‘I cannot do that. Mr Carter does not have a phone in his study. He prefers to have no disturbance whilst he is working.’
‘Good old Denzil. I approve of that. Nevertheless, please tell him that I wish to speak to him.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr Preston. Mr Carter makes it a rule that he will not be disturbed during working hours.’
‘Again, I approve. And again, I must ask you to tell Denzil that Peter Preston wishes to speak to him. I am sure that he will make an exception for an old friend.’
‘That would be most irregular. Mr Carter does not take kindly to interruptions.’
But he had caught the instant of hesitation in her voice. It was time to be firm with this wretched woman. ‘He will take kindly to this one. I assume your time is valuable, as mine certainly is. Please don’t waste any more of either and tell your employer that I am on the line.’
There was a pause before the secretary said, ‘This is highly irregular and against my instructions. Hold the line, please, whilst I see whether Mr Carter wishes to speak to you.’
Preston tapped his fingers on the desk impatiently as the phone was put down and he heard the faint sound of departing footsteps. ‘Stroppy cow!’ he muttered to himself with feeling. Sometimes the modern invective he so despised could be a useful outlet. The seconds stretched into minutes. He hoped the woman was being firmly put in her place.
There was the sound of the phone being picked up and he said, ‘Sorry to disturb you at your desk, Denzil, but I-’
‘Mr Preston, this is Mr Carter’s secretary again. I’m afraid Mr Carter is far too busy at present to interrupt his work. What is it that you wished to speak to him about?’
His instinct was to say tersely that his business was no concern of hers, but something told him belatedly to be cautious. He said stiffly, ‘It is a personal matter, which I should have much preferred to discuss with Mr Carter rather than an intermediary. I am speaking from Oldford in Gloucestershire. We run a small but prestigious literary festival in the town, in which I am a prime mover. My old friend Denzil Carter has agreed to come and speak about his plays and the processes of their construction; I shall be chairing that session. I merely wish to finalize the details of this visit with Denzil himself.’
‘I see. Mr Carter said that this proposed visit might be the subject of your phone call.’
‘Yes. I hope you see now why I needed to speak to Denzil personally.’
‘Indeed. But I have to tell you that Mr Carter’s recollection of the arrangements made is rather different from yours, Mr Preston. He says that you made a tentative approach and that he gave you no firm guarantee of his attendance.’
‘Ms James, I can assure you that-’
‘Mr Carter is adamant that he gave you no definite undertaking to speak at your festival. Indeed, he says he warned you that the pressure of his commitments in the second half of May would probably make it impossible.’
Peter Preston knew that although he was furious he must think quickly. He was nothing like as good at that as he had once been. ‘This is why I needed to speak to Denzil personally, you see. An arrangement between friends is always vague, but this one is underpinned by the regard we have built up for each other over the years. I’m sure this could be resolved in a few minutes if I could just be allowed to-’
‘Mr Carter’s instructions were to inform you that pressure of work and the engagements he has already committed himself to at the time of your festival mean that he is now certain that he will not be able to undertake this visit to Oldford. He asks me to remind you that he informed you at the time of your original approach that this would be the likely outcome.’
‘But this is preposterous! I’m sure the misunderstanding could be resolved very quickly if you would only-’
‘I am afraid that Mr Carter is quite definite about this. His further instructions were to wish you success with your festival and inform you that he regrets that pressure of work does not allow him to speak to you at this time.’
‘Look, I’ve had quite enough of your damned impertinence! Kindly-’
‘Mr Preston, I am, as you accurately pointed out to me a few moments ago, nothing more than an intermediary. As such, it is part of my duties to protect my employer from unwanted approaches. If you-’
‘Unwanted approaches! I told you, we-’
‘I was about to suggest that if your recollection of the arrangements made and the commitment undertaken is different from Mr Carter’s, you should put your feelings in writing. I shall make sure any written communication from you is presented to Mr Carter. I cannot guarantee that his reaction will differ substantially from the one I have conveyed to you today. Good afternoon, Mr Preston.’
The line was dead, leaving Peter Preston infuriated and helpless. He had thought he would at least have had the small satisfaction of slamming his phone down to end this futile conversation. But the woman had outsmarted him even in that.
Peter went from his study into the bedroom and looked at himself in the mirror. He felt as if he had been dragged through a hawthorn hedge, but there was little sign of disturbance in the face he saw there. His colour was perhaps a little higher than normal, but his gently waving hair was as neatly parted and groomed as ever. His brown eyes were bright; he knew that was the product of frustration and indignation, but the uninformed viewer might have seen them only as pleasantly animated behind the rimless glasses. Wrinkles were inevitable at fifty-five, but anger seemed to have made them a little less prominent.
He didn’t look anything like as ruffled as he had expected to look. That was some consolation, he decided. Peter Preston was unaware of his vanity, as he was unaware of many of the things that other, less talented, people might have noticed in themselves.
Ros Barker was excited. She was humming quietly but continuously to herself. Kate Merrick, the woman who shared her life, could have told anyone who was interested that this was a mark of excitement in her friend and lover. When Ros was at work on a painting, the sound was a sure sign to her sometime model that the work was coming along well, that Ros was pleased with some part of the painting, some effect she had sought for and achieved. And when Kate stretched comfortably in bed and heard Ros humming over the toaster in the kitchen, Kate knew that her partner was pleased with the night that had passed and with the life they lived together.
The source of Ros’s pleasure this morning was much more worldly. She was driving to Cheltenham to discuss the exhibition of her work which was to be mounted there in May. When you were thirty and almost unknown outside the world of art, to have an exhibition mounted at all was wonderful. To have one mounted in Cheltenham was bliss indeed. The local tradition was that there was far more money available in Cheltenham than in Gloucester. Gloucester was an ancient city with a magnificent cathedral, but Cheltenham was the fashionable spa town which the prosperous English establishment chose to visit and where the affluent middle classes chose to settle. There was money available for fripperies like art in Cheltenham, whereas the Gloucester folk were altogether more down to earth. Ros wasn’t at all sure that these distinctions still applied, but she was delighted that her work was going to be on show in a prominent gallery in Cheltenham for three whole weeks.
The owner of the gallery was a hard-headed businessman, with no pretensions to artistic expertise himself. Ros found this reassuring, since she had no idea herself about how best to exploit her gifts to make a living. She needed someone like this man, who would be concerned with the commercial rather than the aesthetic properties of her work. Harry Barnard was that practical presence. His concern was to cover the extensive overheads of his gallery, such as council tax and publicity, and then show a handsome yearly profit. He had already been doing this for twenty years.
Barnard was taking a chance on Ros Barker, though he did not tell her so. It was part of his policy to mount two exhibitions a year by promising but not widely known artists. It helped to keep his gallery in the public eye and secured his position in the artistic press as a patron of the arts, a man who was happy to foster new talent. If he broke even on these two exhibitions, he was content. If he discovered a saleable new painter or sculptor, that was a splendid bonus. He revealed none of this thinking to Ros Barker.