Casually I crossed to see it. I'd earned the right.
'Are you married, Lovejoy?'
The brushwork was perfect. He'd even got a good original frame, just that wrong screaming yellow.
'Lovejoy? I asked if you're married.' I dragged my eyes away.
'Do I look it?'
She tilted her head, smiling, finally said no.
'I suppose my frayed drip-dry shirt gave me away.'
She laughed at that. I was beginning to like her but shook the feeling off. No dawdling allowed in the antiques game, Lovejoy. When times are especially bad, physical love -
and everything else - comes a long second. Lovejoy Antiques, Inc., were fighting for survival, and this in a trade where Genghis Khan wouldn't last a week.
'You have an eye for style,' I flattered, still determined at the picture.
'A present to Peter, my husband. It isn't actually old at all. A friend did it, poor old Mr.
Bexon. Isn't it good?'
'Great.' I went to sit close beside her, suddenly very bleak. Poor old Mr. Bexon? I didn't like the sound of that. Poor's okay and old's okay, but poor old sounds a goner.
'It's very similar to the Castle's paintings, isn't it?' the dear little innocent said.
'Very similar,' I agreed. Just how similar she would probably never realize. I avoided telling her anything about it, though.
The reason people are bitter about us dealers is that they believe us to be openly on the make (true) and unerringly skilful at recognizing genuine antiques (on the whole, hopelessly wrong. Most of us couldn't tell a Ch'ien Lung vase from a jamjar under a laser beam. I'm an exception).
'Divorced?'
'Eh?'
'I said are you divorced?' Brenda repeated.
'Yes. Her name was Cissie.' Best to be honest when they are doing their intuition thing.
'It was my fault, really.' It had been like living with Torquemada.
She nodded, but women don't really agree with this sort of manly admission. Shrewd to the last, they know everything's always the woman's fault. I just go along with the majority view.
'Too wrapped up in art,' I explained. 'It was just after I'd joined Christie's.'
'Sotheby's,' she corrected. I'd given her the wrong card. She'd actually read it, the pest.
I wish women were more reliable.
'Ah,' I said, quick as a flash, 'I was with both of them at that time. Spreading the genius around,' I added, smiling to show I was still modest deep down. 'Is Mr. Bexon a neighbour?' Poverty makes you very single- minded.
'He lived here in the village. So wonderful with children.' Oh dear, that past tense again.
'Was?' I managed to get out.
'He died a few weeks ago. Of course he was very old.' People annoy me saying that. Is death not supposed to count just because you're getting on? She put her arms around me and moved closer. 'It was fantastic with you, Lovejoy.'
'Yes, great,' I said, now thoroughly depressed. Another empty.
'I don't… you know, for every man who comes knocking.'
'No, love.' They always go through this.
'You're special.'
'Did he work with your husband?'
'With Peter? Yes, once. Engineering.'
I shrugged and gave in. We were just becoming active again when she said these precious words which ruined all chance of really closer acquaintance.
'I'm glad you liked the painting. If Peter hadn't called to collect it one weekend it would have gone with the rest of his things in the sale.'
'Sale?' I dragged my hands from her blouse and withdrew swiftly along the sofa fumbling for my shoes.
'Why, yes.'
'Where?' I broke into a sweat. 'Quick. Where?'
'In town. That auction place, Gimbert's. What's the matter, Lovejoy?'
'When?'
'Good gracious!' she exclaimed. 'You look as if you've seen a -'
'When?'
'Last week.' She couldn't miss the chance of criticizing another woman. 'There was some… bother. So I heard. His nieces had a terrible row. Nichole's quite nice but Kate -'
