Page 94 of Portrait of an Unknown Woman

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Mason’s Yard

Lately, it had occurred to Oliver Dimbleby that he was a very lucky man indeed. Yes, his gallery had endured its ups and downs—the Great Recession had been a rather close shave—but somehow the hand of fate had always interceded to save him from ruin. The same was true of his personal life, which was, by universal acclaim, the untidiest in the London art world. Despite his advancing years and ever-increasing girth, Oliver had encountered no shortage of willing partners. He was, after all, a glorified salesman—a man of immense charm and charisma who, as he was fond of saying, could sell sand to a Saudi. He was not, however, a womanizer. Or so he told himself each time he awoke with a strange body on the other side of his bed. Oliver loved women.Allwomen. And therein lay the root of his problem.

Tonight he had nothing on his schedule other than a well-deserved drink—and perhaps a few laughs at Julian Isherwood’s expense—at Wiltons. To reach his destination he merely had to turn to the left after leaving his gallery and walk one hundred and fourteen paces along the spotless pavements of Bury Street. His journey took him past the premises of a dozen competitors, including the mightyP. & D. Colnaghi & Co., the world’s oldest commercial art gallery. Next door was the flagship store of Turnbull & Asser, where Oliver’s deficit spending was approaching American levels.

Entering Wiltons, he was pleased to see Sarah Bancroft sitting alone at her usual table. He procured a glass of Pouilly-Fumé at the bar and joined her. The unexpected warmth of her smile nearly stopped his heart.

“Oliver,” she purred. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I’ve always had the distinct impression that you find me repulsive.”

“Don’t be silly. I positively adore you.”

“So there’s hope for me yet?”

She raised her left hand and displayed a three-carat diamond ring and accompanying wedding band. “Still married, I’m afraid.”

“Any chance of a divorce?”

“Not at the moment.”

“In that case,” said Oliver with a dramatic sigh, “I suppose I’ll have to settle for being your sexual plaything.”

“You have plenty of those already. Besides, my husband might not approve.”

“Peter Marlowe? The professional assassin?”

“He’s a business consultant,” said Sarah.

“I think I liked him better when he was a contract killer.”

“So did I.”

Just then the door swung open and in came Simon Mendenhall and Olivia Watson.

“Did you hear the rumor about those two?” whispered Sarah.

“The one about their torrid affair? Jeremy Crabbe may have mentioned it. Or perhaps it was Nicky Lovegrove. It’s on everyone’s lips.”

“A shame, that.”

“I only wish they were saying the same about us.” Smiling wolfishly, Oliver drank from his wineglass. “Sell anything lately?”

“A couple of Leonardos and a Giorgione. You?”

“Truth be told, I’m in a bit of a slump.”

“Not you, Ollie?”

“Hard to believe, I know.”

“How’s your cash flow?”