Brilliant (12 page)

T  W  E  N  T  Y  -  T  H  R  E  E

It was two weeks after the “Tina Incident,” as we’d begun to refer to it. Tina’s family had come en force from San Juan to carry her back home, seeking solace amid a constant swarm of television cameras and tears. She’d been their provider, their mater familias, their annuity, and now their only celebrity remained in her farewell. It was sad. Owen had flown over for what turned out to be a state funeral, and that had been that.

The office was back to normal. Ballantine’s experts were back at their appraisals and cataloging, the customers were back at buying, inspired by Bertram’s exhortations. Owen was back at hustling and juggling the books, although he didn’t seem to be whoring around quite as much. Actually, now that I think about it, he didn’t seem to be whoring around at all.

Wednesday afternoon, after the stock market closed, the audited third quarter earnings report and sales projections from Panther were announced, and they were miserable. The bad news would suppress the stock further, which would force additional margin calls from approximately eight different banks, with Credit Suisse leading the charge. The pressure would have sent me right off a cliff, but all it seemed to do to Owen was make him tighten up. Anybody who wanted to play chicken with this man needed a set of plutonium ones, to use the vernacular, if you know what I mean.

“Do you want to have dinner tonight?” Owen interrupted his dictation.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, do you want to have dinner tonight?”

“You mean with you?”

“Well, yes. That’s the general idea.”

“You aren’t asking me on a date, are you?”

“Give me a break, Kick. Lighten up. We have a lot going on, and I thought it might be nice to have a change of scenery while we cover some of this stuff instead of staying late at the office.”

I considered. “What time?”

“I was thinking we could just go to Caprice from here.”

Did I want to have dinner with Owen? Not really, although by Wednesday I was always a little tired of my own cooking and would have had dinner out anyhow. I’d never been to Caprice. It was a St. James’s restaurant where all the “in” people from the neighborhood went, including, most especially, Prince Charles.

“I suppose that would be all right,” I said.

“You sure do seem excited,” Owen said.

“Get over yourself, Owen.”

We sat at a side table in the main room, where the power crowd sits, and I had to admit, it really was fun to be out. Sir Cramner had never allowed himself to be seen with me in public, which—from the time I’d arrived in London as a very young woman—was the role I’d basically grown up in, been trained in, and accepted completely. It was just the way my life was. I was fully cognizant of the fact that I was a singular, solitary person with little-to-no experience in the visible, public side of social relations between men and women. I had no really close friends, and the friends I did have were weekend people, like me, in France. I’d never actually “dated” anyone, nor had what could be called a romantic involvement other than with Sir Cramner. It hadn’t been from lack of invitations; it was from a complete lack of inclination to get close to anyone. A psychiatrist would probably say I was afraid to love, I avoided it out of fear, fear of attachment, fear of loss. Okay, fine. Whatever. The point is, can you imagine what would have happened to my little empire if I’d spilled the beans for love? For a friendly roll in the hay? The thought gave me chills.

But tonight, with Owen, it was fun. Almost like having a good friend.

We started with vodka martinis, then butter lettuce salad with a light vinaigrette, followed by grilled lamb chops with rosemary-garlic butter, fresh asparagus, and crunchy little potato pancakes. Owen ordered a bottle of Bordeaux, a 1985 Château Le Pin.

“Excellent choice, sir,” the sommelier praised him, and why wouldn’t he at a thousand pounds a bottle.

“You really do need to expand your horizons,” I said after the sommelier had finished decanting the inky black wine and he and Owen had twirled and sipped and oohed and ahhed, and Owen instructed him to let it breathe a bit.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but these sort of big showboat wines with their perfunctory decanting performances, I’m sure have the desired effect of impressing your little model girls with your vast oenological expertise.” I didn’t even try to hide my disdain. “But the fact is, there are ten other, better, more subtle and sophisticated vintages on the list that—if you really want to impress someone who actually knows something about wine—you should learn to select. Besides, Château Le Pin is way, way too big for this meal, and the ’85 isn’t ready to drink anyway.”

“Really.”

I nodded.

“Well then, perhaps you’d like to do the ordering.”

“It will be my great pleasure. Do you care how much it costs?”

“No.”

“Fair enough. This will be a good comparison, because at least the wines are comparably priced.” I motioned to the sommelier and asked him to bring a Château Margaux 1961.

Well, the point was, there was no comparison.

“This is incredible,” Owen said.

“Now,” I said, savoring the wine’s velvety taste, “next time, if you really want to show your stuff, you can contemplate the 1995 Margaux—it’s said to be the greatest Margaux ever made—but it’s still a little young.”

I already had four cases in my cellar.

Then we talked about Lady Melody’s estate and how the process was coming along. That afternoon, he and Bertram, who’d been locked in what was beginning to resemble a Neo-Greco-Roman wrestling standoff—one of those polite sort of things when both men just lean on each other as hard as they can, but they don’t punch or hit, they just lean like bulls forehead to forehead, for hours and hours and hours—agreed to compromise, and scheduled the auction for three months hence. Owen had wanted two. Bertram insisting on six.

“Bertram’s right, you know,” I said. “It puts a lot of pressure on us. It’s a totally inadequate period to inventory, appraise, and catalog the lots, and promote the sale.”

“Tough.” Owen shrugged. “Anyone who doesn’t like it can leave. I know that in the auction business—which as far as I can tell, moves at the speed of the Pleistocene Age—this is hasty, but I don’t care. I need the cash.”

“I understand.”

“Yes, I believe you do. We’re a lot alike. Would you like a coffee or a brandy?”

If you ask me, drinking after dinner is for either amateurs or alcoholics, but I didn’t want the evening to end and I didn’t want a cup of coffee. “A glass of champagne would be just right, thanks.”

“Any particular kind?” Owen said to me sarcastically.

“Yes. Pol Roger Brut, please. Nonvintage.”

“Make that two.”

Once the waiter was gone, Owen continued. “May I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure.”

“Why haven’t you ever gotten married?”

“Why have you gotten married so often?”

He laughed. “I’m serious.”

“All the regular reasons. Right man never came along. I’m now too old and set in my ways. I like my life the way it is.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“Excuse me?” If I’d been a dog, my ruff would have risen.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry too much, but I just think you’re neat. You’re so . . . self-contained. So elegant. I don’t understand why you aren’t living on some grand estate somewhere and president of the Royal Garden Club.”

I frowned. “Please.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. But, strange as it may sound to you, it is possible to be happy by yourself. You should try it sometime.”

“I think I am.” Owen laughed. “Maybe you’ll show me how.”

“You’ve completely missed the point.”

“Okay. Change of subject. Friday night. The Winthrop party. Will you come with me?”

“You mean as your
date
?”

“What in the hell is your problem, Kick? As my companion. My sister. My aide-de-camp. What the hell difference does it make?”

“None actually. I appreciate the invitation, but I can’t. I’ve got plans. Why don’t you take Bertram?”

“He and his wife are going to the museum gala.”

“Okay, then, take Céline.”

“Very funny. I need someone with some stature and presence. Some maturity and sophistication.”

“You’re right. You do.”

“I need you.”

“Owen, what on earth is wrong with you? Are you drunk?”

“No.” He shook his head and smiled. He looked almost sheepish. “I have to tell you, Kick. I’ve never had this happen before, but I can’t seem to control myself around you. I’m becoming completely infatuated with you.”

A loud buzzing filled my head, similar, I think, to the sound you hear just when you’re dying. I put my hand on top of his and looked into his eyes. “Let me tell you what: Forget it. Get back to your babes. I’ll just break your heart.”

T  W  E  N  T  Y  -  F  O  U  R

Friday dawned. This was going to be a big day: It was the day of the auction of jewelry from the estate of Mrs. Lewis Baker of Galveston, Texas. (The woman who drugged up her racehorse and ran him into the ground.) And this evening would be Mr. Winthrop’s ninetieth birthday. I was ready for all of it.

Earlier in the week, I’d FedExed my copy of the Kashmir sapphire-and-diamond necklace to myself at the office which meant it would go through the standard X-ray process and sniff test all our mail was subjected to, but I wouldn’t have to try to bring it through our security myself. The FedEx package stayed in the bottom drawer of my desk until Friday morning, when I opened it and tucked the finished piece into my pocket. I had done a great job. My craftsmanship was virtually indistinguishable from the original, and unless it was scrutinized by an expert, no one would ever know the difference. The synthetic stones burned with the feverish zeal of their authentic cousins, the Kashmirs.

We didn’t open the doors until ten o’clock, but by eight-thirty customers were lining up outside for the eleven o’clock auction. This was an extremely prestigious sale, Sir Benjamin’s only coup in the last year of his tenure. The morning was frigid.

Bertram looked out the side windows at the front door, then turned to his team assembled indoors. “This is even better than I expected. Everybody ready?”

Nods all round.

“Good.” He threw open the front door and said loudly enough for the people at the front of the line to hear, “Roger, we must let these poor people in. They’re freezing to death.”

“Yes, sir,” the security chief answered smartly.

“Alcott, would you ask the kitchen to prepare tea and biscuits, if you will.”

“Consider it done, sir.” Alcott teetered off to the main kitchen, where he’d already alerted the staff to be ready early. Moments later, as the customers streamed in from the cold, the tea, coffee, and hot cocoa tables materialized, loaded with giant silver urns and china cups and saucers emblazoned with the Ballantine & Company Auctioneers emblem. Large sterling silver trays of sweet rolls, muffins, and biscuits were positioned alongside the urns. By eight-forty-five, the main lobby was packed with beautifully dressed women, well- tailored men, trophy wives with their rich, aged husbands, and numerous dealers, most of them Hassidic Jews in their black suits and side curls. The decibels rose. The place resembled a convivial meeting of the Ladies Aid Society.

At nine, Bertram climbed a few steps of the main staircase and clapped his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have a moment, please.”

The crowd quieted quickly.

“I’m Bertram Taylor, president and chief auctioneer.” He paused for a flurry of appreciative recognition. “Thank you. Thank you.” He managed to eke out a little color in his apple cheeks. He was such a superb showman. “Welcome to Ballantine & Company—hopefully you’re all getting thawed out—we want warm happy customers, not a freezing, screaming mob.” Laughs and applause all round. “As you know, the exhibition rooms don’t officially open for another hour, but we have a much larger than expected turnout, and I’ve instructed the jewelry department to set up as quickly as possible so you can have a few extra minutes to look over these pieces, many of which are quite remarkable. If you haven’t already had an opportunity to see the collection in person, you won’t believe it. We’re delighted you’re here, and we’re going to have a great sale today. Enjoy yourselves.”

Bertram gaveled the auction into session at eleven o’clock sharp. All the phone girls were in place, each with her customer on the line, and the private rooms, similar to sky boxes, were filled with Saudis and sultans. There were sixty lots, about an hour and a half worth. My Kashmir sapphire-and-diamond necklace was the last item—the show’s crowning jewel, if you will. Photographs of each item flashed on big screens around the auction room.

Once the sale began, the Jewelry Ladies, as they’re known, immediately started breaking down the exhibit, returning the jewels to the rolling safes, which were armored stacks of velvet-lined drawers, each with two armed guards assigned to it. I always make a point of assisting the Jewelry Ladies, whether I have a personal stake in the auction or not, and as we worked together, laughing and talking, we all half listened and half watched Bertram on the monitor mounted over the door.

Every now and then one of the ladies would say, “Did you hear that?” And we’d all pause and watch Bertram’s final gavel. The sale was proceeding much better than expected, everything was going for at least twice, and sometimes three times, the amounts of the estimates—one of my benchmarks for whether to make a switch or not. Another benchmark is who’s doing the buying—private individual or dealer. When the ruby cabochon and diamond suite was bought by an individual, not a dealer, for almost three times its estimate—I knew I was set, because it meant someone willing to spend a great deal of money had just gotten shut out. The buying fever soared.

The time had come to make the switch.

Now is when the rubber hits the road. When we separate the women from the girls. Now is when and why I earn the big bucks.

With my left hand I reached into my pocket and with my right into the case and at the same time, I said, “What did Bertram just say?”

It made all of us, myself included, pause and cock our ears and turn our eyes to look up at the screen, just long enough, only a split second, for me to withdraw the copy from my pocket and thrust the original into my blouse.

“It’s just marvelous,” the Jewelry Lady next to me said. “I think he said that diamond bracelet brought a million pounds.”

“Bertram’s so, so talented,” said another.

“He’s the best,” I agreed.

As am I.

Early afternoon, I received a call.

“Miss Keswick? Thomas Curtis here.”

“Thomas Curtis?”

“Yes, Commander Curtis with Scotland Yard.”

“Oh!” I laughed. “I’m sorry, Commander—I don’t think I knew your first name. How are you? I imagine you’re calling with Miss Romero’s autopsy results.”

“No actually, this is a social call.”

“Oh?”

I sat up a little straighter.

“Have you seen the Singer exhibit at the Tate?”

“About ten times. I can’t seem to get enough of it.”

“Same here. I’ve got tomorrow afternoon off and hoped you might join me for a stroll through the gallery—I’d love to hear what you think about some of the paintings, and that way we’ll get some culture in and won’t feel so guilty about having a good lunch.”

What a nice surprise. And actually, one of the nicest invitations I’ve ever received. So much better than a movie or some sort of a sporting event. The Tate on a Saturday afternoon and lunch? It made me sick to decline.

“I can’t do it. I have to go to Henley for a meeting in the morning and I don’t know when I’ll be back. Please promise you’ll ask me again.”

“I will,” he answered. “If I ever get another Saturday off.”

“Are you
positive
you can’t come to Mr. Winthrop’s birthday party tonight?” Owen repeated.

The “infatuation” subject hadn’t come up again. But I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t affected me. My relationship with Owen was unlike any experience I’d had before. The more we worked together, got to know each other, the more fun and interesting it became. There was laughter, polite resistance, tug-and-pull, and a sexual, sensuous, atmosphere of derring-do. He reminded me of a terrier who wouldn’t give up. He’d taken the time to try to peek behind my ice-queen door, and I was letting him. God help me. I was having fun. I needed to get out of here.

“For the last time, I cannot. Give it up, Owen. I still have the same plans I had on Wednesday.” To wit: Tonight was the night I knew Sheiglah Fullerton, big-game huntress extraordinaire, would be out all evening.

“Change them.”

“No. I can’t. I won’t.”

“Do you have a sweetheart?”

“Is that really any of your business?”

“No. But I’d like to know.”

“What you mean is, do I have a life? We’ve covered this before, and the answer still is, yes.”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll see you at nine tomorrow.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

I went home from work and disassembled Mrs. Baker’s sapphire-and-diamond necklace, liquefying the platinum. I couldn’t believe that I possessed eleven, large, Kashmir sapphires—it was unheard of. I cupped them in my hands and rolled them around where they made a joyful clicking sound and sparkled like deep water. They were so beautiful, I wanted to eat them, take them into myself, become part of them, make them part of me. Reluctantly, I folded each one into its diamond paper
briefke
, arranged them in order by cut and carats, and locked them away.

There was no time to sit and congratulate myself. For two and a half weeks, I’d studied Number Forty-six South Carriage Square from a variety of angles, at a variety of times, in a variety of guises, and by the time evening rolled around, I was prepared.