Villiers Touch by Brian Garfield Read Free Book Online Page A

man’s company, but she couldn’t forget the things Russ had said to her. She wanted very desperately not to believe him: “It’s got to the point where you’re doling out warmth by the teaspoonful.” Words blurted in the anger of the moment, admittedly—but sometimes when she glimpsed herself in the mirror, she thought the eyes were a bit too cool, a bit glittering.
    Her friends in art and business claimed to envy her; with awe they assured her she had reached the exalted nirvana of the parlor psychologist: she was well adjusted . But adjusted to what?
    The result of a collapsed marriage was always self-pity. She had seen it often enough in others. It was, she knew, time to come out of the self-imposed period of mourning. She began to look forward to Mason Villiers’ call.
    Cynthia MacNee came batting into the office like a clumsy brunette sheepdog. It was always a surprise to view that pretty, shield-shaped face atop the ungainly hugeness of her. She wasn’t unattractive; were it not for her horsey way of moving and the absurdity of her costumes, she might have been regarded as statuesque and lovely. She had to be in constant social motion, or she would perish; her overwhelming energy and furious bounce were awe-inspiring. She said loudly, with her customary twinkling urbanity, “I know a lot about art, but I know what I like, and this season’s horse shit isn’t either one.”
    â€œStop being silly. It isn’t all that bad. In fact, quite a few of them are good.”
    â€œYou’re a Philistine. I’m the buyer around here, I’m supposed to be the expert on art, and I say that stuff would be a swindle if you peddled it at three-ninety-eight a yard. My deah, a painting is supposed to capture a feeling that will rouse you when you look at it. Even revulsion will do. But these are just nyeh .” Cynthia threw up her arms and wailed, “Where oh where are the promising young geniuses of yesteryear? I’d like to sue them all for breach of promise!”
    â€œWherever they are,” Diane answered mildly, “they’re not offering paintings to us for thirty dollars per original oil. I’m sorry these are beneath you, but let’s not forget we have fourteen offices down that corridor occupied by men and women who get paid to supply paintings and whatnot to sixty-one galleries. You’re welcome to junk the whole lot if you like, but you’ve got just two weeks left to replace it.”
    Cynthia blinked and scowled. “Quit sounding like a shop foreman. Where’s your barefoot dash?”
    It made Diane look away in discomfort. “I’m sorry. Was I being hard-boiled again?”
    â€œA little. Honey, don’t you recognize the symptoms when I start to bitch and moan like this? It’s only frustration because they haven’t invited me to be acquisitions chief at the Met. With my background, in this crass job of yours I’m slumming.”
    â€œAnd getting paid twice what you’d get at the Met.”
    â€œSee what I mean?” Cynthia demanded. “Crass!”
    Diane poked her pencil toward the big girl. “I see it now. The real trouble is, you’ve broken up with the latest boyfriend.”
    â€œCurses! Foiled again!” Cynthia cried. “Am I that transparent? You sting me to the quick!”
    â€œIt happens every other week.” Diane smiled with half her mouth. “I’m beginning to recognize the signs. Who was it this time, young Ted Raine?”
    â€œHow did you know?”
    â€œYou’ve bought too many God-awful paintings of his.”
    Cynthia’s face fell. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I usually don’t let that kind of thing interfere with my judgment. It won’t happen again—were they really God-awful?”
    â€œPretty bad. How’d you manage to get rid of him? Insult his mother?”
    â€œNo, that was the last