She stepped inside the gallery and found herself in a large, empty room, surrounded by Muriel Pemberton's watercolours.

"Can I help you?" asked a young woman who was sitting behind a desk near the window.

"No, thank you," Sally replied. "I was just looking." The girl eyed Sally's canvas folder, but said nothing. Sally decided she would do one circuit of the room, and then make good her escape.

She began to circle the gallery, studying the pictures carefully.

They were good, very good - but Sally believed she could do just as well, given time. She would have liked to see Muriel Pemberton's work when she was her age.

When Sally reached the far end of the gallery, she became aware of an office in which a short, balding man, wearing an old tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, was closely examining a picture. He looked about the same age as her father. Also studying the picture was another man, who caused Sally to stop in her tracks. He must have been a little over six foot, with those dark Italian looks thatpeople normally only come across in glossy magazines; and he was old enough to be her brother.

Was he Mr. Bouchier? she wondered. She hoped so, because if he owned the gallery she might be able to summon up the courage to introduce herself to him, once the little man in the scruffy jacket had left. At that moment the young man looked up and gave her a huge grin.

Sally turned quickly away and began to study the pictures on the far wall.

She was wondering if it was worth hanging around any longer when the two men suddenly strolled out of the office and began walking towards the door.

She froze, pretending to concentrate on a portrait of a young girl in pastel blues and yellows, a picture that had a Matisse-like quality about it.

"What's in there?" asked a cheeky voice. Sally turned round and came face to face with the two men. The smaller one was pointing at her canvas bag.

"Just a few pictures," Sally stammered. Tm an artist."

"Let's have a look," said the man, 'and perhaps I can decide if you're an artist or not." Sally hesitated.

"Come on, come on," he teased. "I haven't got all day. Asyou can see, I have an important client to take to lunch," he added, indicating the tall, well-dressed young man, who still hadn't spoken.

"Oh, are you Mr. Bouchier?" she asked, unable to hide her disappointment.

"Yes. Now, am I going to be allowed to look at your pictures or not?" Sally quickly unzipped her canvas bag and laid out the six paintings on the floor. Both of the men bent down and studied them for some time before either offered an opinion.

"Not bad," said Bouchier eventually. "Not bad at all.

Leave them with me for a few days, and then let's meet again next week." He paused. "Say Monday, .3o. And if you have any more examples of your recent work, bring them with you." Sally was speechless.

"Can't see you before Monday," he continued, 'because the RA's Summer Exhibition opens tomorrow. So for the next few days I won't have a moment to spare. Now, if you'll excuse me ... ' The younger man was still examining Sally's pictures closely.

At last he looked up at her. "I'd like to buy the one of the interior with the black cat on the windowsill. How much is it?"

"Well," said Sally, "I'm not sure ... '

"N.F.S' said Mr. Bouchier firmly, guiding his client towards the door.

"By the way," the taller man said, turning back, "I am AntonioFlavelli. My friends call me Tony." But Mr. Bouchier was already pushing him out onto the street.

Sally returned home that afternoon with an empty canvas folder, and was prepared to admit to her parents that a London dealer had shown an interest in her work. But it was, she insisted, no more than an interest.

The following morning Sally decided to go to the opening day of the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition, which would give her the chance to find out just how good her rivals were. For over an hour she stood in the long queue that stretched from the front door, right across the carpark and out onto the pavement. When she eventually reached the top of the wide staircase, she wished she was six feet six tall, so that she could see over the tops of the heads of the ma.s.s of people who were crowding every room.

After a couple of hours strolling round the many galleries, Sally was confident that she was already good enough to enter a couple of her pictures for next year's exhibition.

She stopped to admire a Craigie Aitchison of Christ on the cross, and checked in her little blue catalogue to find out the price: ten thousand pounds, more than she could hope to earn if she were to sell every one of her canvases. Suddenly her concentration was broken, as a soft Italian voice behind her said, "h.e.l.lo, Sally." She swung round tofind Tony Flavelli smiling down at her.

"Mr. Flavelli," she said.

"Tony, please. You like Craigie Aitchison ?"

"He's superb," Sally replied. "I know his work well - I had the privilege of being taught by him when I was at the Slade."

"I can remember, not so long ago, when you could pick up an Aitchison for two, three hundred pounds at the most. Perhaps the same thing will happen to you one day.

Have you seen anything else you think I ought to look at ?" Sally was flattered to have her advice sought by a serious collector, and said, "Yes, I think the sculpture of "Books on a Chair" by Julie Major is very striking. She has talent, and I'm sure she has a future."

"So do you,'

said Tony.

"Do you think so?" asked Sally.

"It's not important what I think," said Tony. "But Simon Bouchier is convinced."

"Are you teasing me?" asked Sally.

"No, I'm not, as you'll find out for yourself when you see him next Monday. He talked of little else over lunch yesterday - "The daring brushwork, the unusual use of colour, the originality of ideas."

I thought he was never going to stop. Still, he's promised I can have"The Sleeping Cat that Never Moved" once you've both settled on a price." Sally was speechless.

"Good luck," Tony said, turning to leave. "Not that !

think you need it." He hesitated for a moment before swinging back to face her. "By the way, are you going to the Hockney exhibition?"

"I didn't even know there was one," Sally confessed.

"There's a private view this evening. Six to eight."

Looking straight into her eyes he said, "Would you like to join me ?" She hesaated, but only for a moment. "That would be nice. '

"Good, then why don't we meet in the Ritz Palm Court at 6.3o." Before Sally could tell him that she didn't know where the Ritz was, let alone its Palm Court, the tall, elegant man had disappeared into the crowd.

Sally suddenly felt gauche and scruffy, but then, she hadn't dressed that morning with the Ritz in mind. She looked at her watch - 12.45 - and began to wonder if she had enough time to return home, change, and be back at the Ritz by 6.30.

She decided that she didn't have much choice, as she doubted if they would let her into such a grand hotel dressed in jeans and a T-shirt of Munch's "The Scream'. She ran down the wide staircase, out onto Piccadilly, and all the way to the nearest tube station.

When she arrived back home in Sevenoaks - far earlier than hermother had expected - she rushed into the kitchen and explained that she would be going out again shortly.

"Was the Summer Exhibition any good?" her mother asked.

"Not bad," Sally replied as she ran upstairs. But once she was out of earshot she muttered under her breath, "Certainly didn't see a lot that worried me."

"Will you be in for supper?" asked her mother, sticking her head out from behind the kitchen door.

"I don't think so," shouted Sally. She disappeared into her bedroom and began flinging off her clothes before heading for the bathroom.

She crept back downstairs an hour later, having tried on and rejected several outfits. She checked her dress in the hall mirror - a little too short, perhaps, but at least it showed her legs to best advantage. She could still remember those art students who during life cla.s.ses had spent more time staring at her legs than at the model they were supposed to be drawing. She only hoped Tony would be similarly captivated.

"Bye, Mum," she shouted, and quickly closed the door behind her before her mother could see what she was wearing.

Sally took the next train back to Charing Cross. She stepped on to the platform unwilling to admit to any pa.s.ser-by that she had no idea where the Ritz was, so she hailed a taxi, praying shecould get to the hotel for four pounds, because that was all she had on her. Her eyes remained fixed on the meter as it clicked past two pounds, and then three - far too quickly, she thought - three pounds twenty, forty, sixty, eighty ... She was just about to ask the cabbie to stop, so she could jump out and walk the rest of the way, when he drew in to the kerb.

The door was immediately opened by a statuesque man dressed in a heavy blue trenchcoat who raised his top hat to her. Sally handed over her four pounds to the cabbie, feeling guilty about the measly twenty pence tip. She ran up the steps, through the revolving door and into the hotel foyer. She checked her watch: 6.20. She decided she had better go back outside, walk slowly around the block, and return a little later. But just as she reached the door, an elegant man in a long black coat approached her and asked, "Can I help you, madam?"

"I'm meeting Mr. Tony Flavelli," Sally stammered, hoping he would recognise the name.

"Mr. Flavelli. Of course, madam. Allow me to show you to his table in the Palm Court." She followed the black-coated man down the wide, deeply carpeted corridor, then up three steps to a large open area full of small circular tables, almost all of which were occupied.Sally was directed to a table at the side, and once she was seated a waiter asked, "Can I get you something to drink, madam?

A gla.s.s of champagne, perhaps?"

"Oh, no," said Sally. "A c.o.ke will be just fine.'

The waiter bowed and left her. Sally gazed nervously around the beautifully furnished room. Everyone seemed so relaxed and sophisticated. The waiter returned a few moments later and placed a fine cut-gla.s.s tumbler with Coca-Cola, ice and lemon in front of her.

She thanked him and began sipping her drink, checking her watch every few minutes. She pulled her dress down as far as it would go, wishing she had chosen something longer. She was becoming anxious about what would happen if Tony didn't turn up, because she didn't have any money left to pay for her drink. And then suddenly she saw him, dressed in a loose doublebreasted suit and an open-neck cream shirt. He had stopped to chat to an elegant young woman on the steps. After a couple of minutes he kissed her on the cheek, and made his way over to Sally.

"I am so sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting. I do hope I'm not late."

"No, no you're not. I arrived a few minutes early," Sally said, fl.u.s.tered, as he bent down and kissed her hand.

"What did you think of the Summer Exhibition?" he asked as the waiter appeared by his side. "Your usual, sir?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you, Michael," he replied."I enjoyed it," said Sally. "But ... ' "But you felt you could have done just as well yourself," he suggested.

"I didn't mean to imply that," she said, looking up to see if he was teasing. But the expression on his face remained serious.

"I'm sure I will enjoy the Hockney more," she added as a gla.s.s of champagne was placed on the table.

"Then I'll have to come clean," said Tony.

Sally put down her drink and stared at him, not knowing what he meant.

"There isn't a Hockney exhibition on at the moment," he said.

"Unless you want to fly to Glasgow." Sally looked puzzled.

"But you said ... ' "I just wanted an excuse to see you again."

Sally felt bemused and flattered, and was uncertain how to respond.

"I'll leave the choice to you," he said. "We could have dinner together, or you could simply take the train back to Sevenoaks."

"How did you know I live in Sevenoaks?"

"It was inscribed in big bold letters on the side of your canvas folder," said Tony with a smile.

Sally laughed. "I'll settle for dinner," she said. Tony paid for the drinks, then guided Sally out of the hotel and a fewyards down the road to a restaurant on the corner of Arlington Street.

This time Sally did try a gla.s.s of champagne, and allowed Tony to select for her from the menu. He could not have been more attentive, and seemed to know so much about so many things, even if she didn't manage to find out exactly what he did.

After Tony had called for the bill, he asked her if she would like to have coffee at 'my place'.

"I'm afraid I can't," she said, looking at her watch. "I'd miss the last train home."

"Then I'll drive you to the station. We wouldn't want you to miss the last train home, would we?" he said, scrawling his signature across the bill.

This time she knew he was teasing her, and she blushed.

When Tony dropped her off at Chafing Cross he asked, "When can I see you again?"

"I have an appointment with Mr. Bouchier at .3o ... '

^" ... next Monday morning, if I remember correctly. So why don't we have a celebration lunch together after he's signed you up? I'll come to the gallery at about 2.3o. Goodbye." He leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips.

Sitting in a cold, smelly carriage on the last train back to Sevenoaks, Sally couldn't help wondering what coffee at Tony's place might have been like.Sally walked into the gallery a few minutes before x.3o the following Monday to find Simon Bouchier kneeling on the carpet, head down, studying some paintings. They weren't hers, and she hoped he felt the same way about them as she did.

Simon looked up. "Good morning, Sally. Dreadful, aren't they?

You have to look through an awful lot of rubbish before you come across someone who shows any real talent." He rose to his feet. "Mind you, Natasha Krasnoselyodkina does have one advantage over you.'

"What's that?" asked Sally.

"She would draw the crowds for any opening."

"Why?"

"Because she claims to be a Russian countess. Hints she's a direct descendant of the last tsar. Frankly, I think the Pearly Queen is about the nearest she's been to royalty, but still, she's the "in" face at the moment - a sort of "Minah Bird" of the nineties. What did Andy Warhol say - "In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes."

By that standard, Natasha looks good for about thirty. I see this morning's tabloids are even hinting she's the new love in Prince Andrew's life.

My bet is they've never met. But if he were to turn up at the opening, we'd be packed out, that's for sure. We wouldn't sell a picture, ofcourse, but we'd be packed out."

"Why wouldn't you sell anything?'

asked Sally.

"Because the public are not that stupid when it comes to buying paintings. A picture is a large investment for most people, and they want to believe that they have a good eye, and that they've invested wisely. Natasha's pictures won't satisfy them on either count. With you, though, Sally, I'm beginning to feel they might be convinced on both. But first, let me see the rest of your portfolio."

Sally unzipped her bulging folder, and laid out twenty-one paintings on the carpet.

Simon dropped to his knees, and didn't speak again for some time.