I’ve decided to close the gallery at the end of the week,” Richard Walker told Pat Jennings. “I know it’s short notice, but the building owner has someone who wants the space right away and will pay a bonus to get it.”
Jennings looked at him, dumbfounded. “Can you get other space yourself that fast?” she asked.
“No, I mean I’m going to close the gallery permanently. As I’m sure you’re aware, I’m too fond of horse racing for my own good. I’d like to try a complete change of scenery. I have an elderly friend who has a small but most interesting gallery in London, and he’d very much like to have me go in with him.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Jennings said, trying to sound sincere. I wonder if Mama has pulled the plug on bailing him out, she thought. I wouldn’t blame her. And maybe he’s right. It would be a lot better to get away from all the bookies who supply him with all those hot tips. “What does your mother think of all this?” she asked. “I’m sure she’ll miss you.”
“Even with the Concorde gone, England is just a hop, skip, and jump away, and she has many friends there.”
Pat Jennings realized that she was going to not only miss her salary, but also the flexible hours she had here—they dovetailed perfectly with her kids’ school schedule. And it had been fun to see Trish regularly, to say nothing about having a seat on the fifty yard line of the Carrington family saga.
She decided to go for one more tidbit before it was too late. “How is Mrs. Peter Carrington doing?” she asked Richard, trying to sound concerned but not overly interested.
“How nice of you to ask! I haven’t seen Kay in several weeks, but my mother tells me they’ve been in close touch, and we’ll be having dinner together before I leave for England.”
With a dismissive smile, as if he realized he was being pumped for information, Richard Walker turned to go into his private office. The phone rang. When Pat Jennings answered it, an angry voice snapped, “This is Alexandra Lloyd. Is Richard there?”
Without even asking, Pat knew the answer to give, only this time, she made it more elaborate. “Mr. Walker is on his way to London, Ms. Lloyd. May I take a message?”
“Oh, indeed you can. Tell Mr. Walker that I am very disappointed in him, and he knows what I mean.”
This is one message I don’t want to give him, Pat thought. I had believed all along that this lady with the fancy name was an artist. Now I’m beginning to think she’s a bookie.
It was three o’clock, time to get uptown and pick up the kids. Richard’s door was closed, but she could hear the murmur of his voice, which meant he was on the phone. Pat wrote out Alexandra Lloyd’s message word for word, and, not happy with the way it looked on paper, tapped on Richard’s door, walked in, and placed it on the desk in front of him.
Then, with the haste of someone who knows that a firecracker might explode at her feet at any moment, she grabbed her coat and left.