Brilliant (4 page)

S  I  X

two weeks later

“We wish you luck, Mr. Brace,” Mr. Radcliffe said, getting to his feet. He was as tall as a stork. “But we’ve decided to accept Sotheby’s offer.”

“May I ask why?” Owen concealed his surprise well. This was his first opportunity to try to close a major piece of business for the house. He’d assumed that the highly prized and pursued Radcliffe Collection would fall into his lap based sheerly on his personal celebrity. “Would you like to discuss the commission further? I’m willing to negotiate.”

“No, no. Both houses have made identical offers, and I know there’s negotiating room.”

“Is it the publicity package? Do you think it should be increased?” Color had crept up Mr. Radcliffe’s neck, and his wife’s lips were so tightly clamped, they had almost disappeared into her mouth. “Please tell me, sir,” Owen pressed, “so I don’t make the same mistake again.”

“All right, young man, I will tell you because you’ve asked me. The fact is, I’m sorry to say, I just can’t relate to a man who wears as much jewelry as you do. We wish you good day.” With that, the Radcliffes left.

Whoa. The words were almost incomprehensible to a man whose fortune had been built on high fashion, to whom the concept of less-is-more was impossible to grasp. At Brace International, understatement was practically a firing offense. And suddenly, wham, a cold fish right in the face from a member of that upper-class club Owen was so anxious to join. One succinctly cutting phrase forced Owen to acknowledge that his flashy hundred-thousand-dollar, multi–time zone, calendar watch and the Boucheron gold-and-diamond cuff links had just cost the house several million dollars in commissions. Dollars he desperately needed.

I felt sorry for him. A flush of embarrassment darkened his face and reddened his eyes, which, as best as I could tell, were as close to indigo as eyes can get.

I closed the office door. “If I may, sir,” I ventured.

“What is it, Kick?”

“Well”—I sought to be tactful—“in the auction business, appearances are everything.”

“Appearances are everything in every business. What’s your point?”

I persevered. I had nothing to lose. “There are a few realities you need to hear if you’re going to get anywhere . . .”

Why did I care if he got anywhere? Well, there was just something about him that intrigued me, in spite of his harsh bullyboy manner, rough edges, and absence of Golden Rule ethics. Or maybe it was because of those things. I’d never met anyone like him in my life.

I couldn’t wait for the next installment in the daily soap opera of his fourteen-month-long marriage to movie star Tina Romero, and the way she bamboozled him, as only a twenty-two-year-old, Puerto Rican, sexpot bombshell can bamboozle a fifty-four-year-old man. She was a tempestuous, spoiled, completely immature, stacked, keg of nitroglycerin. A glamour-puss with a Charo-type accent who would sweep into the office, unannounced, dressed in clothes that could only be described as “missing,” or “transparent,” or “extreme.” These were the kind of clothes that were held in place with double-stick tape. Surefire, front-page attire for an international movie star at the Academy Awards or the Cannes Film Festival, but not the sort of image an auction house seeking its survival ought to present to well-heeled potential clients. I mean, if Mr. Radcliffe thought Owen’s accessories were flashy, I truly cannot even begin to imagine what he would have thought if he’d gotten a look at Tina.

And she adored Owen. She climbed all over him like a monkey, like a little girl on a favorite uncle, like a woman-child on a sugar daddy, which was fine in private, but she pawed him no matter who was watching. And Owen couldn’t or wouldn’t stop her. It was pretty amazing. She called him Daddy.

I was astounded by the parade of famous models and movie stars who called him, or whom he called, constantly, and with whom he had quick flings. By quick, I mean like between courses at lunch. Whatever it was he did to them, they liked it. They kept coming back for more. He was some sort of human animal sex magnet.

He counted on me to keep these ladies straight with his schedule, and then right out of the blue, he’d instruct me to break off an affair.

“Forgive me for being impertinent,” I said to him one time, “but I don’t think you can exactly call this an ‘affair.’ ”

“Excuse me?”

“These are not affairs, or even liaisons. I think an affair connotes a relationship where the two parties have met more than three times.”

“Excuse me?”

“I just don’t think you should call these little get-togethers ‘affairs.’ I’d call them ‘proceedings.’ Or ‘incidents.’ That would be more appropriate.”

He studied me like I was an idiot. I didn’t care. He needed to know these things. “Very well,” he finally said. “Would you be so kind as to break off the ‘proceeding’ with Letitia.”

“Of course, sir. Consider it done.”

Then I would call the girl with a last-minute cancellation and a heartfelt apology, which would be immediately followed with the delivery of a gift from one of Brace International’s manufacturers of luxury goods—a pashmina cashmere shawl from the Cesarina Mittando fashion house, or a crocodile handbag from Percoco Leather, or sometimes a combination of the two. It was the least I could do. I only sent liquor from Lividia Spirits, Nottingham Whiskey, or Père Patrice Champagne to business associates. No former girlfriend had received a car from the Panther Automobile Company, or a yacht from Geo Shipbuilding.

In spite of my disdain, I felt myself being seduced by Owen’s charm, or charmed by his seductions, I’m not sure which, but I was being pulled inexorably onto his team. I found myself wanting him to succeed because I truly enjoyed fielding calls from the world’s richest people and most powerful leaders—heads of state, companies, and banks, who sometimes sought, sometimes offered, advice or money. Some of them were beginning to learn my name.

At the bottom of all this, though, was the money. I was transfixed by the money. Not only by how Owen was pouring it into Ballantine & Company, buying top experts by raiding other houses and offering exorbitant salaries, freshening up certain aspects of our fusty image, and restoring and renovating our three-hundred-year-old building, which still had hundred-year-old plumbing and wiring; but also by how he juggled the finances among all his companies, constantly shifting funds among them to maintain solvency. Every single one of them—clothing, luggage, wine and spirits, cars and yachts—was in a Code Blue financial situation. They were the highest-end, highest-quality goods available, but unfortunately, the size of their institutional marketing budgets generally equaled the size of their sales. It was a textbook, business school example of how paying to keep up an image can be a self-canceling exercise to the bottom line.

The interest and principal payment demands from the banks were courteous but constant, demands Owen met by playing a high-stakes shell game that hinged on his ability to demonstrate to his stockholders and bankers a strong balance sheet of the parent corporation, Brace International. Fortunately the corporation had a highly profitable real estate holding company with numerous properties in key retail locations all over the world. This particular enterprise charged exorbitant rents to its tenants, thus providing a large and predictable enough cash flow to offset any losses by the subsidiary firms.

The point is: It was all a giant fraud. The high-rent tenants were the selfsame, money-losing subsidiaries, which, if they hadn’t had to pay such steep rents, might have been able to turn small profits. The holding company owned the land under all the corporation’s factories, office buildings, and shops. This was a closely held secret, known really only to four people: Owen; his attorney, David de Menuil; Gil Garrett, the president of Panther Automobiles; and me, although I’m sure he didn’t think I had the sophistication to understand what was going on. It was a high-wire act like nothing you could imagine. His composure and sangfroid were astounding. He worked autonomously. I never once heard him consult a board member, although he had several. I don’t know how he took the pressure.

Initially, I was outraged by how he operated, putting our beloved company in an even more precarious position. I couldn’t understand why he would want to own Ballantine & Company, but then I saw how it could work. An auction house, a successful one at any rate, generates a huge amount of cash flow, much of which can go straight to the bottom line. Brace International and Ballantine’s were each other’s last hope. And I had a front-row seat.

I succumbed to his energy and antics. I couldn’t wait to see what was going to happen next. Now that I could leave whenever I wanted, I couldn’t wait to get to work in the morning.

Okay, I’ll admit it: I was starting to find Owen Brace unbelievably attractive.

“. . . because appearances in the auction business are the opposite of all your other enterprises,” I explained, the Radcliffes now just a memory. “We don’t want to be trendsetters. We’re guardians of the past. You need to look good, look solid. You can’t go around looking much better-off than the clients, even though, in most instances, you probably are. Or at least, they
think
you are. They’re trusting you with their most treasured family possessions, things they love and usually don’t want to give up. You should view yourself the way you would look at a funeral director—you can’t afford to appear as though you’ll be disrespectful or cavalier with their goods. That’s why Ballantine’s has always had a dress code, which you are making a mistake to ignore.”

He listened to me carefully. His dark eyes glittering like glass.

“I know the backstage of this business is not anything you expected.” I shrugged my shoulders and crossed my arms across my chest. “But, that’s the mystique of it, and if you’re really committed to getting this old girl off the ground, which you seem to be, judging by the amount of cash you’re shoveling into her, and attracting the sorts of high-visibility clientele you need, well, sir, you can’t go around dressed like a gigolo.”

I might as well have whacked him on the side of his head with a frying pan. He stared at me for two full beats, and I returned his look without blinking. “How long have you been with Ballantine & Company?”

“Much, much longer than you,” I answered.

“Are you always so honest?”

“Yes, sir. I am.”

He grinned at me. “You know what, Kick?”

“No, sir. What?”

“You are pretty goddamned cool.”

Something fizzy buzzed up my spine—like the tingle from the first sip of champagne.

The next morning tailors from Gieves & Hawkes arrived at eight sharp. Within days, Owen and the rest of the staff were in dark pin-stripes, starched, white, Egyptian cotton shirts, and banker’s ties and shoes.

A more fitting, new era had begun. More fitting-
looking
, at any rate. I delayed submitting my resignation indefinitely—Provence would always be there—but Owen seemed so sincere, so diligent in his efforts, I began to feel an obligation to help him get the company stabilized.

S  E  V  E  N

two months later

“Kick,” Owen called through his open office door. “Come in here.”

“Excuse me, sir?” I pretended not to hear.

“Come in here . . . please.”

Better.

Benjamin Ballantine had been in the ground for ten weeks and basically, except for the dress code, all three hundred years of propriety had exited the executive offices. We were now under the command of a more modern regime, a cadre of Brace International’s youthful staffers, who, if they’d had any inkling that Mr. Brace’s entire empire was on the verge of toppling, falling right off the cliff, might not have been so cavalier.

“Kick,” Owen called again. “What are you doing?”

I picked up my book. “On my way, sir.” Just as I stood up, the top of Tina’s peroxided head crested the staircase. Then the whole kit ’n’ caboodle of Owen’s child bride roared into view. She was moving fast on long slim legs that shot out from her full-length lynx coat like hurdler pistons and pounded up the stairs two at a time. The coat that matched her hair flew open to reveal her running bra, bike shorts, and sneakers. White-rimmed dark glasses covered her big brown eyes, which had lashes like Bambi’s. One hand held her omnipresent bottle of Evian water—what on earth she needed all that water for, I’ll never understand. Security, I suppose. Just the same as she “needed” the 250,000-dollar coat. Her other hand wielded a large manila envelope rolled up and borne aloft like an Olympic torch. Because I’d arranged for its delivery, I knew the envelope contained divorce papers.

Owen realized that if he was going to save the business, and turn himself into a respectable gentleman, he had to stop living his life on the front page of the tabloids, which meant Tina had to go. As far as I could tell, the decision hadn’t appeared to cause him any particular brain damage—he’d handled it with the same offhand attitude as ordering up his barber. But I guess when you’re on your third or fourth marriage and divorce, it all takes on a rhythm of its own.

“Get David on the phone, please,” he’d said. “I’ve got to get a divorce.”

The separation had been carefully and efficiently orchestrated by my office and David de Menuil, Owen’s on-call round-the-clock attorney who seemed to have no life but Owen, and implemented around Tina’s schedule of publicity appearances for her new movie.

“Theoretically, this timing should make it easier on Tina,” David explained. “Sort of a good news–bad news approach. Bad news: Your husband’s divorcing you. Good news—your public needs you— you’re the star. She’ll get over it in a hurry.”

I’d had Owen’s new Savile Row wardrobe, papers, and important works of art—all items Tina probably had never noticed since they were neither cell phones nor mirrored—removed from the town house and installed in a residential suite at the Dukes Hotel down the street from the office. The items in his residential safes, mostly U.S. dollars, gold bullion, jewelry, and handguns, all of which spoke volumes about Owen’s murky roots, were transferred to the wall safe in his office. The only personal items left behind at his former home were his former wardrobe and the gifts Tina had given him, the majority of which were either sexual or sparkling.

“Good morning, Miss Romero,” I began.

“I know.” She flew toward and then past me. “He’s ‘in conference,’ he’s ‘not available at the moment.’ Well, for once he’s ‘in’ for me. He can’t do this to me. You should call the police right now, because I’m going to kill the fucking son of a bitch.”

“Should I call your agent, as well?” I asked. “And your publicist?”

“Sure.” Then she threw open the door to Owen’s office so hard, the frame cracked, and I watched her virtually launch herself across the desk at his throat. They both crashed to the floor.

The invective was impressive—an unlikely, but effective, assemblage of dockhand language in English and Spanish.

“Should I call security, sir?” I asked. By then he had Tina on her knees, her arm wrapped up behind her back and was on the verge of breaking her wrist. He had a quartet of mean-looking gashes on his cheek from her fingernails.

“No. Just close the door.”

Moments later, she evidently broke out of his hold, because for quite a while, the sounds of screaming and things breaking reverberated throughout the executive office reception area. We were used to it. None of the executives even bothered to stick their heads out of their offices. I heard the set of ceremonial Wedgwood plates, made to celebrate and record King Edward’s coronation, whistle across the room like Frisbees until they met up, head-on, with the antique burled walnut paneling.

Then, the sobbing started. Then, silence. Then caterwauling exclamations of ecstasy that went on until we were all exhausted, nervous wrecks. Finally, the door opened and Tina emerged. Her face was splotchy from crying. “I’m sorry I cut your face. I promise I’ll never do it again. Just don’t do this to me. I’ll do anything if you’ll keep me. Please. Anything.”

Owen stood in the door, a handkerchief pressed to his cheek. He had his suit coat off. His fitted white shirt was as crisp as a cracker, and he had on a red-and-navy regimental tie, something I imagine he’d often made fun of in the past as the sort of tie only a fuddy-duddy would wear. He certainly didn’t look like he’d been making wild passionate love. “Believe me, Tina. I’m only doing this for you. For your sake. You can’t have your career always living under my shadow.”

She began to cry again. “But what will I do without you? You’re my whole world.”

I admit I felt sorry for her as she passed my desk. She was just a child, a dejected and rejected and totally misguided child. “Is there anything I can get you, Miss Romero?” I asked.

She shook her downcast head. I told her I was sorry.

“To hell with you,” she said. “This is all your fault. Owen was never snooty until you showed up.”

I reached out to touch her arm, but by then she’d put on her dark glasses and started down the stairs. Each step seemed to straighten her spine and by the time she reached the front door, her famous red-lipped Latina smile was back in place, and she was ready for her permanent entourage of bodyguards and paparazzi.

I went into Owen’s office. “Oh, dear,” I said.

Two lamps were smashed to bits, as was a glass tabletop.

“Goddamn crazy fucking bitch,” he swore.

“Are you all right, sir? Would you like me to look at that?”

He pulled the linen square away and examined it. “No, thanks. I think it’s stopped bleeding. Well,” he said as he crossed back to his desk and righted his computer screen, “that’s over.”

“Do you think she’ll be all right?” I asked. “I mean, she won’t do anything crazy will she?”

“What are you talking about? All she does are crazy things. Who cares what she does. She’s no longer my problem.”

“She sure can scream,” I said. “We’re talking Academy Award winners.”

“Actresses,” he said. “All sizzle, no steak. They’re all complete idiots. If you don’t write out their scripts, they’re totally lost. What time is the Carstairs meeting?”

“Eleven o’clock.”

“What time is it now?”

“Nine-fifty-five.”

“Is Bertram ready?”

“I think so, but I’ll double-check.”

“I want him in the car by the time I get there. We’ll leave in five minutes. Did you look at the figures from Panther?” He studied the latest sales projections on the monitor.

“I did.”

“Talk about another goddamn mess—I’m up to my nuts in them today. Did you know this corporation’s had six different owners in the last eighteen years?”

I nodded.

“I’ve decided owning Panther is like being married to Elizabeth Taylor or Zsa Zsa Gabor. First year’s the honeymoon. Second year: daily sessions with a shrink: Can we make this marriage work? Knowing deep down that you don’t really think it can. And third year: How do I get the hell out of this mess with some of my assets still intact?”

“It’s definitely a mess.”

Owen shook his head and tapped his finger on the glowing red numbers. “There’s no light at the end of the tunnel.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you certain?”

“Yeah. It’s the classic conundrum: As long as the cars are manufactured in England, by hand, it’s unworkable. But . . . that’s part of the car’s magic, its attraction. It’s what keeps the waiting list ten years long.”

“They’re so beautiful.”

“Not to mention it’s the sweetest car on the road to drive. It’s a real heartbreaker. And I’m just as much of a sucker as the owners before me and whoever owns the company after me. Frankly, for me, the prestige of corporate proprietorship has diminished with each quarterly report—sort of like living with Tina and her implants. The thrill is gone. Get Gil on the phone. Please.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gil Garrett, Owen’s best friend, if a yard dog can have a best friend, was president of the Panther Automobile Company. The two men had been in a number of deals together, and they’d both known going in that Panther’s future was on the line since day one. They sometimes spoke hourly. The deal was now in day #475: heavy relationship counseling.

“And close the door.”

“Yes, sir.”

I returned to my desk and unwrapped a marshmallow caramel and sank my teeth into it. As the sugar dissolved on my tongue, I couldn’t help but wonder what all he’d done that had gotten her calmed down so quickly. My imagination ran so wild, I think I was blushing. I popped the rest of the chewy little morsel into my mouth and got my papers, purse, and gloves together in preparation for our imminent departure for Carstairs Manor, Lady Melody Carstairs’s Richmond estate.