Twelve Red Herrings

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 toward 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 around 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 toward 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 line that stretched from the front door, right across the parking lot and out onto the sidewalk. 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 around 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 catalog 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 color, 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.”