And Thereby Hangs a Tale

7. ‘I Will Survive’*

When the doorbell rang, Julian Farnsdale looked up.

The first decision he always had to make was whether to engage a potential customer in conversation, or simply leave them to browse. There were several golden rules that you adopted after so many years in the trade. If the customer looked as if he needed some assistance, Julian would rise from behind his desk and say either, ‘Can I help you?’ or, ‘Would you prefer just to browse?’ If they only wanted to browse, he would sit back down, and although he would keep an eye on them, he wouldn’t speak again until they began a conversation.

Julian wasn’t in any doubt that this customer was a browser, so he remained seated and said nothing. Browsers fall into three categories: those simply passing the time of day who stroll around for a few minutes before leaving without saying anything; dealers who know exactly what they are looking for but don’t want you to know they’re in the trade; and, finally, genuine enthusiasts hoping to come across something a little special to add to their collections.

This particular customer unquestionably fell into the third category.

Julian studied him out of the corner of one eye, an art he had perfected over the years. He decided he was probably an American — the tailored blazer, neatly pressed chinos and striped preppy tie. The man may have been a browser but he was a browser with real knowledge and taste because he only stopped to consider the finest pieces: the Adam fireplace, the Chippendale rocking chair and the Delft plate. Julian wondered if he would spot the one real treasure in his shop.

A few moments later, the customer came to a halt in front of the egg. He studied the piece for some time before looking across at Julian. ‘Has it been signed by the master?’

Julian rose slowly from his chair. Another golden rule: don’t appear to be in a hurry when you’re hoping to sell something very expensive.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Julian as he walked towards him. ‘You’ll find Carl Fabergé’s signature on the base. And of course the piece is listed in the catalogue raisonné.’

‘Date and description?’ enquired the customer, continuing to study the egg.

‘1910,’ said Julian. ‘It was made to celebrate the Tsarina’s thirty-eighth birthday, and is one of a series of Easter eggs commissioned by Tsar Nicholas the Second.’

‘It’s magnificent,’ said the customer. ‘Quite magnificent. But probably out of my price range.’

Julian immediately recognized the bargaining ploy, so he mentally added 20 per cent to the asking price to allow a little room for manoeuvre.

‘Six hundred and eighty thousand,’ he said calmly.

‘Pounds?’ asked the man, raising an eyebrow.

‘Yes,’ said Julian without further comment.

‘So, about a million dollars,’ said the customer, confirming that he was American.

Julian didn’t reply. He was distracted by a screeching sound outside, as if a car was trying to avoid a collision. Both men glanced out of the window to see a black stretch limousine that had come to a halt on the double yellow line outside the shop. A woman dressed in a stylish red coat and wearing a diamond necklace, matching earrings and dark glasses stepped out of the back of the car.

‘Is that who I think it is?’ asked Julian.

‘Looks like it is,’ said the customer, as the woman stopped to sign an autograph.

‘Gloria Gaynor.’ Julian sighed as she disappeared into the jewellery shop next door. ‘Lucky Millie,’ he added without explanation.

‘I think she’s doing a gig in town this week,’ said the customer.

‘She’s performing at the Albert Hall on Saturday,’ said Julian. ‘I tried to get a ticket but it’s completely sold out.’

The customer was clearly more interested in the jewel-encrusted egg than the jewel-covered pop star so Julian snapped back into antique-dealer mode.

‘What’s the lowest price you’d consider?’ asked the American.

‘I suppose I could come down to six hundred and fifty thousand.’

‘My bet is that you’d come down to five hundred thousand,’ said the American.

‘Six hundred and twenty-five thousand,’ said Julian. ‘I couldn’t consider a penny less.’

The American nodded. ‘That’s a fair price. But my partner will need to see it before I can make a final decision.’ Julian tried not to look disappointed. ‘Would it be possible to reserve the piece at six twenty-five?’

‘Yes, of course, sir.’ Julian pulled open a drawer in his desk, removed a small green sticker and placed it on the little description card fixed to the wall. ‘And when might we expect to see you again, sir?’

‘My partner flies in from the States on Friday, so possibly Friday afternoon. But as he suffers badly from jetlag it’s more likely to be Saturday afternoon. What time do you close on Saturdays?’

‘Around five, sir,’ said Julian.

‘I’ll make sure we’re with you before then,’ said the American.

Julian opened the door to allow his customer to leave just as Miss Gaynor walked out of the jewellery shop. Once again she stopped to sign autographs for a little group that had gathered on the pavement outside. The chauffeur ran to open the door of the limousine and she disappeared inside. As the car slipped out into the traffic, Julian found himself waving, which was silly because he couldn’t see a thing through the smoked-glass windows.

Julian was about to return to his shop when he noticed that his next-door neighbour was also waving. ‘What was she like, Millie?’ he asked, trying not to sound too much like an adoring fan.

‘Charming. And so natural,’ Millie replied, ‘considering all that she’s been through. A real star.’

‘Did you learn anything interesting?’ asked Julian.

‘She’s staying at the Park Lane Hotel, and she’s off to Paris on Sunday for the next leg of her tour.’

‘I already knew that,’ said Julian. ‘Read it in Londoner’s Diary last night. Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘On the day of a concert she never leaves her room and won’t speak to anyone, even her manager. She likes to rest her voice before going on stage.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Julian. ‘Anything else?’

‘The air conditioning in her room has to be turned off, because she’s paranoid about catching a cold and not being able to perform. She once missed a concert in Dallas when she came off the street at a hundred degrees straight into an air-conditioned room, and ended up coughing and sneezing for a week.’

‘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 neighbour 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 around 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 for the piece but she was refusing to pay more than £320, 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 on to the pavement and walk into the jewellery 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 jewellery 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 jewellery 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 leapt 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 on to the street, slammed the boot shut, jumped behind the steering wheel and drove off, but not before a parking ticket had been placed 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 around. 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 towards the front of the shop, opened the door and remained standing by it until the customer had stepped back out on to 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 towards 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 in to 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 around 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 towards 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 chequebook out of her bag. ‘Whom shall I make it out to?’ she asked.

‘Julian Farnsdale Fine Arts Ltd,’ he said, placing one of his cards in front of her.

She wrote out the name and the amount slowly, and double-checked them before signing ‘Gloria Gaynor’ with a flourish. She handed the cheque to Julian who tried to stop his hand from shaking.

‘If you’re not doing anything special tomorrow night,’ she said as she rose from her chair, ‘perhaps you’d like to come to my concert?’

‘How kind of you,’ said Julian.

She took two tickets out of her bag and passed them across to him. ‘And perhaps you’d care to join me backstage for a drink after the show?’

Julian was speechless.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave your name at the stage door. Please don’t tell Millie or Susan. There just isn’t enough room for everyone. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Of course, Miss Gaynor. You can rely on me. I won’t say a word.’

‘And if I could ask you for one small favour?’ she said as she closed her bag.

‘Anything,’ said Julian. ‘Anything.’

‘I wonder if you’d be kind enough to deliver the egg to the Park Lane Hotel, and ask a porter to send it up to my room.’

‘You could take it with you now if you wish, Miss Gaynor.’

‘How kind of you,’ she said, ‘but I’m lunching with Mick...’ She hesitated. ‘I’d prefer if it could be delivered to the hotel.’

‘Of course,’ said Julian. He accompanied her out of the shop to the waiting car, where the chauffeur was holding open the back door.

‘How silly of me to forget,’ she said just before stepping into the car. She turned back to Julian and whispered into his ear, ‘For security reasons, my room is booked in the name of Miss Hampton.’ She smiled flirtatiously. ‘Otherwise I’d never get a moment’s peace.’

‘I quite understand,’ said Julian. He couldn’t believe it when she bent down and kissed him on the cheek.

‘Thank you, Julian,’ she said. ‘I look forward to seeing you after the show,’ she added as she climbed into the back seat.

Julian stood there shaking as Millie and Susan joined him on the pavement.

‘Did she give you any tickets for her show?’ asked Millie as the car drove away.

‘I’m not at liberty to say,’ said Julian, then walked back into his shop and closed the door.

The smartly dressed young man writing down some figures in a little black book reminded her of the rent collector from her youth. ‘How much did it cost us this time?’ she asked quietly.

‘Five days at the Park Lane came to three thousand three hundred, including tips, the stretch limo was two hundred pounds an hour, sixteen hundred in all.’ His forefinger continued down the handwritten inventory. ‘The two items you purchased from the jewellery shop came to fifteen hundred.’ She touched a pearl earring and smiled. ‘Meals along with other expenses, including five extras from the casting agency, five autograph books and a parking fine, came to another nine hundred and twenty-two pounds. Six tickets for tonight’s concert purchased from a tout, a further nine hundred pounds, making eight thousand, two hundred and twenty-two pounds in all, which, at today’s exchange rate, comes to about thirteen thousand three hundred and sixty-nine dollars. Not a bad return,’ he concluded as he smiled across at her.

She glanced at her watch. ‘Dear sweet Julian should be arriving at the Albert Hall about now,’ she said. ‘Let’s at least hope he enjoys the show.’

‘I would have liked to go with him.’

‘Behave yourself, Gregory,’ she teased.

‘When do you think he’ll find out?’

‘When he turns up at the stage door after the show and finds his name isn’t on the guest list, would be my guess.’

Neither of them spoke while Gregory went over the figures a second time, then finally closed his little book and placed it in an inside pocket.

‘I must congratulate you on your research this time,’ she said. ‘I must admit I’d never heard of Robert Adam, Delft or Chippendale before you briefed me.’

Gregory smiled. ‘Napoleon once said that time spent on reconnaissance is rarely wasted.’

‘So where does Napoleon stay when he’s in Paris?’

‘The Ritz Carlton,’ Gregory replied matter-of-factly.

‘That sounds expensive.’

‘We don’t have much choice,’ he replied. ‘Miss Gaynor has booked a suite at the Ritz because it’s convenient for the Pleyel concert hall. In any case, it gives the right image for someone who’s planning to steal a Modigliani.’

‘This is your captain speaking,’ said a voice over the intercom. ‘We’ve been cleared for landing at Charles de Gaulle airport, and should be on the ground in around twenty minutes. All of us at British Airways hope you’ve had a pleasant flight and that you enjoy your stay in Paris, whether it be for business or pleasure.’

A flight attendant leaned over and said, ‘Would you be kind enough to fasten your seat belt, madam? We’ll be beginning our descent very shortly.’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said smiling up at the flight attendant.

The attendant took a second look at the passenger and said, ‘Has anyone ever told you that you look just like Gloria Gaynor?’