The Collected Short Stories Read online

  “’Bye, Mum,” she shouted, and quickly closed the door behind her before her mother could see what she was wearing.

  Sally took the next train back to Charing Cross. She stepped onto the platform unwilling to admit to any passerby that she had no idea where the Ritz was, so she hailed a taxi, praying she could get to the hotel for four pounds, because that was all she had on her. Her eyes remained fixed on the meter as it clicked past two pounds, and then three—far too quickly, she thought—three pounds twenty, forty, sixty, eighty … She was just about to ask the cabbie to stop, so she could jump out and walk the rest of the way, when he drew up to the curb.

  The door was immediately opened by a statuesque man dressed in a heavy blue trench coat who raised his top hat to her. Sally handed over her four pounds to the cabbie, feeling guilty about the measly twenty pence tip. She ran up the steps, through the revolving door and into the hotel foyer. She checked her watch: 6:10. She decided she had better go back outside, walk slowly around the block, and return a little later. But just as she reached the door, an elegant man in a long black coat approached her and asked, “Can I help you, madam?”

  “I’m meeting Mr. Tony Flavelli,” Sally stammered, hoping he would recognize the name.

  “Mr. Flavelli. Of course, madam. Allow me to show you to his table in the Palm Court.”

  She followed the black-coated man down the wide, deeply carpeted corridor, then up three steps to a large open area full of small circular tables, almost all of which were occupied.

  Sally was directed to a table at the side, and once she was seated a waiter asked, “Can I get you something to drink, madam? A glass of champagne, perhaps?”

  “Oh, no,” said Sally. “A Coke will be just fine.”

  The waiter bowed and left her. Sally gazed nervously around the beautifully furnished room. Everyone seemed so relaxed and sophisticated. The waiter returned a few moments later and placed a fine cut-glass tumbler with Coca-Cola, ice, and lemon in front of her. She thanked him and began sipping her drink, checking her watch every few minutes. She pulled her dress down as far as it would go, wishing she had chosen something longer. She was becoming anxious about what would happen if Tony didn’t turn up, because she didn’t have any money left to pay for her drink. And then suddenly she saw him, dressed in a loose double-breasted suit and an open-neck cream shirt. He had stopped to chat with an elegant young woman on the steps. After a couple of minutes he kissed her on the cheek and made his way over to Sally.

  “I am so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting. I do hope I’m not late.”

  “No, no you’re not. I arrived a few minutes early,” Sally said, flustered, as he bent down and kissed her hand.

  “What did you think of the Summer Exhibition?” he asked as the waiter appeared by his side.

  “Your usual, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you, Michael,” he replied.

  “I enjoyed it,” said Sally. “But …”

  “But you felt you could have done just as well yourself,” he suggested.

  “I didn’t mean to imply that,” she said, looking up to see if he was teasing. But the expression on his face remained serious. “I’m sure I will enjoy the Hockney more,” she added as a glass of champagne was placed on the table.

  “Then I’ll have to come clean,” said Tony.

  Sally put down her drink and stared at him, not knowing what he meant.

  “There isn’t a Hockney exhibition on at the moment,” he said. “Unless you want to fly to Glasgow.”

  Sally looked puzzled. “But you said—”

  “I just wanted an excuse to see you again.”

  Sally felt bemused and flattered, and was uncertain how to respond.

  “I’ll leave the choice to you,” he said. “We could have dinner together, or you could simply take the train back to Sevenoaks.”

  “How did you know I live in Sevenoaks?”

  “It was inscribed in big bold letters on the side of your canvas folder,” said Tony with a smile.

  Sally laughed. “I’ll settle for dinner,” she said. Tony paid for the drinks, then guided Sally out of the hotel and a few yards down the road to a restaurant on the corner of Arlington Street.

  This time Sally did try a glass of champagne, and allowed Tony to select for her from the menu. He could not have been more attentive, and seemed to know so much about so many things, even if she didn’t manage to find out exactly what he did.

  After Tony had called for the bill, he asked her if she would like to have coffee at “my place.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” she said, looking at her watch. “I’d miss the last train home.”

  “Then I’ll drive you to the station. We wouldn’t want you to miss the last train home, would we?” he said, scrawling his signature across the bill.

  This time she knew he was teasing her, and she blushed.

  When Tony dropped her off at Charing Cross he asked, “When can I see you again?”

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Bouchier at 11:30—”

  “Next Monday morning, if I remember correctly. So why don’t we have a celebration lunch together after he’s signed you up? I’ll come to the gallery at about 12:30. Goodbye.” He leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips.

  Sitting in a cold, smelly carriage on the last train back to Sevenoaks, Sally couldn’t help wondering what coffee at Tony’s place might have been like.

  Sally walked into the gallery a few minutes before 11:30 the following Monday to find Simon Bouchier kneeling on the carpet, head down, studying some paintings. They weren’t hers, and she hoped he felt the same way about them as she did.

  Simon looked up. “Good morning, Sally. Dreadful, aren’t they? You have to look through an awful lot of rubbish before you come across someone who shows any real talent.” He rose to his feet. “Mind you, Natasha Krasnoselyodkina does have one advantage over you.”

  “What’s that?” asked Sally.

  “She would draw the crowds for any opening.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she claims to be a Russian countess. Hints she’s a direct descendant of the last czar. Frankly, I think the Pearly Queen in the East End is about the nearest she’s been to royalty, but still, she’s the ‘in’ face at the moment—a sort of ‘Minah Bird’ of the nineties. What did Andy Warhol say—‘In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes’? By that standard, Natasha looks good for about thirty. I see this morning’s tabloids are even hinting she’s the new love in Prince Andrew’s life. My bet is they’ve never met. But if he were to turn up at the opening, we’d be jam packed, that’s for sure. We wouldn’t sell a picture, of course, but we’d be jam packed.”

  “Why wouldn’t you sell anything?” asked Sally.

  “Because the public is not that stupid when it comes to buying paintings. A picture is a large investment for most people, and they want to believe that they have a good eye, and that they’ve invested wisely. Natasha’s pictures won’t satisfy them on either count. With you, though, Sally, I’m beginning to feel they might be convinced on both. But first, let me see the rest of your portfolio.”

  Sally unzipped her bulging folder and laid out twenty-one paintings on the carpet.

  Simon dropped to his knees, and didn’t speak again for some time. When he eventually did offer an opinion, it was only to repeat the single word “consistent.”

  “But I’ll need even more, and of the same quality,” he said after he had risen to his feet. “Another dozen canvases at least, and by October. I want you to concentrate on interiors—you’re good at interiors. And they’ll have to be better than good if you expect me to invest my time, expertise, and a great deal of money in you, young lady. Do you think you can manage another dozen pictures by October, Miss Summers?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Sally, giving little thought to the fact that October was only five months away.

  “That’s good, because if you deliver, an