Page 59 of The Final Act of Juliette Willoughby
I felt a sudden ice-cold hatred run through my veins. Was Harry trying to fuck this up? And if so, what had all that stuff about how much was at stake been about? Then it dawned on me. He was attempting to be charming. He was actually trying to help. Half an hour ago I would have given anything for him to perk up a little, but not like this. I should have locked him in my office, told everyone he was indisposed. If Harry loses us this sale, loses me my gallery, and lands me in jail for going spectacularly bankrupt, I thought, I am going to fucking kill him. I am literally going to fucking kill him.
As if able to tell what I was thinking, Caroline crossed the room to join me, wordlessly resting one hand gently on my arm.
“Count the people in the room, Patrick,” she whispered.
I scanned, realizing there were only eleven buyers there. The representative from the Louvre Abu Dhabi was missing. Athena had noticed the same thing and in the far corner was talking quietly to her client, who was nodding. A gap in the jazz band’s set exposed a silence. Dave White looked around, suddenly aware that there had been movement in the room too.
It was happening. The painting had got its claws into them.
Athena’s client disappeared next, returning wordlessly. Dave White marched to my office, returning with a successful trophy hunter’s precise combination of excitement and smugness. Then he walked back across the room toward me.
“Nearly best and final time, Patrick?”
I nodded, asking one of my team to politely alert everyone else in the room that if they were planning to make an offer, they should do so now. Nobody moved.
It was done.
I absented myself and took a seat behind my desk. My assistant unlocked the box, and I retrieved three pieces of paper. I unfolded the first. An offer of two million pounds from the Louvre Abu Dhabi. I swallowed hard. Had I wildly misread the room? That would only just cover expenses once Harry got his 70 percent.
The second piece of paper had Dave White’s name on it. Three million. Fuck. I had completely misjudged the amount people were prepared to pay for this painting. My hands were shaking so much I had trouble getting the final envelope open.
Thirty-seven million pounds. I stared at the paper for a moment, then asked my assistant to confirm the figure. She nodded and smiled.
“We’ll have to tell the Louvre Abu Dhabi they are out of the running,” I said. “Please also let Dave White and Athena Galanis know—so she can translate for her client—that the bidding is set at thirty-seven million, if they would like to submit their best and final offers.” I handed their two slips of paper back to her, and she left the room.
Caroline entered a moment later, waiting expectantly for me to speak first, to tell her what was happening. The truth was, I wasn’t sure I was able to. She poured me a whiskey from the decanter on my desk, then one for herself, and took a seat in the armchair opposite. A few minutes later, my assistant returned with the two folded slips.
She placed both on the desk in front of me, glanced at Caroline, and left the room.
“Would you mind?” I asked Caroline. She took them, opening first one and then the other. She looked at me. I looked back at her.
“Congratulations,” she said, her face breaking into the grin of a lifetime. “Sold to Dave White for forty-two million pounds.”
“My God. My God, Caroline, we’ve done it. We need to tell Harry.”
“I’m sorry, Patrick. Harry left five minutes ago. He said he really wasn’t feeling well. I did offer to go with him...”
I briefly considered going after him myself, but Dave White, waiting outside my office, was keen that the transaction be concluded that evening. I listened as he instructed someone on the other end of a phone line to transfer the entire amount.
“As for my new painting, I’ll send my driver to collect it tomorrow,” he said, shaking my hand and kissing Caroline unexpectedly on the cheek as he made his way to the door. “If you’d like to spend some more time with the piece, Professor Cooper, please do call my assistant to arrange,” he said, handing her a card.
And with that the party was over.
By the time I reentered the main room, most of the VIPs had left, without a goodbye. Athena congratulated me distractedly, tapping away on her phone, making a show of being disinterested. She said something noncommittal to Caroline about meeting up before she flew home. Dave and the American, when I went over, were discussing whether to have a cocktail at Zuma.
And then it was just me and Caroline. Smiling in the sudden brightness of the room as someone from the catering team circulated, collecting furry teacups. Caroline made a comment about having a nightcap at her hotel. I misheard and thought she was inviting me. “We could maybe grab a drink...” I checked the time. It was much earlier than I had imagined. I had my car. It would not take me a minute to drop her off at her hotel, I said.
The hotel bar was almost empty apart from a pianist murdering some jazz standards in a corner. We exchanged a look. Caroline shook her head.
“I do have a minibar in my room,” she said. “Do you want to come up and celebrate this life-changing event with a very tiny and extremely expensive bottle of wine?”
I had texted Sarah to tell her the big news and to ask how the wedding was going. Both messages remained unread. She was in Abu Dhabi, would not be home until the next day. If I went home now, I would be driving back a rich man to an empty house.
“We should go up separately,” I said.
Caroline raised an eyebrow. I shrugged.
“It’s not likely to happen, but not impossible we could find ourselves in a bit of trouble. Legally, I mean. With the police. Us not being married. Me being married to someone else.”
