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“That was years ago. I was young. It was all so exciting!” Mrs Peabody says with a youthful grin. “I am interested in this picture, Mr Moretti.” She steers me to a scene of farm workers eating bread on a hay bale. A brown earthenware jug is on the ground between them.
“Yes. This one has inspired a great deal of interest. I will ask Nigel to supply you with the details.” Mrs Peabody has the catalog in her hand, but some people like the personal touch of expert explanation. My gaze switches from Mrs Peabody to Nigel who is holding court in front of one of the bronzes.
“Oh, I prefer to work with Olivia, if that’s possible, Mr Moretti.”
“Of course, as you like.”
I search out Olivia through the crowd and locate her, barely visible between a pair of grey-haired gentlemen. She appears to be in conversation, serious and businesslike. I notice her dress. It looks as if she is wearing a sack. I wonder what she would look like in nice clothes. Would that make a difference? Why is Olivia taking up so much of my attention this evening? I feel there is so much more to her, that she is hiding away. What is it about her? She is a conundrum, an enigma.
I’m suddenly aware that Mrs Peabody is looking at me. She’s smiling with inquisitive eyes. I refocus my gaze on the pastoral scene we were discussing.
“I’ll ask Olivia to assist you directly, Mrs Peabody.”
Chapter 15
Olivia
Iamobsessingaboutwhat to wear to the private view at the gallery. I turn to Contessa for help but she tells me she is too busy being gorgeous. I have never put so much thought into an outfit before. Why am I doing it now? I push aside a thought that perhaps Gianni is going to suddenly be struck with me and exclaim to the world his undying love in front of all the buyers and guests at the gallery. Oh, how hilarious would that be?
I shower quickly then open my wardrobe. I’m instantly depressed by what’s in there. I shouldn’t be surprised. This is my wardrobe, after all. I pull out a simple cotton dress. It’s blue. Oh, bother. I’m stressing over a dress. I pull out a skirt I haven’t worn in some time. But which top? A shirt? Time is ticking. And which shoes? I rummage around at the back and find a box with the suede pumps I wore at my high school graduation. I think that was the last time I put them on.
A little mascara. A little eye shadow on my lids. A little lip gloss and I’m done. I’m keen to get this evening over with so I can come home and cuddle my cat in front of re-runs of ‘Seinfeld’ or ‘Sex and the City’.
I arrive early to let in the caterers and help them with their preparations. It’s quiet. The security company has sent a couple of heavies to patrol the entrance. Margot is stationed with her iPad to check invitations and to turn away uninvited press and hangers-on. There are always people who try and get in without being invited. The gallery private view night used to be an excuse for the staff to have a party and invite their friends. Desmond and Sandy loved to come along to drink Champagne and pretend to have money to spend on high-end art. Those were the good old days before the Moretti takeover.
The caterers are organized, so I take a moment to check my emails at my desk. Unfortunately, there is only another rejection and one telling me my details will be held on file until a suitable position becomes available. I’m distracted by someone coming into the office. It’s Gianni. I’m instantly flustered but manage to close my laptop and say good evening before quietly edging past him into the gallery where guests are arriving. He says something about doing a good job. I’m over it. He’s nothing to me. I quickly move away, knowing that I am blushing from head to foot. It’s a good thing the main lights are off.
The preview night was a roaring success, and only topped by the auction later in the week. All the pieces were sold. Some of the artworks ignited a bidding war escalating reserve prices sky high. That’s the art world. People get crazy about a picture they want to possess.
Thankfully, Gianni went back to Italy. I didn’t see him again after the night of the exhibition. His absence from the gallery creates a collective relaxed group mood. But there is also a buzz of excitement as reports in the arts and social media are published about the show, the auction, and the attractive Italian businessman who is shaking up New York’s art scene. The sales team is running to keep up with client appointments and I’m flat out with updates and press requests. The Mayfair & Lewis Gallery of Fine Art's reputation is rocketing to the moon.
I’m still applying for jobs when I have a spare minute which is hardly ever. I even had a couple of interviews. But when the question arises, ‘Why do you want to leave such a successful business?’ I struggle to answer. I should have something prepared, that is not the truth, that my brain rewiring mantra doesn’t seem to be working and I can’t be in the same room with my boss who broke my heart.
Mrs Peabody of the Peabody Foundation was particularly enthusiastic at the auction. She bought two landscapes and wrote out a check on the night as if we were going to sell them to someone else. I promised her that I would deliver them to her Long Island house in person. She doesn’t trust couriers or delivery services. She wanted me to be the one. So, I okayed it with Margot and booked a car to take the packaged artwork personally to her address in East Hampton.
“We have an understanding,” Mrs Peabody said before she left the gallery on exhibition night. “Olivia knows what I mean. Don’t you Olivia? I couldn’t possibly entrust anyone else.” And she put a hand to her painted lips and beckoned me to bend down to her to receive a secret. “It’s got to be you, sweetie. Don’t let Nigel anywhere near my pictures, okay?”
I tried not to laugh. I have to be professional at all costs, but I could have hugged her.
Access to the Peabody Mansion is through a security gate which spookily swung open without the need to press a button to announce my arrival. The car enters slowly and we drive up to the house through extensive formal gardens of clipped hedges, lawns, and trees.
I check the paintings again that I carefully crated and stowed behind the back seat of the roomy Subaru. They would have fitted in the trunk of a regular cab, but I wasn’t going to take any chances with this delivery. I felt personally responsible.
Mrs Peabody is at the front door ready to greet me, but mostly, I suspect, to welcome the new acquisitions to her home. I carry them in, one in each hand. Halfway up the steps the pictures become heavy, but I smile as best as I can in front of the A-list client and make it into the house without losing my grip on the expensive pieces.
“Ah, Olivia, dear. Bring in my babies. I have the fixtures all ready to go, so we just need to pop them on the wall, side by side.” Mrs Peabody points to vacant spaces on the generously proportioned hall wall. “There and there.”
The Peabody Mansion is, as expected, huge and grand and crammed full of priceless art. The Peabodys are the same caliber as the Carnegies, Cargills, MacMillans and Johnsons. Mrs Peabody is a powerhouse driving not-for-profit good works, health research, and various other worthy charities. She is also one of New York’s most active art collectors and famously displays an aggression at auctions one would usually expect at a boxing match or other sporting event.
She loves Italian art and has one of the most comprehensive private collections outside Europe. She’s very proud of that fact. I get a tour as soon as I carefully deposit the precious packages in the hallway.
“This is the family lounge. I had it redesigned by Bunny Williams. See how she’s added her trademark touches. And look how the coordinated contrasting lines lead the eye out to the pool and the dunes on the beachfront beyond. I just love it!” I follow Mrs Peabody out to the poolside area. “Would you like some iced tea? Or some other refreshment?” She walks over to a bar and reaches behind it to activate a device to summon a housekeeper who duly appears. “Ah, Stella. There you are. Please bring iced tea for two.” She nods to me for approval. “And a selection of savories. What do we have?”
“Mini quiches, cheese and ham. I can make some sandwiches if you like, Mrs Peabody.” Stella smiles warmly.
“Sure. Go ahead. Surprise us!”
Stella walks away and Mrs Peabody sits on one of the large striped canvas sofas and indicates that I should sit too.
