“Why’s she staying at the Park Lane,” asked Julian, “and not Claridges or the Ritz where all the big stars stay?”
“It’s only a five-minute drive from the Albert Hall and she has a dread of being held up in a traffic jam and being late for a concert.”
“You’re beginning to sound like an old friend,” said Julian.
“Well, she was very chatty,” said Millie.
“But did she buy anything?” asked Julian, ignoring a man carrying a large package who strolled past him and through the open door of his antique shop.
“No, but she did put a deposit down on a pair of earrings and a watch. She said she’d be back tomorrow.” Millie gave her next-door neighbor a warm smile. “And if you buy me a coffee, I’ll tell her about your Fabergé egg.”
“I think I may already have a buyer for that,” said Julian. “But I’ll still get you a coffee, just as soon as I’ve got rid of Lenny.” He smiled and stepped back into his shop, not bothering to close the door.
“I thought you might be interested in this, Mr. Farnsdale,” said a scruffily dressed man, handing him a heavy helmet. “It’s Civil War, circa 1645. I could let you have it for a reasonable price.”
Julian studied the helmet for a few moments.
“Circa 1645 be damned,” he pronounced. “More like circa 1995. And if you picked it up in the Old Kent Road, I can even tell you who made it. I’ve been round far too long to be taken in by something like that.”
Lenny left the shop, head bowed, still clutching the helmet. Julian closed the door behind him.
Julian was bargaining with a lady over a small ceramic figure of the Duke of Wellington in the shape of a boot (circa 1817). He wanted 350 pounds for the piece but she was refusing to pay more than 320 pounds, when the black stretch limousine drew up outside. Julian left his customer and hurried over to the window just in time to see Miss Gaynor step out onto the pavement and walk into the jewelry shop without glancing in his direction. He sighed and turned to find that his customer had gone, and so had the Duke of Wellington.
Julian spent the next hour standing by the door so he wouldn’t miss his idol when she left the jewelry shop. He was well aware that he was breaking one of his golden rules: you should never stand by the door. It frightens off the customers and, worse, it makes you look desperate. Julian was desperate.
Miss Gaynor finally strolled out of the jewelry shop clutching a small red bag, which she handed to her chauffeur. She stopped to sign an autograph, then walked straight past the antique shop and into Art Pimlico, on the other side of Julian’s shop. She was in there for such a long time that Julian began to wonder if he’d missed her. But she couldn’t have left the gallery because the limousine was still parked on the double yellow lines, the chauffeur seated behind the wheel.
When Miss Gaynor finally emerged she was followed by the gallery owner, who was carrying a large Warhol silk-screen print of Chairman Mao. Lucky Susan, thought Julian, to have had a whole hour with Gloria. The chauffeur leaped out, took the print from Susan, and placed it in the boot of the limousine. Miss Gaynor paused to sign a few more autographs before taking the opportunity to escape. Julian stared out of the window and didn’t move until she’d climbed into the back of the car and had been whisked away.
Once the car was out of sight, Julian joined Millie and Susan on the pavement. “I see you sold the great lady a Warhol,” he said to Susan, trying not to sound envious.
“No, she only took it on appro,” said Susan. “She wants to live with it for a couple of days before she makes up her mind.”
“Isn’t that a bit of a risk?” asked Julian.
“Hardly,” said Susan. “I can just see the headline in the Sun: Gloria Gaynor steals Warhol from London gallery. I don’t think that’s the kind of publicity she’ll be hoping for on the first leg of her European tour.”
“Did you manage to sell her anything, Millie?” asked Julian, trying to deflect the barb.
“The earrings and the watch,” said Millie, “but far more important, she gave me a couple of tickets for her concert on Saturday night.”
“Me, too,” said Susan, waving her tickets in triumph.
“I’ll give you two hundred pounds for them,” said Julian.
“Not a chance,” said Millie. “Even if you offered double, I wouldn’t part with them.”
“How about you, Susan?” Julian asked desperately.
“You must be joking.”
“You may change your mind when she doesn’t return your Chairman Mao,” said Julian, before flouncing back into his shop.
The following morning, Julian hovered by the door of his shop, but there was no sign of the stretch limousine. He didn’t join Millie and Susan in Starbucks for coffee at eleven, claiming he had a lot of paperwork to do.
He didn’t have a single customer all day, just three browsers and a visit from the VAT inspector. When he locked up for the night, he had to admit to himself that it hadn’t been a good week so far. But all that could change if the American returned on Saturday with his partner.
On Thursday morning the stretch limousine drove up and parked outside Susan’s gallery. The chauffeur stepped out, removed Chairman Mao from the boot and carried the Chinese leader inside. A few minutes later he ran back onto the street, slammed the boot shut, jumped behind the steering wheel, and drove off, but not before a parking ticket had been placed