Wiltons
It was inevitable, perhaps even fated, that the bar of Wiltons would serve as the backdrop for what unfolded next. It was the usual scene that evening, with the usual cast of characters arrayed upon the stage—tweedy Jeremy Crabbe from Bonhams, suntanned Simon Mendenhall from Christie’s, slick Nicky Lovegrove, art adviser to the vastly rich. Roddy Hutchinson, universally regarded as the most unscrupulous dealer in all of St. James’s, was arguing politics with Niles Dunham, an unapologetic supporter of the Labour Party, warts and all. Julian Isherwood had once again drawn the short straw and was stuck with Oliver Dimbleby. Tubby Oliver was delivering a homily about the current Turner and Constable exhibit at the Tate Modern. Julian was peering into his Chablis as though contemplating suicide.
Sarah Bancroft, for her part, was seated at her usual table in the corner, drinking her usual Belvedere martini, three olives, Saharan dry, Siberian cold. Amelia March, with her insatiable need for art world gossip, had joined her uninvited. Amelia was drinking Campari and soda, a fine concoction, surely, but Sarah had never really seen the point.
Heads turned as Olivia Watson made her entrance. Amelia eyed her enviously. “It’s really not fair, is it?”
“It won’t last forever.”
“I’m not so sure about that. She seems to be getting more beautiful by the day.” Amelia leaned across the table and adopted a conspiratorial tone. “I don’t mean to bring up a sore subject, but I was wondering whether—”
“The delicious rumor you heard about Olivia and my husband was true?”
“It was the talk of the Wickham House fundraiser.”
“I was afraid of that,” said Sarah morosely.
“Well?”
“I won’t dignify your question with a response.”
“There was another rumor making the rounds as well,” said Amelia. “It involved you and a rather well-known art conservator.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
“A classic nondenial denial. Your second of the evening, in fact.”
“It isn’t true.”
“The rumor was started by the well-known art conservator’s lovely wife. Which begs the question,” said Amelia leadingly.
“And which question is that?”
“Are you or aren’t you?”
Sarah raised her martini to her lips. “Are you asking whether I once worked for the Central Intelligence Agency?”
“He’s a former spy, and you were once madly in love with him. The connection seems obvious.”
“To you, perhaps.” Sarah was spared an additional response by the ringing of her mobile. The name of the caller was displayed on the screen.
“Speak of the devil,” said Amelia, and rose to her feet. “Do give him my best.”
Sarah accepted the call and placed the phone to her ear. “Your timing,” she murmured, “is impeccable as always.”
“I’m not interrupting anything important, I hope.”
“Amelia March was just wondering whether I was once madly in love with you. Having seen my caller ID, she’s now absolutely certain I was.”
“You really need to change my name in your contacts.”
“I’m doing so as we speak, Mr. Mud. But how can I be of service?”
“I need to borrow your husband.”
“You can’t have him.”
“Why not?”
