she had put it on view and then sold it for an incredible amount of money and at a time in the economy when art prices had dropped.
Rising, she walked across the room, stood admiring the photographic blow-up for several minutes. The portrait of the woman was so lifelike Annette felt that if she reached out to touch the woman’s hand her fingers would alight not on canvas but on real flesh. That was part of Rembrandt’s genius.
Walking back to her desk, Annette remembered what her sister had said the other day. Laurie called the Rembrandt the painting which had changed Annette’s life, and there was a certain truth in this statement, in that she had suddenly become the new star in the art world. At least for the moment.
There had been so much publicity about her auction of the Rembrandt it had been extraordinary. Even her husband, Marius, had been taken aback at the fuss, the attention given to her. He, a seasoned hand in the business, regarded as one of the great art experts and dealers, had been startled by the acclaim she had received.
Marius had a fine reputation, as did so many other dealers. Yet it was to her that Christopher Delaware had come, seeking her out because he remembered her from a social occasion over a year ago now, when they had discussed art. That long chat had centered on her areas of expertise—Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings and, at the other end of the art spectrum, Old Masters. He had been keen to listen to her, to learn from her that evening.
And so he had arrived at this office one day, many months ago now, asking for her help. He had told her about his ancient uncle, a bachelor, who had recently died and left him everything, including an art collection with a Rembrandt in it. Could she, would she, take him on as a client? She had, and the rest was history. The auction had taken place a few nights ago and the art world had collectively gasped when the hammer had come down on the final bid of twenty million pounds. The audience was stunned. So was she.
Her sister had a favorite saying, which was “God protects you,” and of course Laurie could not resist saying this when she heard about Christopher Delaware’s first visit to her Bond Street office.
Recalling that now, Annette smiled faintly. In her mind, it was Marius who protected her. No, perhaps guided her was a better phrase to use. The faint smile flickered again. There were those who might say he controlled her, because that was what they believed.
Annette ope
ned the folder on her desk and looked at the seating plans for the party tonight. It was her husband’s sixtieth birthday and she had been planning the event for months; it had taken her weeks to seat their guests appropriately, with those she thought they would want to be with, and at the right table. Marius had called it a work of art the other day, when he had gone over it with her for the final check and a few last-minute changes.
The party was very meaningful to him, and she had done everything she could to make sure it would be special. He had taught her never to leave anything to chance, whatever it was she was planning. She had always listened to him, and learned; and she had left nothing to chance in this instance either. It was being held in the ballroom of the Dorchester Hotel on Park Lane, and anybody who was anybody had been invited, whether they were from the art world, society, or show business. It was an international crowd.
Because her Rembrandt auction had been such a stupendous success, Marius had insisted that they turn the party into what he called “a double-headed event.” It would no longer celebrate only his birthday but the success of her auction as well. It didn’t change anything. The overall plan for the party remained exactly the same, much to Annette’s relief. Except that now he would get up and toast her and tell the world how clever she was.
Her sudden jump from relative obscurity in the art world to the big-time league was nothing short of miraculous, and no one was more surprised than she. Marius had taken it in his stride, and when she had said how startled she was by her success, after the auction was over, he had been swift to answer her, exclaiming, “But not I. I knew you would do something spectacular one day.” And then he had suggested they give the party a new twist . . .
Her private line rang, and she reached out to pick up the red phone. “Hello?”
“Annette, it’s Malcolm. Do you have a minute?”
“Of course I do. Is everything all right?”
“Absolutely. I just wondered if I could go over the birthday toast I’ll be making to Marius tonight. If you could listen now, it would be helpful.”
“I can, and I’m sure anything you’ve prepared will be right on the mark.” She laughed. “After all, you’re one of Marius’s favorite protégés, and you own his beloved Remmington Gallery. No one knows him better than you.”
“Except for you,” Malcolm Stevens shot back, chuckling, then swiftly went on, “So here goes.” He began to read the words he had written about a man he admired, even revered. He had kept the accolades to a minimum, knowing Marius would squirm at an extravagance of hyperbole, but had included some hilarious stories and a few little digs which were amusing and made Annette laugh out loud.
When he finished he said, “And that’s about it, unless I can come up with a few appropriate ad-libs at the last minute.”
“You’ve done a great job, Malcolm! He’s going to chuckle, be amused by some of it. You know he’s got a fantastic sense of humor.”
“If you approve, then that’s it. I’m going to put it in my pocket until tonight. Listen, just one other thing. I had a rather strange phone call earlier today.” Malcolm cleared his throat. “From a private detective looking for a woman called Hilda Crump, who he said used to work at the Remmington Gallery. About twenty years ago. He asked if we had an address for her. Apparently he has a client who wants to get in touch with her. Did you ever know someone called Hilda Crump?”
“No, I didn’t,” Annette responded, clutching the phone tighter.
“But if I recall correctly, you did work for Marius, didn’t you? When he first opened the Remmington Gallery.”
“Yes, that’s true. But I didn’t know anyone called Hilda Crump. Anyway, when Marius sold the gallery to you ten years ago I’m quite certain he put all of the files on the computer.”
“Yes, he did, and there’s no mention of a Hilda Crump anywhere. But this chap was so . . . well, so insistent, I just had to ask you.”
“Sorry, Malcolm, I can’t be of help.”
“So be it then. No problem. Thanks for listening to the toast, and I’ll see you this evening. With bells on. And I know we’ll have the most marvelous time.”
“That we will, Malcolm,” she answered, and hung up.
For a moment Annette Remmington sat with her hand resting on the red phone, frowning. She was puzzled. Who was looking for Hilda? And why? What did they want? She had no answers for herself, but she did know one thing. She would never betray Hilda. Years ago she had promised not to divulge her whereabouts, and she never broke the promises she made.
Annette leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, sinking down into the past, thinking of those early years, of all the terrible things she had buried deep because she did not want to remember them. She shivered, and goose flesh sprung up on her arms. She felt a trickle of fear run through her. So many secrets, so much to hide . . .
Part One
A REMARKABLE
WOMAN
There is that law of life, so cruel
and so just—that one must grow,
or else pay more for remaining the same.
Norman Mailer, The Deer Park (1955)
One
Much later that same day, Annette Remmington stood in front of the long mirrored door in her dressing room, staring at her reflection but not seeing herself.
She was not focused on her image at this moment but on the small knot of anxiety which had settled in her stomach since she had returned home. She could visualize it quite easily. . . . It was the size of a pea but as heavy as a lead pellet.
Unexpectedly, she felt slightly dizzy and reached out a hand, steadied herself against the dressing table. After taking several deep breaths, she managed to get her suddenly swimming senses under control. Now she looked at her full image objectively, nodded approvingly at what she saw, and chided herself for being so ridiculous.
The mention of Hilda Crump had unsettled her earlier in the day, and the call from Malcolm had been nagging at her all afternoon. But her troubles with Hilda Crump had happened long ago, and Hilda had moved on, and out of her life. The past was the past and she mustn’t let it come back to haunt her in this silly way.
I must put her out of my mind. And the past. It’s gone. I must focus on now. The present. And the future. I’ve always pigeonholed things and I have to do that again. Immediately. Hilda must go back into her pigeonhole and remain there. She is no longer part of my life and therefore unimportant. She can’t hurt me. No one can hurt me. And I can’t afford to waste time like this, reflecting on the past, a past I cannot change.
I’ve started a new phase of my life with the success of the auction. I pulled it off and I can pull it off again. Christopher Delaware doesn’t have another Rembrandt, but he does have some fine paintings and I can auction them off the same way. Marius told me the sky’s the limit, and he’s right, but will he let me go to the limit? He always wants to be in control of everything. And me. I know how to handle him now after all these years. So I’ll manage. I always have. I think I’ll do my next auction in New York. It would be profitable. I’ve got good clients there—
“Are you ready, darling?”
She swung around. “Yes, I am,” she answered at once, forcing a smile for her husband, who was walking across the dressing room. Surreptitiously, she glanced at the clock on the dressing table. It was just five-thirty. And of course he was ready on time, punctual as always.
“You’re upset,” he said, drawing to a standstill next to her, peering into her face.
“No, I’m not, not at all,” she answered, and immediately wished she hadn’t sounded so defensive.
“Yes, you are, Annette,” he insisted in his usual firm manner. “Look at yourself in the mirror. You’re only wearing one earring.”
Startled, she immediately swung to the mirror. Surprise flickered. God, he was right! As usual. Where was the other one? She spotted it on the dressing table, snatched it up, quickly put it on. “I went to get my wedding ring from the bedside table, where I’d le
ft it. I just became distracted, that’s all, really.” She felt flustered all of a sudden. He stood staring at her intently and she found his penetrating stare unnerving. Damn, she thought, he’s going to pick on me all night, but she took hold of herself firmly, not wanting to be rattled.
Annette now offered him a warm smile. “You look very handsome tonight, Marius, and the new dinner jacket is fabulous.” Stepping closer to him, she stood on tiptoe, kissed his cheek. “Happy birthday again, darling, and I do hope you’re going to enjoy your party.”
Relaxing his rigid stance, smiling in return, he said in a lighter tone, “I know I will, and let us not forget it’s your party, too, my darling girl. We’re celebrating your amazing success.” His black eyes sparkled as they rested on her, and approvingly so.
Annette laughed.
Taking hold of her arm possessively, he brought her closer to him, wrapped his arms around her. “I love you very much, you know, darling,” he said before releasing her. Holding her at arm’s length, he added, as his eyes swept over her, “You look very beautiful, you really do.”
“Well, thank you, but I think I’ve looked better,” she murmured, meaning this.
Shaking his head, half smiling, he led her out into the corridor, wondering why she constantly found it hard to accept a compliment gracefully. He said, “We’d better go. I don’t want any of our guests to arrive before we do. We can’t be late.”
Stay calm, she told herself. And keep cool.
“Wow!” Malcolm Stevens exclaimed, literally gaping at Annette, astonishment mingled with admiration flashing across his face. “Oh, wow!” he said again, more emphatically, in genuine awe. “You look fantastic, absolutely bloody marvelous.” It was quite apparent he meant every word.
Her blue eyes sparkling, filling with laughter, Annette looked both pleased and amused by Malcolm’s reaction to her appearance.
She stood with Marius in the long reception room which adjoined the Dorchester ballroom, and she leaned forward, kissed Malcolm on the cheek, and thanked him.