Twelve Red Herrings Read online

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 ring 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 cat that never moved.

  The following morning Sally caught an early commuter train from Sevenoaks so she could spend a little time checking the pictures against their catalog entries. When she walked into the gallery, her eyes lit up: half a dozen of the paintings had already been hung, and she actually felt, for the first time, that they really weren’t bad. She glanced in the direction of the office and saw that Simon was occupied on the phone. He smiled and waved to indicate that he would be with her in a moment.

  She had another look at the pictures and then spotted a copy of the catalog lying on the table. The cover read “The Summers Exhibition,” above a picture of an interior looking from her parents’ drawing room through an open window and out onto a garden overgrown with weeds. A black cat lay asleep on the windowsill, ignoring the rain.

  Sally opened the catalog and read the introduction on the first page.

  Sometimes judges feel it necessary to say: It’s been hard to pick this year’s winner. But from the moment one set eyes on Sally Summers’ work, the task was made easy. Real talent is obvious for all to see, and Sally has achieved the rare feat of winning both the Slade’s major prizes, for oils and for drawing, in the same year. I much look forward to watching her career develop over the coming years.

  It was an extract from Sir Roger de Grey’s speech when he had presented Sally with the Mary Rischgitz and the Henry Tonks Prizes at the Slade two years before.

  Sally turned the pages, seeing her works reproduced in color for the first time. Simon’s attention to detail and layout was evident on every page.

  She looked back toward the office and saw that Simon was still on the phone. She decided to go downstairs and check on the rest of her pictures, now that they had all been framed. The lower gallery was a mass of color, and the newly framed paintings were so skillfully hung that even Sally saw them in a new light.

  Once she had circled the room, Sally suppressed a smile of satisfaction before turning to make her way back upstairs. As she passed a table in the center of the gallery, she noticed a folder with the initials “N.K.” printed on it. She idly lifted the cover to discover a pile of undistinguished watercolors.

  As she leafed through her rival’s never-to-be-exhibited efforts, Sally had to admit that the nude self-portraits didn’t do Natasha justice. She was just about to close the folder and join Simon upstairs when she came to a sudden halt.

  Although it was clumsily executed, there was no doubt who the man was that the half-clad Natasha was clinging onto.

  Sally felt sick. She slammed the folder shut, walked quickly across the room and back up the stairs to the ground floor. In the corner of the large gallery Simon was chatting to a man who had several cameras slung over his shoulder.

  “Sally,” he said, coming toward her, “this is Mike …”

  But Sally ignored them both and started running toward the open door, tears flooding down her cheeks. She turned right into St. James’s, determined to get as far away from the gallery as possible. But then she came to an abrupt halt. Tony and Natasha were walking toward her, arm in arm.

  Sally stepped off the pavement and began to cross the road, hoping to reach the other side before they spotted her.

  The screech of tires and the sudden swerve of the van came just a moment too late, and she was thrown headlong into the middle of the road.

  When Sally came to, she felt awful. She blinked her eyes and thought she could hear voices. She blinked again, but it was several moments before she was able to focus on anything.

  She was lying in a bed, but it was not her own. Her right leg was covered in plaster, and was raised high in the air, suspended from a pulley. Her other leg was under the sheet, and it felt all right. She wiggled the toes of her left foot: yes, they were fine. Then she began to try to move her arms. A nurse came up to the side of the bed.

  “Welcome back to the world, Sally.”

  “How long have I been like this?” she asked.

  “A couple of days,” said the nurse, checking Sally’s pulse. “But you’re making a remarkably quick recovery. Before you ask, it’s only a broken leg, and the black eyes will have gone long before we let you out. By the way,” she added, as she moved on to the next patient, “I loved that picture of you in the morning papers. And what about those flattering remarks your friend made? So what’s it like to be famous?”

  Sally wanted to ask what she was talking about, but the nurse was already taking the pulse of the person in the next bed.

  “Come back,” Sally wanted to say, but a second nurse had appeared by her bedside with a mug of orange juice, which she thrust into her hand.

  “Let’s get you started on this,” she said. Sally obeyed, and tried to suck the liquid through a bent plastic straw.

  “You’ve got a visitor,” the nurse told her once she’d emptied the contents of the mug. “He’s been waiting for some time. Do you think you’re up to seeing him?”

  “Sure,” said Sally, not particularly wanting to face Tony but desperate to find out what had happened.

  She looked toward the swing doors at the end of the ward, but had to wait for some time before Simon came bouncing through them. He walked straight up to her bed, clutching what might just about have been described as a bunch of flowers. He gave her plaster cast a big kiss.

  “I’m so sorry, Simon,” Sally said, before he had even said hello. “I know just how much trouble and expense you’ve been to on my behalf. And now I’ve let you down so badly.”

  “You certainly have,” said Simon. “It’s always a letdown when you sell everything off the walls on the first night. Then you haven’t got anything left for your old customers, and they start grumbling.”

  Sally’s mouth opened wide.

  “Mind you, it was a rather good photo of Natasha, even if it was an awful one of you.”

  “What are you talking about, Simon?”

  “Mike Sallis got his exclusive, and you got your break,” he said, patting her suspended leg. “When Natasha bent over your body in the street, Mike began clicking away for dear life. And I couldn’t have scripted her quotes better myself: ‘The most outstanding young artist of our generation. If the world were to lose such a talent …’”

  Sally laughed at Simon’s wicked imitation of Natasha’s Russian accent.

  “You hit most of the next morning’s front pages,” he continued. “‘Brush with Death’ in the Mail; ‘Still Life in St. James’s’ in the Express. And you even managed ‘Splat!’ in the Sun. The serious buyers flocked into the gallery that evening. Natasha was wearing a black see-through dress and proceeded to give the press sound bite after sound bite about your genius. Not that it made any difference. We’d already sold every canvas long before their second editions hit the street. But, more important, the serious critics in the art pages are already acknowledging that you might actually have some talent.”

  Sally smiled. “I may have failed to have an affair with Prince Charles, but at least it seems I got something right.”

  “Well, not exactly,” said Simon.

  “What do you mean?” asked Sally, suddenly anxious. “You said all the pictures have been sold.”

  “True, but if you’d arranged to have the accident a few d