Sleeping With Ghosts. Lynne Pemberton

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      Joanne fished the offending letter out of the bin, and began to unfold it. ‘We may need this as evidence,’ she said practically.

      ‘Did Lynda Hamilton get back to you on the Degas etchings?’ Adam asked.

      Joanne nodded. ‘Yep, she promised to call with a decision before close of play today and, before I forget, she invited you to a party next weekend at her house in Southampton. Sounds like a very smart bash.’ The last sentence was accompanied by a high-pitched whistle.

      Adam leaned against the side of a desk. The expression on his face said it all. ‘Make sure you tell her I’m busy next weekend.’

      Joanne chuckled. ‘Ms Hamilton is going to be mighty pissed, I think she wants more than your etchings.’

      ‘That’s the trouble, so do I. Lynda’s too old for me.’

      ‘Come on, Adam, she’s only a couple of years older than me, and that ain’t too old.’ The retort was hotly defensive.

      ‘Lynda Hamilton is at least ten years older than you, Joanne; she’s in her mid-fifties. She’s been under the knife several times.’

      ‘You sure?’ Joanne looked surprised, then before waiting for a reply said, ‘Well, she looks great for over fifty. Listen, if that’s what cosmetic surgery does for you, I’m going to start saving right now for my first lift.’

      ‘Don’t ever do it! All you’ll look like is an older woman who’s had surgery; it’s grotesque. Besides all that, Lynda Hamilton isn’t my type.’

      ‘Too rich, or just too available? Which is it?’

      Adam’s warm eyes twinkled with amusement. ‘You, Joanne, are just too nosey.’ He emphasized the ‘too’ while touching the end of her nose.

      Joanne blushed, dropping her eyes, raising them a moment later to watch Adam walk to his own office. He left the interconnecting door ajar and she sat down behind her desk, thinking that if she had wanted to be really pushy, she would have asked him just who was his type. Jennifer, his estranged wife? Elegant, cold, and more interested in money, and acquisitions than him. Or a certain Miss Daryl Harper, with her baby-face? Shit-face more like, Joanne thought as she pictured the archetypal spoilt playgirl, hell-bent on spending Daddy’s hard-earned cash in as short a time as possible and who, in Joanne’s opinion, was far too young, and not good enough for her boss.

      Joanne’s mind wandered back to 29th January 1985: her first day working for Adam Krantz. It had been bitterly cold, with temperatures way below zero. She would never forget the cute way he had helped her out of her coat, warming her frozen hands in his own. Nor would she, or could she, ever forget the day a year later when she had bought a valuable Cézanne that Adam had previously rejected as a fake. Wildly excited he had swept her out to the Four Seasons Restaurant, for a celebratory supper. That night outside her apartment, Adam had held her very tight and thanked her, then to her astonishment he had kissed her full on the mouth before saying goodnight. With her heart fluttering, she had stood very still watching him walk to the end of her street, where he hailed a cab. Her eyes did not move until the tail-lights were out of sight. Later with her heart still fluttering, she had fantasized about making love to Adam Krantz. And she still did, though not as often now, by shutting her eyes tightly, opening her legs, and allowing her husband to slip silently into her body.

      Adam sat down behind his desk; his palms spread flat, he moved them slowly across the smooth maple wood surface, thinking how much he loved fine things. The early nineteenth-century English antique desk gave him great pleasure, as did the breakfront bookcase – English again, but slightly earlier than the desk – and a pair of eighteenth-century French chairs. A set of Lautrec etchings and a large Pissarro landscape filled one wall and the remaining space was painted with a blue wash. When he had decorated his office two years previously Joanne had described the colour as ‘Wedgwood’, but it looked paler to Adam, more like the colour of very faded denim. The large room, pristine and sparingly furnished, was a testament to his dislike of clutter.

      Joanne jotted something down on her notepad and, without looking up, called through the open door. ‘Remember you’ve got to call Martin Beck at Sotheby’s, and Alain Turquin in Paris about the Manet.’

      Adam picked up a pencil from a selection stacked in a Tiffany silver box, a gift from his mother for his fortieth birthday last year. He jotted both names on a pad, even as Joanne’s voice drifted through once more. ‘And don’t forget you’ve got to pick Calvin up today, and whilst I’m on the subject, it’s his seventeenth birthday in two weeks.’

      Adam looked exasperated. ‘Give me a break, Joanne, I do know my only son’s birthday.’

      ‘OK, OK.’ She raised her hand as if to ward off a blow. She was tempted to remind him, that she had reminded him of all of his family occasions for the last ten years. ‘Keep your shirt on, Mr Krantz. You know me, just being efficient.’

      His tone softened. ‘I’m picking him up at four this afternoon. I’ve decided to drive myself, so I plan on leaving here around two.’

      Joanne appeared in the doorway. ‘No problem, it’s pretty quiet here on Friday afternoons usually; anyway, there isn’t much ever happens around this place that I can’t take care of.’

      Adam raised both hands. ‘What on earth would I do without you?’

      ‘Well, don’t forget I told you I need a vacation. I haven’t been away for a couple of years, and these old bones could do with a dose of sun.’

      Adam was dismissive. ‘Did nobody ever tell you too much sun is bad for the skin?’

      ‘It’s worse than not enough, and I haven’t had any.’ She planted both hands on her wide hips, and fixed what she hoped was an appealing smile on her mobile face. ‘A week in Maui, David got us a deal.’

      Adam looked up and she sensed his irritation. Her instinct was confirmed by his next announcement.

      ‘Maui sucks, ask anyone. Unfriendly natives trying to rip off unsuspecting American tourists. Anyway, it’s the rainy season, there’s no sun, you and David are better off staying in New York.’

      Joanne pulled a long face and in a plaintive voice said, ‘But I’ve always wanted to go to Maui. It’s a great deal, eighteen hundred dollars all inclusive.’

      Adam leaned back in his chair. ‘David got it cheap ’cause it’s the wrong time of year. Like I said, go in the winter.’ His tone was dismissive.

      Undeterred, Joanne persisted. ‘Come on, Adam, give me a break; hell, I’m whacked and I need a vacation. If I don’t get one, you’re not going to get the hundred and fifty per cent input I give to this business.’

      ‘When?’ Adam asked.

      ‘Next week?’ Her eyebrows rose, accompanied by a pleading expression that filled Adam with guilt. He knew he was lucky to have Joanne. She had majored in Art History, and had worked as a restorer for six years. She had a catalogue in her head of every art collector and artist from Albani to Zoffany, and could spot a forgery a mile away, but more important she tolerated his unpredictable personality with consummate patience. In truth she was his right hand and he would be lost without her. He made a mental note to book a vacation in Maui for Joanne and her husband, just as soon as this thing in the West Indies was over.

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