The Collected Short Stories Read online

  “Good afternoon, Mr … .” Consuela hesitated, feeling unsure of herself for the first time that day.

  “Laurence Graff,” he said, offering his hand. “We met at Sotheby-Parke Bernet last year—a charity function in aid of the Red Cross, if I remember correctly.”

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Rosenheim, unable to recall him, or the occasion.

  Mr. Graff bowed reverently toward the diamond-and-ruby necklace.

  “The Kanemarra heirloom,” he purred, then paused, before taking the manager’s place at the table. “Fashioned in 1936 by Silvio di Larchi,” he continued. “All the rubies were extracted from a single mine in Burma, over a period of twenty years. The diamonds were purchased from De Beers by an Egyptian merchant who, after the necklace had been made for him, offered the unique piece to King Farouk—for services rendered. When the monarch married Princess Farida, he presented it to her on their wedding day, and she in return bore him four heirs, none of whom, alas, was destined to succeed to the throne.” Graff looked up from one object of beauty and gazed on another.

  “Since then it has passed through several hands before arriving at the House of Graff,” continued the proprietor. “Its most recent owner was an actress, whose husband’s oil wells unfortunately dried up.”

  The flicker of a smile crossed the face of Consuela Rosenheim as she finally recalled where she had previously seen the necklace.

  “Quite magnificent,” she said, giving it one final look. “I will be back,” she added as she rose from her chair. Graff accompanied her to the door. Nine out of ten customers who make such a claim have no intention of returning, but he could always sense the tenth.

  “May I ask the price?” Consuela asked indifferently as he held the door open for her.

  “One million pounds, madam,” Graff replied, as casually as if she had inquired about the cost of a plastic keyring at a seaside gift shop.

  Once she had reached the sidewalk, Consuela dismissed her chauffeur. Her mind was now working at a speed that would have impressed her husband. She slipped across the street, calling first at the White House, then Yves Saint Laurent, and finally at Chanel, emerging some two hours later with all the weapons she required for the battle that lay ahead. She did not arrive back at her suite at the Ritz until a few minutes before six.

  Consuela was relieved to find that her husband had not yet returned from the bank. She used the time to take a long bath, and to contemplate how the trap should be set Once she was dry and powdered, she dabbed a suggestion of a new scent on her throat, then slipped into some of her newly acquired clothes.

  She was checking herself once again in the full-length mirror when Victor entered the room. He stopped on the spot, dropping his briefcase on the carpet. Consuela turned to face him.

  “You look stunning,” he declared, with the same look of desire she had lavished on the Kanemarra heirloom a few hours before.

  “Thank you, darling,” she replied. “And how did your day go?”

  “A triumph. The takeover has been agreed, and at half the price it would have cost me only a year ago.”

  Consuela smiled. An unexpected bonus.

  “Those of us who are still in possession of cash need have no fear of the recession,” Victor added with satisfaction.

  Over a quiet supper in the Ritz’s dining room, Victor described to his wife in great detail what had taken place at the bank that day. During the occasional break in this monologue Consuela indulged her husband by remarking, “How clever of you, Victor,” “How amazing,” “How you managed it I will never understand.” When he finally ordered a large brandy, lit a cigar, and leaned back in his chair, she began to run her elegantly stockinged right foot gently along the inside of his thigh. For the first time that evening, Victor stopped thinking about the takeover.

  As they left the dining room and strolled toward the elevator, Victor placed an arm around his wife’s slim waist. By the time the elevator had reached the sixth floor he had already taken off his jacket, and his hand had slipped a few inches further down. Consuela giggled. Long before they had reached the door of their suite, he had begun tugging off his tie.

  When they entered the room, Consuela placed the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside doorknob. For the next few minutes Victor was transfixed to the spot as he watched his slim wife slowly remove each garment she had purchased that afternoon. He quickly pulled off his own clothes, and wished once again that he had carried out his New Year’s resolution.

  Forty minutes later, Victor lay exhausted on the bed. After a few moments of sighing, he began to snore. Consuela pulled the sheet over their naked bodies, but her eyes remained wide open. She was already going over the next step in her plan.

  Victor awoke the following morning to discover his wife’s hand gently stroking the inside of his leg. He rolled over to face her, the memory of the previous night still vivid in his mind. They made love a second time, something they had not done for as long as he could recall.

  It was not until he stepped out of the shower that Victor remembered that it was his wife’s birthday, and that he had promised to spend the morning with her selecting a gift. He only hoped that her eye had already settled on something she wanted, as he needed to spend most of the day closeted in the City with his lawyers, going over the offer document line by line.

  “Happy birthday, darling,” he said as he padded back into the bedroom. “By the way, did you have any luck finding a present?” he added as he scanned the front page of the Financial Times, which was already speculating on the possible takeover, describing it as a coup. A smile of satisfaction appeared on Victor’s face for the second time that morning.

  “Yes, my darling,” Consuela replied. “I did come across one little bauble that I rather liked. I just hope it isn’t too expensive.”

  “And how much is this ‘little bauble’?” Victor asked. Consuela turned to face him. She was wearing only two garments, both of them black, and both of them remarkably skimpy.

  Victor started to wonder if he still had the time, but then he remembered the lawyers, who had been up all night and would be waiting patiently for him at the bank.

  “I didn’t ask the price,” Consuela replied. “You’re so much cleverer than I am at that sort of thing,” she added, as she slipped into a navy silk blouse.

  Victor glanced at his watch. “How far away is it?” he asked.

  “Just across the road, in Bond Street, my darling,” Consuela replied. “I shouldn’t have to delay you for too long.” She knew exactly what was going through her husband’s mind.

  “Good. Then let’s go and look at this little bauble without delay,” he said as he buttoned his shirt.

  While Victor finished dressing, Consuela, with the help of the Financial Times, skillfully guided the conversation back to his triumph of the previous day. She listened once more to the details of the takeover as they left the hotel and strolled up Bond Street together arm in arm.

  “Probably saved myself several million,” he told her yet again. Consuela smiled as she led him to the door of the House of Graff.

  “Several million?” she gasped. “How clever you are, Victor.”

  The security guard quickly opened the door, and this time Consuela found that Mr. Graff was already standing by the table waiting for her. He bowed low, then turned to Victor. “May I offer my congratulations on your brilliant coup, Mr. Rosenheim.” Victor smiled. “How may I help you?”

  “My husband would like to see the Kanemarra heirloom,” said Consuela, before Victor had a chance to reply.

  “Of course, madam,” said the proprietor. He stepped behind the table and spread out the black velvet cloth. Once again the assistant removed the magnificent necklace from its stand in the third window, and carefully laid it out on the center of the velvet cloth to show the jewels to their best advantage. Mr. Graff was about to embark on the piece’s history, when Victor simply said, “How much is it?”

  Mr. Graff raised his head. “This is no o