The Collected Short Stories (39 page)

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Authors: Jeffrey Archer

BOOK: The Collected Short Stories
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He poured her a drink, which she sipped as he sat down next to her on the sofa. His arm slipped around her shoulders, and he drew her close to him. When he kissed her again, she felt a little silly dangling an empty glass in midair. He took it from her and placed it on a side table, then held her in his arms, and began to kiss her more passionately. As she fell back, his hand slipped onto the inside of her thigh, and began moving slowly up her leg.
Every time Sally was about to stop him going any further, Tony seemed to know exactly what to do next. She had always felt in control in the past whenever an overenthusiastic art student had started to go a little too far in the back row of a cinema, but she had never experienced anyone as subtle as Tony. When her dress fell off her shoulders, she
hadn't even noticed that he had undone the twelve little buttons down the back.
They broke apart for a second. Sally felt she ought to make a move to go, before it was too late. Tony smiled, and undid the buttons of his own shirt before taking her back in his arms. She felt the warmth of his chest, and he was so gentle that she did not complain when she realized that the clasp of her bra had come loose. She sank back, enjoying every second, knowing that until that moment she had never experienced what it was like to be properly seduced.
Tony finally lay back and said, “Yes, it has been a memorable day. But I don't think I'll phone my parents to let them know.” He laughed, and Sally felt slightly ashamed. Tony was only the fourth man who had made love to her, and she had known the other three for months beforehand—in one case, years.
For the next hour they talked about many things, but all Sally really wanted to know was how Tony felt about her. He gave her no clue.
Then, once again, he took her in his arms, but this time he pulled her onto the floor and made love to her with such passion that afterward Sally wondered if she had ever made love before.
She was just in time to catch the last train home, but she couldn't help wishing she had missed it.
Over the next few months Sally devoted herself to getting her latest ideas onto canvas. When each new painting was finished, she would take it up to London for Simon to comment on. The smile on his face became broader and broader with each new picture he saw, and the word he kept repeating now was “original.” Sally would tell him about her ideas for the next one, and he would bring her up to date with his plans for the opening in October.
Tony would often meet her for lunch, and afterward they would go back to his house, where they would make love until it was time for her to catch the last train home.
Sally often wished she could spend more time with Tony.
But she was always conscious of the deadline set by Simon, who warned her that the printers were already proofreading the catalog, and that the invitations for the opening were waiting to be sent out. Tony seemed almost as busy as she was, and lately he hadn't always been able to fit in with her expeditions to London. Sally had taken to staying overnight and catching an early train home the following morning. Tony occasionally hinted that she might consider moving in with him. When she thought about it—and she often did—she reflected that his attic could easily be converted into a studio. But she decided that before such a move could even be contemplated, the exhibition had to be a success. Then, if the hint became an offer, she would have her answer ready.
Just two days before the exhibition was due to open, Sally completed her final canvas and handed it over to Simon. As she pulled it out of the canvas folder he threw his arms in the air, and shouted, “Hallelujah! It's your best yet. As long as we're sensible about our prices, I think that, with a touch of luck, we should sell at least half of your pictures before the exhibition closes.”
“Only half?” said Sally, unable to hide her disappointment.
“That wouldn't be at all bad for your first attempt, young lady,” said Simon. “I only sold one Leslie Anne Ivory at her first exhibition, and now she sells everything in the first week.”
Sally still looked crestfallen, and Simon realized he had perhaps been a little tactless.
“Don't worry. Any unsold ones will be put into stock, and they'll be snapped up the moment you start getting good reviews.”
Sally continued to pout.
“How do you feel about the frames and mounts?” Simon asked, trying to change the subject.
Sally studied the deep golden frames and light gray mounts. The smile returned to her face.
“They're good, aren't they?” said Simon. “They bring out the color in the canvases wonderfully.”
Sally nodded her agreement, but was now beginning to
worry about how much they must have cost, and whether she would ever be given a second exhibition if the first one wasn't a success.
“By the way,” Simon said, “I have a friend at the P.A. called Mike Sallis who—”
“P.A.?” said Sally.
“Press Association. Mike's a photographer—always on the lookout for a good story. He says he'll come around and take a picture of you standing next to one of the pictures. Then he'll hawk the photo around Fleet Street, and we'll just have to cross our fingers and pray that Natasha has taken the day off. I don't want to get your hopes up, but someone just might bite. Our only line at present is that it's your first exhibition since leaving the Slade. Hardly a front-page splash.” Simon paused, as once again Sally looked discouraged. “It's not too late for you to have a fling with Prince Charles, you know. That would solve all our problems.”
Sally smiled. “I don't think Tony would like that.”
Simon decided against making another tactless remark.
Sally spent that evening with Tony at his home in Chelsea. He seemed a little distracted, but she blamed herself—she was unable to hide her disappointment at Simon's estimate of how few of her pictures might be sold. After they had made love, Sally tried to raise the topic of what would happen to them once the exhibition was over, but Tony deftly changed the subject back to how much he was looking forward to the opening.
That night Sally went home on the last train from Charing Cross.
The following morning she woke up with a terrible feeling of anticlimax. Her room was bereft of canvases, and all she could do now was wait. Her mood wasn't helped by the fact that Tony had told her he would be out of London on business until the day of her opening. She lay in the bath thinking about him.
“But I'll be your first customer on the night,” he had promised. “Don't forget, I still want to buy
The Sleeping Cat That Never Moved.
”
The phone was ringing, but someone answered it before Sally could get out of the bath.
“It's for you,” shouted her mother from the bottom of the stairs.
Sally wrapped a towel around her and grabbed the phone, hoping it would be Tony.
“Hi, Sally, it's Simon. I've got some good news. Mike Sallis has just called from the P.A. He's coming around to the gallery at midday tomorrow. All the pictures should be framed by then, and he'll be the first person from the press to see them. They all want to be first. I'm trying to think up some wheeze to convince him that it's an exclusive. By the way, the catalogs have arrived, and they look fantastic.”
Sally thanked him, and was about to call Tony to suggest that she stay overnight with him, so that they could go to the gallery together the following day, when she remembered that he was out of town. She spent the day pacing anxiously around the house, occasionally talking to her most compliant model, the sleeping cat that never moved.
The following morning Sally caught an early commuter train from Sevenoaks, so she could spend a little time checking the pictures against their catalog entries. When she walked into the gallery, her eyes lit up: Half a dozen of the paintings had already been hung, and she actually felt, for the first time, that they really weren't bad. She glanced in the direction of the office, and saw that Simon was occupied on the phone. He smiled and waved to indicate that he would be with her in a moment.
She had another look at the pictures, and then spotted a copy of the catalog lying on the table. The cover read “The Summers Exhibition,” above a picture of an interior looking from her parents' living room through an open window and out onto a garden overgrown with weeds. A black cat lay asleep on the windowsill, ignoring the rain.
Sally opened the catalog and read the introduction on the first page.
Sometimes judges feel it necessary to say: It's been hard to pick this year's winner. But from the moment one set eyes on Sally Summers's work, the task was made easy. Real talent is obvious for all to see, and Sally has achieved the rare feat of winning both the Slade's major prizes, for oils and for drawing, in the same year. I much look forward to watching her career develop over the coming years.
It was an extract from Sir Roger de Grey's speech when he had presented Sally with the Mary Rischgitz and the Henry Tonks Prizes at the Slade two years before.
Sally turned the pages, seeing her works reproduced in color for the first time. Simon's attention to detail and layout was evident on every page.
She looked back toward the office and saw that Simon was still on the phone. She decided to go downstairs and check on the rest of her pictures, now that they had all been framed. The lower gallery was a mass of color, and the newly framed paintings were so skillfully hung that even Sally saw them in a new light.
Once she had circled the room Sally suppressed a smile of satisfaction before turning to make her way back upstairs. As she passed a table in the center of the gallery, she noticed a folder with the initials N.K. printed on it. She idly lifted the cover, to discover a pile of undistinguished watercolors.
As she leafed through her rival's never-to-be-exhibited efforts, Sally had to admit that the nude self-portraits didn't do Natasha justice. She was just about to close the folder and join Simon upstairs when she came to a sudden halt.
Although it was clumsily executed, there was no doubt who the man was that the half-clad Natasha was clinging to.
Sally felt sick. She slammed the folder shut, walked quickly across the room, and back up the stairs to the ground
floor. In the corner of the large gallery Simon was chatting to a man who had several cameras slung over his shoulder.
“Sally,” he said, coming toward her, “this is Mike—”
But Sally ignored them both and started running toward the open door, tears flooding down her cheeks. She turned right into St. James's, determined to get as far away from the gallery as possible. But then she came to an abrupt halt. Tony and Natasha were walking toward her, arm in arm.
Sally stepped off the pavement and began to cross the road, hoping to reach the other side before they spotted her.
The screech of tires and the sudden swerve of the van came just a moment too late, and she was thrown headlong into the middle of the street.
When Sally came to, she felt awful. She blinked her eyes, and thought she could hear voices. She blinked again, but it was several moments before she was able to focus on anything.
She was lying in a bed, but it was not her own. Her right leg was covered in plaster and was raised high in the air, suspended from a pulley. Her other leg was under the sheet, and it felt all right. She wiggled the toes of her left foot: Yes, they were fine. Then she began to try to move her arms. A nurse came up to the side of the bed.
“Welcome back to the world, Sally.”
“How long have I been like this?” she asked.
“A couple of days,” said the nurse, checking Sally's pulse. “But you're making a remarkably quick recovery. Before you ask, it's only a broken leg, and the black eyes will have gone long before we let you out. By the way,” she added, as she moved on to the next patient, “I loved that picture of you in the morning papers. And what about those flattering remarks your friend made? So what's it like to be famous?”
Sally wanted to ask what she was talking about, but the nurse was already taking the pulse of the person in the next bed.
“Come back,” Sally wanted to say, but a second nurse had appeared by her bedside with a mug of orange juice, which she thrust into her hand.
“Let's get you started on this,” she said. Sally obeyed, and tried to suck the liquid through a bent plastic straw.
“You've got a visitor,” the nurse told her once she'd emptied the contents of the mug. “He's been waiting for some time. Do you think you're up to seeing him?”
“Sure,” said Sally, not particularly wanting to face Tony, but desperate to find out what had happened.
She looked toward the swing doors at the end of the ward, but had to wait for some time before Simon came bouncing through them. He walked straight up to her bed, clutching what might just about have been described as a bunch of flowers. He gave her plaster cast a big kiss.
“I'm so sorry, Simon,” Sally said, before he had even said hello. “I know just how much trouble and expense you've been to on my behalf. And now I've let you down so badly.”

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