Playing the Game

Moving down the room, he took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and walked around, mingling with the crowd. He spoke to a few people he knew, then positioned himself near a pillar, leaned against it, watching the show unfold.

And quite a show it was. He spotted two beautiful American movie stars with their husbands, done up to the nines and dripping diamonds from every pore, a famous, recently knighted writer of literary fiction, a controversial politician with his busty wife, a duchess renowned for her young lovers, and quite a few old friends and acquaintances, as well as a number of other art dealers.

The world and his wife, he thought. Everyone’s here. And why not? When Marius gives a party on this scale, he usually pulls out all the stops. That is why everybody wants to be invited.

Actually it was Annette’s party this evening. She had long planned it for Marius’s sixtieth, and she had put a lot of time and effort into it. Just the way Marius had taught her. That was his way. He tended to be a teacher by nature.

Certainly he had been Malcolm‘s teacher, mentor, friend and colleague as well. Their association had lasted a long time, and yet Marius didn’t seem a day older than when they had met fifteen years ago. He stared down the length of the room, focused on him, thinking that he looked especially well this evening. Tall, slender, as immaculately dressed as ever, wearing an impeccably tailored dinner jacket, no doubt from his favourite Savile Row tailor. His mane of silver hair gleamed above his lightly tanned face; Marius was forever popping off somewhere to catch the sun, and the tan gave him a youthful look. But it was his hair that Malcolm envied, and it was his hair, of course, that had inspired his nickname: The Silver Fox. Although he and a few others knew that it also referred to Marius’s nature. He was considered to be decidedly foxy by some.

Malcolm had gone to work for Marius fifteen years ago, when he was twenty-seven, had been thrilled to be one of the team at the Remmington Gallery in St James’s. When Marius decided to sell the gallery ten years ago, he had borrowed the money from his father in order to buy it. He had kept up its fine reputation, garnered many new clients, and Marius said he was proud of him, was forever praising him for upholding the great tradition of the Remmington.

Wanting a less hectic life, Marius took offices in Mayfair, became an art consultant and private dealer with only a handful of steady and very rich clients. They had remained close and Malcolm was an admirer of the older man.

Not everyone felt the same way he did. There were those who bad-mouthed Marius Remmington. They said he was arrogant, mercurial, temperamental, driven, and something of a manipulator. But there were lots of people in this world who loved to carp. Malcolm knew that only too well.

There had always been gossip about the Remmingtons for as long as he could remember. In his opinion it was because they attracted attention, caused resentment and jealousy. Talented, socially acceptable, upwardly mobile and highly successful, they were quite a remarkable couple. Reasons enough for tongues to wag. And wag they did.

Then there was the difference in their ages. Marius was twenty years older than Annette … sixty to her thirty-nine. But she would be forty in June, and the twenty-year gap between them didn’t seem so startling now. But once it had, when she was eighteen and he was thirty-eight, and something of a man about town, considered to be a bit of a roué. Cradle-snatcher he had been called, and worse.

There was mystery surrounding Annette’s background. No one really knew where she had sprung from. Except, of course, for the Marius Mafia, who bragged that they knew. His mafia, so called, was a cadre of young men who constantly surrounded him, whom he called his protégés, which is exactly what they were. Young men who’d been singled out for their talent; who had worked for Marius at some time, or still did; who were loyal, devoted and forever at his beck and call. They enjoyed being around him because something was always happening. It seemed to Malcolm that there was a constant show going on … famous people, people in the know, and in the news, gravitated to Marius. That was an essential part of his success as an art dealer, that charisma of his, the gregariousness, the bucketsful of charm and the clever way he had of pulling everyone into his orbit.

Malcolm was one of Marius’s favourites and he had received special treatment from the very beginning. The Marius Mafia had told him about Annette.

Seemingly she had come to London from some Northern city, he wasn’t sure which, to study art. But there was not enough talent to lift her up into the stratosphere of genius that equalled eventual fame. Good looking. But the looks were obscured by her hesitant manner, according to some of the Marius Mafia; it was a sort of diffidence, they said. Blonde, blue eyed, slender as a reed, and exceedingly bright. But ordinary. That was the way they had described her to him. He himself had not known her then.

Not so ordinary now, though, Malcolm thought, his eyes settling on her. It was an elegant creature who stood there. Not the most beautiful woman in the world, but good looking, well put-together, whatever the occasion, and the current golden girl in the art world. Her auction of the Rembrandt had assured her a place in the front row, had given her art consultancy business a big boost …

‘What are you doing here all alone, Malcolm?’ a familiar voice exclaimed.

Swinging around, Malcolm grinned. ‘Watching the show and having a bit of the old bubbly. How about you, David? And where’s Meg?’

His old friend David Oldfield shook his head. ‘Still in New York. On business. I’m solo tonight.’ Reaching into his pocket, David pulled out a small envelope, looked inside, and said, ‘I’m at table ten. What about you?’

‘The same. I have a feeling it’s Marius’s table. Come on, let’s try and get to the bar. I’d like a vodka.’

‘Good idea,’ David responded, and together they struggled through the throng. Once they had secured their Grey Goose on the rocks, they went off into a quiet corner. Clinking glasses, they both said cheers in unison, and David asked, ‘Is it true that Christopher Delaware inherited a lot of really great art from that uncle of his? And that Annette’s going to be representing him?’

Malcolm said in an even tone, ‘I haven’t heard about any great art. But I know he’s Annette’s client. Oh, look, there’s Johnny Davenport. He’s bound to know. Let’s go and talk to him.’

‘Malcolm! Malcolm!’ He heard a woman’s voice calling his name. Trying to be heard above the clamour. Swinging his head, he spotted her at once. An old friend. It was Margaret Mellor, the editor of the best art magazine in Europe called, very simply, ART. She was waving to him.

Catching hold of David’s arm, he said, ‘Will you excuse me for a moment? Margaret Mellor’s beckoning to me. Go ahead, chat to Johnny. I’ll join you both shortly.’

‘No problem.’ David pushed ahead, moving adroitly between people, edging his way forward.

Malcolm went in the opposite direction towards his friend. When he finally reached her, he grinned. ‘I almost didn’t hear you above the din.’

‘It’s bedlam. I was just with Annette, she wants us to go and see the ballroom before it fills up with guests. She says it’s charming.’

‘Then let’s go now, before we get trapped in this corner. The place is suddenly milling with old friends and colleagues. Plus loads of photographers, I notice.’ He frowned.

‘Don’t tell me. The press are swarming all over the place!’

Malcolm sighed. ‘That’s Marius, he never does things by half and he does love the media. As far as he’s concerned, the more the merrier.’

‘He’s a glutton for punishment.’ She sounded sarcastic.

Malcolm laughed. That was Margaret. Spot on with her comments. He put an arm around her shoulders, guided her through the crush. Behind them, flashbulbs were already popping; it seemed to him that the crowd was swelling, getting bigger by the second. How many people had they invited? The whole world, he decided, and hoped the huge crowd wouldn’t ultimately spoil the event. Why do I worry? She knows what she’s doing, even if he doesn’t, sometimes. Marius. Such an enigma.

Finally, Malcolm was pushing open the door into the ballroom. Instantly, a waiter confronted them. ‘I’m very sorry, but you can’t come in. Mrs Remmington doesn’t want anyone in here for another half-hour. She was very precise.’ Polite but determined.

‘Yes, we know. Mrs Remmington sent us to see the ballroom before it fills up. I’m Margaret Mellor of ART magazine, and this is Mr Stevens, a colleague and friend of Mrs Remmington’s.’

The waiter inclined his head but didn’t budge, blocking their way. Still determined – to do his duty and keep them out.

‘My chief photographer Josh Brady was here earlier,’ Margaret added. ‘Taking pictures for the magazine. You must be Frank Lancel. Mrs Remmington told me to speak to you.’ Charm, a warm smile. Her tools.

‘Yes, I’m Frank,’ the waiter answered, relaxing, but only slightly. ‘And I did help Mr Brady a while ago, when he was taking his shots. So please, come in, look around. I have to stay here at the door. Stand guard. Mrs Remmington’s instructions.’ He sounded droll.

‘She explained that,’ Margaret answered. Taking hold of Malcolm’s hand, she led him forward. The two of them finally stood at the edge of the ballroom floor near the orchestra stand, their eyes sweeping around the room with interest and anticipation.

They were both taken aback by the unique beauty of the magical scene that Annette had designed. The room was a sea of pale green – that peculiar pale green with a hint of grey, so often found in the interiors of French châteaux, which seems to create a misty look. This pale green silk rippled down the walls from the ceiling to the floor, and was repeated for the tablecloths, napkins and chair seats.

But what was so unusual and wonderful about the setting were the green dendrobium orchids with pink centres. These were massed in banks in front of mirrored, folding screens, and also stood on mirrored consoles, Venetian style, placed against the green walls. There were literally hundreds of orchid plants in pale celadon green pots, and those banked in front of the mirrored screens instantly appeared to be twice the quantity because of their reflections. Centrepieces on the tables were crystal bowls filled with stems of green orchids, surrounded by lots of votive lights. Tall crystal candlesticks holding tall white tapers were on either side of the bowls of orchids. Everything glistened and sparkled in the candlelight: the crystal wine goblets and silverware, the silver service plates.

The two of them stood there for a few minutes longer, endeavouring to take everything in. Then Margaret said slowly, ‘It’s almost ethereal, dreamlike. What an effect Annette has created … it’s a garden … a garden of orchids. How clever.’

Malcolm turned to her, exclaimed, ‘Yes, it is. And you can be sure of one thing. It’s going to knock everybody’s socks off.’

TWO (#ulink_c0b8517f-07e8-564a-85d3-5e76a5cd447f)

Marius was happy. Annette could tell from the expression on his face. He was beaming, relaxed, leaning back in his chair at the head of the table positioned directly opposite hers. They faced each other, were in each other’s line of vision, could communicate, at least visually, whenever they wanted.

The party was a success. She knew that even though it was only halfway through. There had been a feeling of excitement right from the beginning of the evening. During the cocktail period, a trio played low music in the background, champagne and wine flowed, there was an open bar for other drinks, and an array of delicious canapés was passed around, nonstop, by the busy waiters.

Now, in the ballroom, she was feeling an enormous surge of energy and vitality amongst the guests. They were getting up to dance to the popular music, and she glanced around, noted the hilarity, heard the laughter and the high-voltage babble of conversation. It seemed to her that they were all enjoying themselves, having a great time.

Marius caught her eye and got up, walked over to her table. A moment later he was escorting her out on to the dance floor.

Taking her in his arms, he looked down at her and smiled, his black eyes warm, loving. ‘You’ve pulled it off again,’ he murmured. ‘It’s a fabulous party, everyone’s enjoying it immensely. Are you?’

They began to move around the edge of the dance floor. She cocked her head, looked up at him, an amused smile in her eyes. ‘You’ve always told me that a hostess who enjoys her own party isn’t being a good hostess.’

Marius burst out laughing. ‘Touché, Mrs Remmington. But in that instance, I was actually referring to parties given at one’s home. Not in a public place. So are you?’

‘As a matter of fact, I am. I was a bit uptight at first, when we came into the ballroom, but then I noticed that everyone quickly found their seats, looked happy where they were sitting; also they’d enjoyed themselves during cocktails so they were in the right frame of mind.’

‘Very true. Well oiled. I didn’t see one glum face. But I must admit I did see a lot of astonished faces when they began to realize they were in the middle of an orchid garden.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘The setting is a triumph, darling, you were inspired.’