The Virgin's Wedding Night
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Accordingly, she took an early lunch, and grabbed a passing taxi to whisk her to the gallery. And a few minutes later she was sitting in Desmond Slevin’s private office, drinking coffee.
‘So, what can I do for you, Miss Flint?’ He was a handsome middle-aged man on the verge of being elderly, with grey hair, and piercing blue eyes. ‘Are you here to persuade me to give up the commute and rent another London pad?’
Harriet returned his smile. ‘I doubt that I could. No, I read a recent article about you, and it—got me thinking.’
‘Oh.’ He pulled a face. ‘Frankly, I came to regret that interview.’ He gave her a narrow-eyed glance. ‘I trust you haven’t taken up painting as a hobby, because you were once very kind and helpful, and I’d hate to disappoint you.’
She laughed. ‘You’re quite safe, I promise.’ And paused. ‘But if I ever saw work that seemed to have real talent, might you be interested in—perhaps—taking a look?’
He said dryly, ‘And I’m wondering, in turn, if that question is quite as hypothetical as it sounds.’ He refilled her cup. ‘So, who is this undiscovered genius, Miss Flint? A boyfriend?’
‘God, no.’ Harriet sat bolt upright, nearly spilling her coffee down her skirt. Bright spots of colour burned in her face. ‘The exact opposite, in fact. Someone I barely know. I—I don’t even have his full name.’
‘Dear me,’ he said placidly. ‘All the same he seems to have made quite an impression.’ He watched her reflectively for a moment. ‘Is there a body of work involved?’
‘Yes, I suppose—I think so. He—he has a studio.’
He laughed. ‘Which doesn’t always mean much. Does he know that you’ve come to see me on his behalf?’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘It was just an impulse, really.’
‘So you don’t know whether he’d be interested in selling his work?’
‘Well, of course he would. Why ever not?’
Desmond Slevin’s sigh held a touch of cynicism. ‘My dear, I’ve met many in my time who feel their work is unique, and of far too lofty significance to be handled commercially. Therefore I find it’s always best to check in advance.’
‘I don’t think that would apply in this case.’ Harriet drew a deep breath. ‘So, if I talk to him first, would you be willing to see his paintings? Give an opinion?’
‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Why not?’ He raised a minatory finger. ‘Just as long as you both understand that it doesn’t necessarily mean a deal.’
‘Oh, I’ll make that very clear.’
‘Then I’ll wait to hear from you,’ he said, and rose.
‘You know,’ he said as he accompanied her through the gallery to the street door. ‘It occurs to me you’re going to a lot of trouble for a complete stranger.’ He paused, and patted her on the shoulder. ‘But I’m sure you know your own business best.’
I wouldn’t count on it, Harriet thought grimly as she pinned on a beaming smile and walked away. In fact, I might well be making one of life’s more serious mistakes.
If, in fact, she went through with it. Because, as she kept reminding herself, she didn’t have to do this. She could still pull out, and no harm done. Tell Desmond Slevin that, after all, the paintings hadn’t repaid a second, closer inspection, and she was sorry for wasting his time. A smile and a shrug, and it would be all over.
But so would Gracemead, as a telephone conversation with her grandfather that same evening swiftly confirmed. Because if she’d hoped that his attitude might be softening at this late stage, she was gravely disappointed. He was still completely adamant in his views.
‘Stay a career woman if that’s what you want, Harriet,’ he told her brusquely. ‘Although I hear even that isn’t going so well these days. Live alone in that bleak flat of yours. But you’ll have no need of a family house and Gracemead can be put to better use.’
She put the phone down feeling sick at heart, and not just about the house. His comment about her work had struck a chill too.
So, gritting her teeth, she sat down to bait her hook. But what could she say to tempt him? I have a proposal for you? No, too blatant. A proposition? God, even worse.
And where could they meet? She didn’t want to go to his studio again. Somewhere public would be preferable. Even essential. A restaurant maybe? But for lunch, perhaps, rather than dinner. Or was that all too social?
Eventually she came up with a form of words which would have to do. And she was annoyed to find her hand shaking as she dialled his mobile number. It was almost a relief to find she was speaking to his voicemail.
She said steadily, ‘This is Harriet Flint. I have a business matter I would like to discuss with you, which could be to your advantage. Perhaps you would meet me for afternoon tea on Saturday at the Titan Palace Hotel, at four-thirty.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘If this is inconvenient, please contact me at Flint Audley between nine and six to arrange another appointment.’
Well, that was brisk and businesslike enough, which was why she’d chosen the Titan Palace as an appropriate rendezvous. As one of the capital’s newest hotels, it was large, impersonal and catering for an upmarket business clientele. A place where deals were done.
Also, afternoon tea sounded very correct and English. Fairly aloof, too, so he couldn’t possibly infer that he was being asked out on some kind of date.
Although there was still no guarantee, of course, that he’d turn up, no matter how she phrased the invitation.