As the Crow Flies

“I’m not likely to be given the chance,” Cathy said. “I’ve never even met him. In fact, the nearest I’ve been to the man was watching him in the seventh row at the Italian sale.”

“Well, at least we can do something about that,” said Simon. “How would you like to accompany me to a housewarming party the Trumpers are giving next Monday at their new home in Eaton Square?”

“Are you serious?”

“I certainly am,” replied Simon. “Anyway, I don’t think Sir Charles would altogether approve of my taking Julian.”

“Mightn’t they consider it somewhat presumptuous for such a junior member of staff to turn up on the arm of the head of the department?”

“Not Sir Charles. He doesn’t know what the word ‘presumptuous’ means.”

Cathy spent many hours during her lunch breaks poking around the dress shops in Chelsea before she selected what she considered was the appropriate outfit for Trumpers’ housewarming party. Her final choice was a sunflower-yellow dress with a large sash around the waist which the assistant who served her described as suitable for a cocktail party. Cathy became fearful at the last minute that its length, or lack of length, might be a little too daring for such a grand occasion. However, when Simon came to pick her up at 135 his immediate comment was “You’ll be a sensation, I promise you.” His unreserved assurance made her feel more confident—at least until they arrived on the top step of the Trumpers’ home in Eaton Square.

As Simon knocked on the door of his employers’ residence, Cathy only hoped that it wasn’t too obvious that she had never been invited to such a beautiful house before. However, she lost all her inhibitions the moment the butler invited them inside. Her eyes immediately settled on the feast that awaited her. While others drank from the seemingly endless bottles of champagne and helped themselves from the passing trays of canapés, she turned her attention elsewhere and even began to climb the staircase, savoring each of the rare delicacies one by one.

First came a Courbet, a still life of magnificent rich reds, oranges and greens; then a Picasso of two doves surrounded by pink blossoms, their beaks almost touching; after a further step her eyes fell on a Pissarro of an old woman carrying a bundle of hay, dominated by different shades of green. But she gasped when she first saw the Sisley, a stretch of the Seine with every touch of pastel shading being made to count.

“That’s my favorite,” said a voice from behind her. Cathy turned to see a tall, tousle-haired young man give her a grin that must have made many people return his smile. His dinner jacket didn’t quite fit, his bow tie needed adjusting and he lounged on the banisters as if without their support he might collapse completely.

“Quite beautiful,” she admitted. “When I was younger I used to try and paint a little myself, and it was Sisley who finally convinced me I shouldn’t bother.”

“Why?”

Cathy sighed. “Sisley completed that picture when he was seventeen and still at school.”

“Good heavens,” the young man said. “An expert in our presence.” Cathy smiled at her new companion. “Perhaps we should sneak a look at some more works on the upper corridor?”

“Do you think Sir Charles would mind?”

“Wouldn’t have thought so,” the young man replied. “After all, what’s the point of being a collector if other people are never given the chance to admire what you’ve acquired?”

/> Buoyed up by his confidence Cathy mounted another step. “Magnificent,” she said. “An early Sickert. They hardly ever come on the market.”

“You obviously work in an art gallery.”

“I work at Trumper’s,” Cathy said proudly. “Number 1 Chelsea Terrace. And you?”

“I sort of work for Trumper’s myself,” he admitted. Out of the corner of her eye, Cathy saw Sir Charles appearing from a room on the upstairs landing—her first close encounter with the chairman. Like Alice, she wanted to disappear through a keyhole, but her companion remained unperturbed, seemingly quite at home.

Her host smiled at Cathy as he came down the stairs. “Hello,” he said once he’d reached them. “I’m Charlie Trumper and I’ve already heard all about you, young lady. I saw you at the Italian sale, of course, and Becky tells me that you’re doing a superb job. By the way, congratulations on the catalogue.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Cathy, unsure what else she should say as the chairman continued on down the stairs, delivering a rat-a-tat-tat of sentences while ignoring her companion.

“I see you’ve already met my son,” Sir Charles added as he looked back towards her. “Don’t be taken in by his donnish facade; he’s every bit as much of a rogue as his father. Show her the Bonnard, Daniel.” With this Sir Charles disappeared into the drawing room.

“Ah yes, the Bonnard. Father’s pride and joy,” said Daniel. “I can think of no better way of luring a girl into the bedroom.”

“You’re Daniel Trumper?”

“No. Raffles, the well-known art thief,” Daniel said as he took Cathy’s hand and guided her up the stairs and on into his parents’ room.

“Well—what about that?” he asked.

“Stunning” was all Cathy could think of saying as she stared up at the vast Bonnard nude—of his mistress Michelle drying herself—that hung above the double bed.

“Father’s immensely proud of that particular lady,” Daniel explained. “As he never stops reminding us, he only paid three hundred guineas for her. Almost as good as the…” but Daniel didn’t complete the sentence.

“He has excellent taste.”