watercolours.
“Can I help you?” asked a young woman who was sitting behind a desk near the window.
“No, thank you,” Sally replied. “I was just looking.”
The girl eyed Sally’s canvas folder, but said nothing. Sally decided she would do one circuit of the room, and then make good her escape. She began to circle the gallery, studying the pictures carefully. They were good, very good — but Sally believed she could do just as well, given time. She would have liked to see Muriel Pemberton’s work when she was her age.
When Sally reached the far end of the gallery, she became aware of an office in which a short, balding man, wearing an old tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, was closely examining a picture. He looked about the same age as her father. Also studying the picture was another man, who caused Sally to stop in her tracks. He must have been a little over six foot, with those dark Italian looks that people normally only come across in glossy magazines; and he was old enough to be her brother.
Was he Mr Bouchier? she wondered. She hoped so, because if he owned the gallery she might be able to summon up the courage to introduce herself to him, once the little man in the scruffy jacket had left. At that moment the young man looked up and gave her a huge grin. Sally turned quickly away and began to study the pictures on the far wall.
She was wondering if it was worth hanging around any longer when the two men suddenly strolled out of the office and began walking towards the door. She froze, pretending to concentrate on a portrait of a young girl in pastel blues and yellows, a picture that had a Matisse-like quality about it.
“What’s in there?” asked a cheeky voice. Sally turned round and came face to face with the two men. The smaller one was pointing at her canvas bag.
“Just a few pictures,” Sally stammered. “I'm an artist.”
“Let’s have a look,” said the man, “and perhaps I can decide if you’re an artist or not.”
Sally hesitated.
“Come on, come on,” he teased. “I haven’t got all day. As you can see, I have an important client to take to lunch,” he added, indicating the tall, well-dressed young man, who still hadn’t spoken.
“Oh, are you Mr Bouchier?” she asked, unable to hide her disappointment.
“Yes. Now, am I going to be allowed to look at your pictures or not?”
Sally quickly unzipped her canvas bag and laid out the six paintings on the floor. Both of the men bent down and studied them for some time before either offered an opinion.
“Not bad,” said Bouchier eventually. “Not bad at all. Leave them with me for a few days, and then let’s meet again next week.” He paused. “Say Monday, 11.30. And if you have any more examples of your recent work, bring them with you.”
Sally was speechless.
“Can’t see you before Monday,” he continued, “because the RA’s Summer Exhibition opens tomorrow. So for the next few days I won’t have a moment to spare. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
The younger man was still examining Sally’s pictures closely. At last he looked up at her. “I’d like to buy the one of the interior with the black cat on the windowsill. How much is it?”
“Well,” said Sally, “I’m not sure…”
“N.F.S.” said Mr Bouchier firmly, guiding his client towards the door.
“By the way,” the taller man said, turning back, “I am Antonio Flavelli. My friends call me Tony.”
But Mr Bouchier was already pushing him out onto the street.
Sally returned home that afternoon with an empty canvas folder, and was prepared to admit to her parents that a London dealer had shown an interest in her work. But it was, she insisted, no more than an interest.
The following morning Sally decided to go to the opening day of the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition, which would give her the chance to find out just how good her rivals were. For over an hour she stood in the long queue that stretched from the front door, right across the carpark and out onto the pavement. When she eventually reached the top of the wide staircase, she wished she was six feet six tall, so that she could see over the tops of the heads of the mass of people who were crowding every room. After a couple of hours strolling round the many galleries, Sally was confident that she was already good enough to enter a couple of her pictures for next year’s exhibition.
She stopped to admire a Craigie Aitchison of Christ on the cross, and checked in her little blue catalogue to find out the price: ten thousand pounds, more than she could hope to earn if she were to sell every one of her canvases. Suddenly her concentration was broken, as a soft Italian voice behind her said, “Hello, Sally.” She swung round to find Tony Flavelli smiling down at her.
“Mr Flavelli,” she said.
“Tony, please. You like Craigie Aitchison?”
“He’s superb,” Sally replied. “I know his work well — I had the privilege of being taught by him when I was at the Slade.”
“I can remember, not so long ago, when you could pick up an Aitchison for two, three hundred pounds at the most. Perhaps the same thing will happen to you one day. Have you seen anything else you think I ought to look at?”
Sally was flattered to have her advice sought by a serious collector, and said, “Yes, I think the sculpture of “Books on a Chair” by Julie Major is very striking. She has talent, and I’m sure she has a future.”
“So do you,” said Tony.
“Do you think so?” asked Sally.
“It’s not important what I think,” said Tony. “But Simon Bouchier is convinced.”
“Are you teasing me?” asked Sally.
“No, I’m not, as you’ll find out for yourself when you see him next Monday. He talked of little else over lunch yesterday — ‘The daring brushwork, the unusual use of colour, the originality of ideas.’ I thought he was never going to stop. Still, he’s promised I can have ‘The Sleeping Cat that Never Moved’ once you’ve both settled on a price.”
Sally was speechless.
“Good luck,” Tony said, turning to leave. “Not that I think you need it.” He hesitated for a moment before swinging back to face her. “By the way, are you going to the Hockney exhibition?”
“I didn’t even know there was one,” Sally confessed.
“There’s a private view this evening. Six to eight.” Looking straight into her eyes he said, “Would you like to join me?”
She hesitated, but only for a moment. “That would be nice.”
“Good, then why don’t we meet in the Ritz Palm Court at 6.30.”
Before Sally could tell him that she didn’t know where the Ritz was, let alone its Palm Court, the tall, elegant man had disappeared into the crowd.
Sally suddenly felt gauche and scruffy, but then, she hadn’t dressed that morning with the Ritz in mind. She looked at her watch — 12.45 — and began to wonder if she had enough time to return home, change, and be back at the Ritz by 6.30. She decided that she didn’t have much choice, as she doubted if they would let her into such a grand hotel dressed in jeans and a T-shirt of Munch’s “The Scream”. She ran down the wide staircase, out onto Piccadilly, and all the way to the nearest tube station.
When she arrived back home in Sevenoaks — far earlier than her mother had expected — she rushed into the kitchen and explained that she would be going out again shortly.
“Was the Summer Exhibition any good?” her mother asked.
“Not bad,” Sally replied as she ran upstairs. But once she was out of earshot she muttered under her breath, “Certainly didn’t see a lot that worried me.”
“Will you be in for supper?” asked her mother, sticking her head out from behind the kitchen door.
“I don’t think so,” shouted Sally. She disappeared into her bedroom and began flinging off her clothes before heading for the bathroom.
She crept back downstairs an hour later, having tried on and rejected several outfits. She checked her dress in the hall mirror — a little too short, perhaps, but at least it showed her legs to best advantage. She could still remember those art students who during life classes had spent more time staring at her legs than at the model they were supposed to be drawing. She only hoped Tony would be similarly captivated.
