Page 102 of Portrait of an Unknown Woman

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Dimbleby Fine Arts

The director of the National Gallery arrived at Dimbleby Fine Arts at ten the following morning, accompanied by the infallible Niles Dunham and three other curators who specialized in Italian Old Masters. They sniffed, poked, prodded, kicked the tires, and examined the canvas under ultraviolet light. No one questioned the authenticity of the work, only the provenance.

“An old European collection? It’s a bit gossamer, Oliver. That said, I must have it.”

“Then I suggest you make me an offer.”

“I won’t get caught up in a bidding war.”

“Of course you will.”

“Who’s next at bat?”

“The Getty.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I will if the price is right.”

“Scoundrel.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“See you at Wiltons tonight?”

“Unless I get a better offer.”

The delegation from the Getty arrived at eleven. They were young and suntanned and loaded with cash. They made a takeaway offer of £25 million, £5 million above the top end of the estimated price band. Oliver turned them down flat.

“We won’t be back,” they vowed.

“I have a feeling you will.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because I see that look in your eyes.”

It was noon when Oliver ushered the Gettys into Bury Street. Cordelia handed him a stack of telephone messages on her way to lunch. He leafed through them quickly before ringing Sarah.

“She’s called twice this morning.”

“Wonderful news.”

“Perhaps we should put her out of her misery.”

“Actually, we’d like you to play hard to get a little longer.”

“Hard to get isn’t my usual modus operandi.”

“I’ve noticed, Ollie.”

The afternoon session was a reprise of the morning. The delegation from the Metropolitan Museum of Art was smitten, their counterparts from Boston head over heels. The director of the Art Gallery of Ontario, a Veronese expert himself, was practically speechless.

“How much do you want for it?” he managed to say.

“I’ve got twenty-five from the Getty.”