A Quiver Full of Arrows (3 page)

In the swinging sixties, when casinos opened
in Britain, young Alex was convinced that he had found the ideal way of earning
a living without actually having to do any work. He developed a system for
playing roulette with which it was impossible to lose. He did lose, so he
refined the system and promptly lost more; he refined the system once again
which resulted in him having to borrow to cover his losses. Why not? If the
worst came to the worst, he told himself, he could always dispose of the little
Ming Emperor.

The worst did come to the worst, as each one
of Alex’s newly refined systems took him progressively into greater debt until
the casinos began to press him for payment. When finally, one Monday morning,
Alex received an unsolicited call from two gentlemen who seemed determined to
collect some eight thousand pounds he owed their masters, and hinted at bodily
harm if the matter was not dealt with within fourteen days, Alex caved in.
After all, his great-great-grandfather’s instructions had been exact: the Ming
statue was to be sold if the family honour was ever at stake.

Alex took the little Emperor off the
mantelpiece in his Cadogan Gardens flat and stared down at its delicate handiwork,
at least having the grace to feel a little sad at the loss of the family
heirloom. He then drove to Bond Street and delivered the masterpiece to
Sotheby’s, giving instructions that the Emperor should be put up for auction.

The head of the Oriental department, a pale,
thin man, appeared at the front desk to discuss the masterpiece with Alex,
looking not unlike the Ming statue he was holding so lovingly in his hands.

“It will take a few days to estimate the
true value of the piece,” he purred, “but I feel confident on a cursory glance 7
that the statue is as fine an example of Pen Q as we have ever had under the
hammer.”

“That’s no problem,” replied Alex, “as long
as you can let me know what it’s worth within fourteen days.”

“Oh, certainly,” replied the expert.

“I feel sure I could give you a floor price
by Friday.”

“Couldn’t be better,” said Alex.

During that week he contacted all his
creditors and without exception they were prepared to wait and learn the
appraisal of the expert. Alex duly returned to Bond Street on the Friday with a
large smile on his face. He knew what his great-great-grandfather had paid for
the piece and felt sure that the statue must be worth more than ten thousand
pounds. A sum that would not only yield him enough to cover all his debts but
leave him a little over to try out his new refined, refined system on the roulette
table. As he climbed the steps of Sotheby’s, Alex silently thanked his
great-great-grandfather.

He asked the girl on reception if he could
speak to the head of the Oriental department. She picked up an internal phone
and the expert appeared a few moments later at the front desk with a sombre
look on his face. Alex’s heart sank as he listened to his words:

“A nice little piece, your Emperor, but
unfortunately a fake, probably about two hundred, two hundred and fifty years
old but only a copy of the original, I’m afraid. Copies were often made because...”

“How much is it worth?” interrupted an
anxious Alex.

“Seven hundred pounds, eight hundred at the
most.”

Enough to buy a gun and some bullets,
thought Alex sardonically as he turned and started to walk away.

“I wonder, sir...” continued the expert.

“Yes, yes, sell the bloody thing,” said
Alex, without bothering to look back.

“And what do you want me to do with the base?”

“The base?” repeated Alex, turning round to
face the Orientalist.

“Yes, the base. It’s quite magnificent,
fifteenth century, undoubtedly a work of genius, I can’t imagine how...”

“Lot No. 103,” announced the auctioneer.
“What am I bid for this magnificent example of...?”

The expert turned out to be right in his
assessment. At the auction at Sotheby’s that Thursday morning I obtained the
little Emperor for seven hundred and twenty guineas. And the base? That was
acquired by an American gentleman of not unknown parentage for twenty-two
thousand guineas.

S
he waved at me across a crowded room of the St.
Regis Hotel in New York. I waved back realising I knew the face but I was
unable to place it. She squeezed past waiters and guests and had reached me
before I had a chance to ask anyone who she was. I racked that section of my brain
which is meant to store people, but it transmitted no reply. I realised I would
have to resort to the old party trick of carefully worded questions until her answers
jogged my memory.

“How are you, darling?” she cried, and threw
her arms around me, an opening that didn’t help as we were at a Literary Guild
cocktail party, and anyone will throw their arms around you on such occasions,
even the directors of the Book-of-the-Month Club.

From her accent she was clearly American and
looked to be approaching forty, but thanks to the genius of modern make-up
might even have overtaken it.

She wore a long white cocktail dress and her
blonde hair was done up in one of those buns that looks like a cottage loaf.
The overall effect made her appear somewhat like a chess queen. Not that the
cottage loaf helped because she might have had dark hair flowing to her
shoulders when we last met. I do wish women would realise that when they change
their hair style they often achieve exactly what they set out to do: look
completely different to any unsuspecting male.

“I’m well, thank you,” I said to the white
queen. “And you?”

I inquired as my opening gambit.

“I’m just fine, darling,” she replied, taking
a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

“And how’s the family?” I asked, not sure if
she even had one.

“They’re all well,” she replied. No help
there. “And how is Louise?” she inquired.

“Blooming,” I said. So she knew my wife. But
then not necessarily, I thought. Most American women are experts at remembering
the names of men’s wives. They have to be, when on the New York circuit they
change so often it becomes a greater challenge than The Times crossword.

“Have you been to London lately?” I roared
above the babble. A brave question, as she might never have been to Europe.

“Only once since we had lunch together.” She
looked at me quizzically. “You don’t remember who I am, do you?” she asked as
she devoured a cocktail sausage.

I smiled.

“Don’t be silly, Susan,” I said. “How could
I ever forget?”

She smiled.

I confess that I remembered the white queen’s
name in the nick of time.

Although I still had only vague
recollections of the lady, I certainly would never forget the lunch.

I had just had my first book published and
the critics on both sides of the Atlantic had been complimentary, even if the
cheques from my publishers were less so. My agent had told me on several
occasions that I shouldn’t write if I wanted to make money. This created a
dilemma because I couldn’t see how to make money if I didn’t write.

It was around this time that the lady, who
was now facing me and chattering on oblivious to my silence, telephoned from
New York to heap lavish praise on my novel. There is no writer who does not enjoy
receiving such calls, although I confess to having been less than captivated by
an elevenyear-old girl who called me collect from California to say she had
found a spelling mistake on page forty-seven and warned me she would ring again
if she discovered another.

However, this particular lady might have
ended her transit Tic Lit - atlantic congratulations with nothing more than
goodbye if she had not dropped her own name. It was one of those names that
can, on the spur of the moment, always book a table at a chic restaurant or a
seat at the opera which mere mortals like myself would have found impossible to
achieve given a month’s notice. To be fair, it was her husband’s name that had
achieved the reputation, as one of the world’s most distinguished film
producers.

“When I’m next in London you must have lunch
with me,” came crackling down the phone.

“No,” said I gallantly, “you must have lunch
with me.”

“How perfectly charming you English always
are,” she said.

I have often wondered how much American women
get away with when they say those few words to an Englishman.

Nevertheless, the wife of an Oscar-winning
producer does not phone one every day.

“I promise to call you when I’m next in
London,” she said.

And indeed she did, for almost six months to
the day she telephoned again, this time from the Connaught Hotel to declare how
much she was looking forward to our meeting.

“Where would you like to have lunch?”

I said, realising a second too late, when
she replied with the name of one of the most exclusive restaurants in town,
that I should have made sure it was I who chose the venue. I was glad she
couldn’t see my forlorn face as she added with unabashed liberation:

“Monday, one o’clock. Leave the booking to
me- I’m known there.”

On the day in question I donned my one
respectable suit, a new shirt which I had been saving for a special occasion
since Christmas, and the only tie that looked as if it hadn’t previously been
used to hold up my trousers. I then strolled over to my bank and asked for a
statement of my current account. The teller handed me a long piece of paper
unworthy of its amount. I studied the figure as one who has to take a major
financial decision. The bottom line stated in black lettering that I was in
credit to the sum of thirty-seven pounds and sixty-three pence. I wrote out a
cheque for thirty-seven pounds. I feel that a gentleman should always leave his
account in credit, and I might add it was a belief that my bank manager shared
with me. I then walked up to Mayfair for my luncheon date.

As I entered the restaurant I observed too
many waiters and plush seats for my liking. You can’t eat either, but you can
be charged for them. At a corner table for two sat a woman who, although not
young, was elegant. She wore a blouse of powder blue crepe-de-chine, and her
blonde hair was rolled away from her face in a style that reminded me of the
war years, and had once again become fashionable. It was clearly my transatlantic
admirer, and she greeted me in the same “I’ve known you all my life” fashion as
she was to do at the Literary Guild cocktail party years later. Although she
had a drink in front of her I didn’t order an aperitif, explaining that I never
drank before lunch – and would like to have added, “but as soon as your husband
makes a film of my novel, I will.”

She launched immediately into the latest
Hollywood gossip, not so much dropping names as reciting them, while I ate my
way through the crisps from the bowl in front of me. A few minutes later a
waiter materialised by the table and presented us with two large embossed
leather menus, considerably better bound than my novel. The place positively
reeked of unnecessary expense. I opened the menu and studied the first chapter
with horror; it was eminently putdownable. I had no idea that simple food
obtained from Covent Garden that morning could cost quite so much by merely
being transported to Mayfair. I could have bought her the same dishes for a
quarter of the price at my favourite bistro, a mere one hundred yards away, and
to add to my discomfort I observed that it was one of those restaurants where
the guest’s menu made no mention of the prices. I settled down to study the
long list of French dishes which only served to remind me that I hadn’t eaten
well for over a month, a state of affairs that was about to be prolonged by a
further day.

I remembered my bank balance and morosely
reflected that I would probably have to wait until my agent sold the Icelandic
rights of my novel before I could afford a square meal again.

“What would you like?” I said gallantly.

“I always enjoy a light lunch,” she
volunteered. I sighed with premature relief, only to find that light did not
necessarily mean “inexpensive”.

She smiled sweetly up at the waiter, who
looked as if be wouldn’t be wondering where his next meal might be coming from,
and ordered just a sliver of smoked salmon, followed by two tiny tender lamb
cutlets. Then she hesitated, but only for a moment, before adding “and a side
salad”.

I studied the menu with some caution,
running my finger down the prices, not the dishes.

“I also eat lightly at lunch,” I said
mendaciously. “The chefs salad will be quite enough for me.” The waiter was
obviously affronted but left peaceably.

She chatted of Coppola and Preminger, of Al
Pacino and Robert Redford, and of Greta Garbo as if she saw her all the time.
She was kind enough to stop for a moment and ask what I was working on at
present. I would have liked to have replied – on how I was going to explain to
my wife that I only have sixty-three pence left in the bank; whereas I actually
discussed my ideas for another novel. She seemed impressed, but still made no
reference to her husband.