St. James’s, London

“Listen, Julie,” said Oliver Dimbleby, leaning his thick head over the table and lowering his voice. “I know you’re in trouble. The whole street knows you’re in trouble. There’re no secrets down here, petal.”

Oliver Dimbleby was a pink man in a pink shirt who always seemed unduly pleased with himself. His hair was curly and sandy, with tiny horns over his ears. Isherwood and Dimbleby were as close as two competitors could be in the London art trade, which meant that Isherwood despised him only a little.

“You’ve lost your backing,” Dimbleby said. “You can’t give a painting away. You even lost this month’s girl, two weeks ahead of schedule. Oh, hell, what was this one’s name?”

“Heather.”

“Ah, yes, Heather. A shame to lose one like that, wasn’t it? I would have enjoyed getting to know Heather a bit better. She came to me before she went to Giles Pittaway. Lovely girl, but I told her I wouldn’t poach in a friend’s forest. Sent her packing. Unfortunately, she walked to New Bond Strasse and straight into the arms of the devil.”

“So I’m in trouble,” said Isherwood, trying to change the subject. “What’s your point?”

“It’s Pittaway, isn’t it? Killing all of us, what?” There was a bit of the Estuary in Dimbleby’s accent, and it had thickened with the two bottles of Burgundy they’d consumed over lunch at Wilton ’s. “Allow me to let you in on a little secret, old love. We’re all in the same boat. There are no buyers and no good pictures to sell even if there were. It’s all modern and the Impressionists, and nobody can afford to deal van Goghs and Monets except the big boys. I had a pop star come into my gallery the other day. Wanted something for his bedroom to pull together his duvet cover and Santa Fe carpet. I sent him to Selfridges. He didn’t see the humor in that, thick bastard. Father warned me to stay out of this business. Sometimes, I wish to Christ I’d listened to the old bugger. Giles Pittaway has sucked all the air out of the market. And with such crap. Jesus! But it’s crap, isn’t it, Julie?”

“Beyond crap, Oliver,” Isherwood agreed, and poured some more of the wine.

“I wandered past one of his galleries last week. Looked in the window. There was a very glossy, very shiny piece of shit by that French flower painter from Colmar. Oh, shit, what’s his name, Julie?”

“Are you referring to Jean-Georges Hirn?”

“Ah, yes, that’s it! Jean-Georges Hirn. Bouquet of roses, narcissi, hyacinth, nasturtium, morning glory, and other flowers. I call it chocolate box. Know what I mean, Julie?”

Isherwood nodded slowly and sipped his wine. Dimbleby took a deep breath and plunged on. “That very same night Roddy and I had dinner at the Mirabelle. You know how dinners with Roddy can be. Needless to say, when the two of us left the restaurant at midnight, we were flying very high indeed. Feeling absolutely no pain. Numb. Roddy and I wandered the streets for a while. He’s getting divorced, Roddy. Wife’s finally had enough of his antics. In any case, we soon found ourselves standing in front of the very same gallery owned by the venerable Giles Pittaway, in front of the very same piece of shit by Jean-Georges Hirn, bouquet of roses, narcissi, hyacinth, nasturtium, morning glory, and other flowers.”

“I’m not sure I want to hear the rest,” Isherwood moaned.

“Oh, but you do, petal.” Dimbleby leaned forward even closer and moistened his thin lips with his agile little tongue. “Roddy went crazy. Made one of his speeches. He was so loud they probably heard him in St. John’s Wood. Said Pittaway was the devil. Said his ascendancy was a sign the apocalypse was near. Marvelous stuff, really. I just stood on the pavement and applauded and tossed in a ”hear, hear‘ every now and again for good measure.“

Dimbleby drew even closer and lowered his voice to an excited whisper. “When he’s finished with the sermon, he starts beating his briefcase against the glass. You know that hideous metal creature he insists on carrying. After a couple of throws, the window shatters and the alarm starts to sound.”

“Oliver! Tell me this is just another one of your stories! My God!”

“Truth, Julie. Unvarnished truth. Not telling tall tales. I grabbed Roddy by the collar and we started to run like hell. Roddy was so pissed he can’t remember a thing.”

Isherwood was getting a headache from the wine. “Is there a point to this wretched story, Oliver?”

“My point is that you’re not alone. We’re all hurting. Giles Pittaway has us all by the balls, and he’s squeezing harder than ever. Mine are turning blue, for Christ’s sake.”

“You’re surviving, Oliver. And you’re getting fatter. You’re going to need a bigger gallery soon.”

“Oh, doing quite nicely, thank you very much. But I could be doing better. And so could you, Julie. No criticism intended, but you could move a few more pictures than you’re moving.”

“Things are going to turn around. I just need to hold on by my fingernails for a few weeks, and then I’ll be fine. What I need is a new girl.”

“I can get you a girl.”

“Not that kind of girl. I need a girl who can answer the phone, a girl who knows something about art.”

“The girl I was thinking about is very good on the phone and is a real work of art. And you’re not pinning your hopes on that piece you bought at Christie’s last summer?”

“Oliver, how did you-”

“Like I said, petal. There are no secrets down here.”

“Oliver, if there is a point to this conversation, please do come to it soon.”

“My point is that we need to band together. We need to form an alliance if we’re to survive. We’re never going to defeat the dreaded Giles Pittaway, but if we create a mutual defense pact perhaps we can live side by side in peace.”

“You’re babbling, Oliver. Try talking straight for once in your life, for God’s sake. I’m not one of your girlfriends.”

“All right, straight talk. I’m thinking about a partnership.”

“A partnership? What kind of partnership?”

“You want it straight?”

“Yes, of course.”

“The kind of partnership where I buy you out.”

“Oliver!”

“You’ve a nice gallery.”

“Oliver!”

“You’ve nice paintings down there in your vault.”

“Oliver!”

“You’ve even managed to retain something of a reputation. I would like to inspect your inventory and come to a fair price. Enough money for you to clear away your debt. Then I’d like to burn all your dead stock, get something for it, and start over. You can work for me. I’ll pay you a generous salary, plus commission. You can do quite nicely, Julie.”

“Work for you? Are you completely insane? Oliver, how dare you?”

“Don’t get your back up. Don’t get your pride up. It’s business, not personal. You’re drowning, Julian. I’m throwing you a lifeline. Don’t be a fool. Take the bloody thing.”

But Isherwood was getting to his feet and digging through his pockets for money.

“Julian, please. Keep your money. It’s my party. Don’t behave like this.”

“Piss off!” Isherwood hurled a pair of twenty-pound notes toward Dimbleby’s pink face. “How dare you, Oliver! Really!”

He stormed out of the restaurant and walked back to the gallery. So, the jackals of St. James’s were circling, and fat Oliver Dimbleby wanted the biggest piece of the carcass for himself. Buy me out, Oliver! Imagine the nerve! Imagine me working for that tubby little misogynist! He had half a mind to call Giles Pittaway and tell him the story about the broken window.

As Isherwood marched across Mason’s Yard, he vowed not to surrender without a fight. But in order to fight he needed a clean Vecellio, and for that he needed Gabriel. He had to find him before he fell under Shamron’s spell and was gone forever. He walked up the stairs and let himself into the gallery. It was terribly depressing to be alone. He was used to seeing a pretty girl behind the desk when he came back to work after lunch. He sat down at his desk, found Gabriel’s number in his telephone book, dialed the number, let it ring a dozen times, slammed down the receiver. Maybe he’s just gone to the village. Or maybe he’s out on that bloody boat of his.