″Thank you.″
″Julian runs an art gallery,″ Samantha said.
″That′s a little premature. I′m opening one. What do you do, Tom?″
″You could call me a financier.″
Julian smiled. ″You wouldn′t like to put some money into an art gallery, by any chance?″
″Not my line.″
″What is?″
″You might say I take money from A and give it to B.″
Samantha coughed, and Julian had the feeling he was being laughed at. He said: ″Actually, it′s gallery business that brings me here.″ He took the drink Samantha handed him, and watched her settle snugly in the crook of Tom′s arm. ″I′m looking for someone attractive and interested to open the place. Sarah suggested I ask you. Would you do it, as a favor to us?″
″I′d love to, but I′ll have to make sure I′m not supposed to be somewhere else on the day. Can I ring you later?″
″Sure.″ Julian took a card out of his pocket. ″All the details are on here.″
She took the card. ″Thanks.″
Julian swallowed his drink. ″I won′t bother you any longer,″ he said. He seemed slightly envious. ″You look so cozy. Nice to meet you, Tom.″
He paused at the door and looked at a postcard perched on top of the thermostat on the wall. ″Who′s been to Livorno?″ he said.
″An old friend of mine.″ Samantha got up. ″I must introduce you to her one day. She′s just got a degree in art history. Look.″ She took the postcard down, turned it over, and showed it to him. Julian read it.
″How fascinating,″ he said. He handed the postcard back. ″Yes, I′d like to meet the lady. Well, don′t bother to climb the stairs with me. Goodbye.″
When, he had gone Tom said: ″Why do you want to open his wretched picture shop for him?″
″His wife′s a friend. The Honorable Sarah Luxter.″
″Which makes her the daughter of ... ?″
″Lord Cardwell.″
″The one who′s selling his art collection?″
Samantha nodded. ″It′s oil paint in the veins, you know.″
Tom did not smile. ″Now there′s a caper.″
The party was at the lifeless stage that parties go through in the small hours before they get their second wind. The unrestrained drinkers were getting sloppy and disgusting and the restrained ones were feeling the beginnings of their hangovers. The guests stood around in clusters, concentrating on conversations which varied from the intellectual to the comically incoherent.
The host was a film director just returned from the exile of television commercials. His wife, a tall, thin woman whose long dress exposed most of what little bosom she had, welcomed Samantha and Tom and took them to the bar. A Filipino barman whose eyes were glazing a little poured whisky for Samantha and emptied two bottles of lager into a pint glass for Tom. Samantha gave Tom a sharp look: he did not often drink beer, especially in the evening. She hoped he was not going to be aggressively working-class all night
The hostess made small talk. Joe Davies detached himself from a group on the far side of the room and came over. The hostess, glad to be discharged, returned to her husband.
Joe said: ″Sammy, you have to meet Mr. Ishi. He′s tonight′s star guest, and the reason we′re all at the lousy party.″
″Who is he?″
″A Japanese banker who is known to want to invest in the British film industry. He must be mad, which is why everyone′s trying to get in with him. Come on.″ He took her arm, and with a nod to Tom, led her over to where a bald man with glasses was talking soberly to half-a-dozen attentive listeners.
Tom watched the introductions from the bar, then blew the froth off the top of his lager and sank half of it. The Filipino absentmindedly wiped the top of the bar with a cloth. He kept eyeing Tom.
Tom said: ″Go on, take a drink—I won′t tell on you.″
The barman flashed him a smile, grabbed a half-full glass from under the bar, and took a long swallow.
A woman′s voice said: ″I wish I had the courage to wear jeans—they′re so much more comfortable.″
Tom turned to see a short girl in her twenties. She was expensively dressed in imitation fifties clothes: pointed, stiletto-heeled shoes, a tapered skirt, and a double-breasted jacket. Her short hair was in a swept-back ducktail style with a quiff at the front.
He said: ″They′re cheaper, too. And we don′t have many cocktail parties in Islington.″
She opened her heavily shadowed eyes wide. ″Is that where you live? I′ve heard that working-class men beat their wives.″
′7esus Christ,″ Tom muttered.
The girl went on: ″I think that′s awful—I mean, I couldn′t stand being beaten by a man. I mean, unless he was ever so nice. Then I might like it. Do you think you would enjoy beating a woman? Me, for instance?″
″I′ve got better things to worry about,″ Tom said. His contemptuous tone seemed to be lost on the girl. ″If you had some real problems to think about you wouldn′t be making a fool of yourself with me. Privilege breeds boredom, and boredom breeds empty people like you.″
He had needled the girl at last. ″If that′s how you feel, maybe you should choke on your privileged beer. What are you doing here, anyway?″
″Thatʹs what I′m wondering.″ He drained his glass and stood up. ″Crazy conversations like this I don′t need.″
He looked around for Sammy, but he heard her voice before he saw her. She was shouting at Joe Davies. In a second everyone was watching.
Her face was red, and she was more angry than Tom had ever seen her. ″How dare you investigate my friends?″ she yelled. ″You′re not my guardian angel, you′re my lousy fucking agent. You used to be my agent, because you′re fired, Joe Davies.″ She slapped the man′s face once, hard, and turned on her heel.
The agent purpled in humiliation. He stepped after Samantha with a raised fist. Two long strides took Tom across the room. He pushed Joe, gently but firmly, so that the agent rocked back on his heels. Then Tom turned and followed Samantha out of the room.
Outside on the sidewalk, she broke into a run. ″Sammy!″ Tom called. He ran after her. When he caught up with her, he gripped her arm and stopped her.
″What is this all about?″ he asked.
She looked up at him, confusion and anger in her eyes. ″Joe had you investigated,″ she said. ″He said you had a wife, four children, and a police record.″
″Oh.″ He looked piercingly into her eyes. ″So what do you think?″
″How the hell do I know what to think?″
″I have a broken marriage, and the divorce isn′t through yet. Ten years ago I forged a check. Does that make any difference to anything?″
She stared at him for a moment. Then she buried her head in his shoulder. ″No, Tom, no.″
He held her still in his arms for a long moment. Then he said: ″It was a lousy party, anyway. Let′s s get a cab.″
They walked up to Park Lane and found a taxi outside one of the hotels. The driver took them along Piccadilly, the Strand, and Fleet Street. Tom got him to stop at a newsstand where early editions of the morning papers were on sale.
It was getting light as they drove under Holborn Viaduct. ″Look at this,″ Tom said. ″Lord Cardwell′s paintings are expected to raise a million pounds.″ He folded the paper and looked out of the window. ″Do you know how he got those pictures?″
″Tell me.″
″In the seventeenth century sailors died to bring him gold from South America. In the eighteenth, farmers starved to pay his rents. In the nineteenth, children died in factories and urban slums to maximize his profits. In this century he went into banking to help other people do what he had been doing for three hundred years—getting rich on poor men′s backs. Christ, a million pounds could build a nice little housing estate in Islington.″