AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The accounts from the various business streams are presented in order and discussed. When it’s my turn to deliver the profits of Mayfair & Lewis, noises of appreciation resound up and down the table. It’s clear the board is impressed with the results of the New York gallery’s first year.
“However, the gallery was only ever going to be a temporary project,” I say which receives an instant response questioning why.
“The art market is a fickle one and possibly the hardest to predict,” I say pushing back my chair and standing up. I begin to walk around the room. “As you can see from the spreadsheet, sales have been profitable and consistent. However, these figures are not sustainable. When we bought the gallery, the interest in Italian art was at its peak. Now, as you can see from the graph, that interest is beginning to dip.” I pause to make sure I have the attention of all present before continuing. “Mayfair & Lewis is now in the top five commercial galleries in New York, with an exceptional turnover. My feeling, based on the figures before you, is to sell right now.” I direct my gaze at my father.
Papa nods slowly, then says with measured seriousness, “Well, my son. I think you have done a great job. In one year of trading, your efforts have increased the company profits significantly, as we can all see. I personally agree with your decision to sell. The Morettis are all about seizing opportunity when it arises; acting swiftly in accordance with data; and being ahead of the game. Well done, Gianni.” My father’s face is grave and serious. “Are there any comments or concerns?” He gazes around at the board members who each shake their heads, murmuring a low, ‘No’.
“Thank you, Papa.” I sit down again and lean forward, fingers interlaced on the table. “If I may propose the next step?” I wait for nods of approval before continuing. “I have received an offer for the gallery. It’s generous and, if I have your blessing, I will accept and proceed with the sale.” My father reaches over to pat my shoulder.
“Alright. Do it,” he says smiling broadly. “This was your project and you have shown astute decisions and wise judgment. I applaud you, my son.” My father puts his hands together and begins a chain reaction of congratulations around the boardroom table. I am humbled by this impromptu accolade, but pleased and proud of myself and hugely relieved that my project was a success.
I have other reasons for selling the gallery. Personal reasons. Meeting Libby again has altered my life plan. Yes. I want financial success and an income to allow for life’s pleasures. But I want to share my life with Libby. And I want to make a home here in Tuscany for us. The ideas about us living together are crystal clear in my mind, but I don’t know how she will react. I’m excited about everything. I have boundless energy, but I am also wary. Now that I have found Libby, I want to make sure that I never lose her again.
Chapter 32
Olivia
Makingthedecisiontosell Gianni’s painting of the bridge was not easy. I carefully wrap it in an old bed sheet and take it to Henry for a rough valuation. At his studio, Henry unwraps the panel, lying it face down on a bench, as he skillfully removes it from the carved wooden frame wearing white cotton gloves. He turns it over and shines his torch across the painted surface, sucking air in through his teeth, making a soft hiss as he appraises the picture.
“It’s in pretty good condition,” he says eventually. “It could do with a clean, but basically, it’s fine. Do you have the purchase documents?” Henry turns over the panel and uses a magnifying glass to read a faded label on the back. “It’s from an auction in Rome in 1947. This is the lot number,” he says mostly to himself. “I’ll make some inquiries, if you want?”
“Yes, please. I need to sell it, so…”
“You want to know if it’s a genuine Bartoli?” I nod and bite my lower lip. “In that case, you’ll be looking at upwards of, gosh, five hundred k.”
“No! That would be excellent. I could really do with that kind of cash right now.”
“Alright. Slow down.” Henry smiles kindly. “If it is ‘in-the-style-of’ Bartoli? In that case, you’ll be lucky to get five hundred bucks.”
“I know I sound desperate, but I could do with a real Bartoli, Henry.” My voice is pure desperation. “If you help me get it verified, I’ll cut you in.”
“Done.” We shake hands. “When did you say you wanted this done by?”
“Yesterday.”
“I thought that’s what you said.”
I leave Henry’s office with mixed feelings. If the painting is worth something, that would take a huge pressure off me financially. If it’s not, I don’t know. I’d have to start applying for proper jobs, and soon. Also, I’m just a tad guilty about selling a gift from Gianni. I’m hoping he will understand. As far as he knows, I don’t have it anymore.
Henry calls a few days later, extremely excited. He says that he had been in touch with the auction house in Rome and they had forwarded him the catalogue of paintings from the 1947 sale.
“Olivia. Are you sitting down?”
“Yes. Henry. What’s the news?”
“Your painting is listed in the 1947 sales catalog as a genuine, verified Bartoli. I just need the results from tests and chemical analysis on the paint and wood panel to make doubly sure that there is no doubt as to the quality and value of the piece, but this is just a precaution.” I am a bundle of nerves. “Olivia? Are you still there?” I’m stunned into silence. “Do you understand what this means?”
“Yes. Henry. I’m still here. Phew! Oh my!” The implications of Henry’s words churn my insides. I find it hard to articulate a coordinated sentence. “This is fantastic news. Thank you so much.”
Henry suggests an auction at Sotheby’s the following weekend. And I agree.
I’ve never been to such a high-profile sale. Even when I was working at Mayfair & Lewis, I never came to an auction like this one: only smaller, less prestigious ones with much smaller price tags. I swapped shifts at the drag club so I could come. Henry meets me outside and we go in together. There’s a buzz of chatter as the prospective buyers take their seats. I sneak a look around at the faces and, thankfully, don’t recognize anyone from my gallery days. My painting is lot number eleven. I wonder who is going to be its new owner. I feel a bit sick and swallow hard. Henry pats my hand and tells me not to look so worried.
“It’ll be fine. You have quite a sort-after painting,” Henry says calmly. “So don’t worry that no one will want it.”
I couldn’t tell Henry that he had misread my worry. A thought crosses my mind that I could still race up to the front and grab my painting back, screaming that it was not for sale and never would be. But I don’t. I swallow down the guilt and tension. I should have told Gianni, but it’s too late now.
Lot number one, a large gold-framed painting of a flower arrangement is placed on the easel at the front of the hall close to the auctioneer. He introduces it as eighteenth-century Flemish, after Reubens. I’m temporarily distracted by the drama in the auction room.
