And Thereby Hangs a Tale

on his windscreen. Julian laughed.

The next morning, while Julian was discussing the Adam fireplace with an old customer who was showing some interest in the piece, the doorbell rang and a woman entered the shop.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said in a gravelly voice. “I just want to look round. I’m not in any hurry.”

“Where did you say you found it, Julian?”

“Buckley Manor in Hertfordshire, Sir Peter,” said Julian without adding the usual details of its provenance.

“And you’re asking eighty thousand?”

“Yes,” said Julian, not looking at him.

“Well, I’ll think about it over the weekend,” said the customer, “and let you know on Monday.”

“Whatever suits you, Sir Peter,” said Julian, and without another word he strode off toward the front of the shop, opened the door, and remained standing by it until the customer had stepped back out onto the pavement, a puzzled look on his face. If Sir Peter had looked round, he would have seen Julian close the door and switch the OPEN sign to CLOSED.

“Stay cool, Julian, stay cool,” he murmured to himself as he walked slowly toward the lady he’d been hoping to serve all week.

“I was in the area a couple of days ago,” she said, her voice husky and unmistakable.

I know you were, Gloria, Julian wanted to say. “Indeed, madam,” was all he managed.

“Millie told me all about your wonderful shop, but I just didn’t have enough time.”

“I understand, madam.”

“Actually, I haven’t come across anything I really like this week. I was hoping I might be luckier today.”

“Let’s hope so, madam.”

“You see, I try to take home some little memento from every city I perform in. It always brings back so many happy memories.”

“What a charming idea,” said Julian, beginning to relax.

“Of course, I could hardly fail to admire the Adam fireplace,” she said, running a hand over the marble nymphs, “but I can’t see it fitting into my New York condo.”

“I’m sure you’re right, madam,” said Julian.

“The Chippendale rocking chair is unquestionably a masterpiece, but sadly it would look somewhat out of place in a Beverly Hills mansion. And Delft isn’t to my taste.” She continued to look round the room, until her eyes came to rest on the egg. “But I do love your Fabergé egg.” Julian smiled ingratiatingly. “What does the green dot mean?” she asked innocently.

“That it’s reserved for another customer, madam; an American gentleman I’m expecting tomorrow.”

“What a pity,” she said, staring lovingly at the egg. “I’m working tomorrow, and flying to Paris the following day.” She smiled sweetly at Julian and said, “It clearly wasn’t meant to be. Thank you.” She began walking slowly toward the door.

Julian hurried after her. “It’s possible, of course, that the customer won’t come back. They often don’t, you know.”

She paused by the door. “And how much did he agree to pay for the egg?” she asked.

“Six hundred and twenty-five thousand,” said Julian.

“Pounds?”

“Yes, madam.”

She walked back and took an even longer look at the egg. “Would six hundred and fifty thousand convince you that he won’t be returning?” she asked, giving him that same sweet smile.

Julian beamed as she sat down at his desk and took a checkbook out of her bag. “Whom shall I make it out to?” she asked.