"We have to be top of mind in the antiques business, right? The first store that people think of when they're in the market for furniture and design," Clive said, stepping over the cat. It was a statement, not a question. Clive had recently taken a week-long marketing course, attendance at which apparently entitled him to liberally pepper his every utterance with terms like "top of mind," "extending our reach," and "market niche." Any moment now, he'd be calling our business a strategic alliance.
"So I have a great idea." He paused for effect. "Wait for it, Lara," he said, a devilish grin on his face. I waited.
"Antiques tour!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "Brilliant idea, isn't it? One of my best. We do a couple of promotional evenings--in the store, of course: a little cheese, a little wine to loosen things up, a little time to look around and perhaps to buy. We get some free publicity for the tour, and therefore the shop, in the travel rags. In no time flat, we get a group together. Price of the tour includes a couple of lectures before they go about what they'll see, in the shop again--another chance for them to make obscenely large purchases--then a week or ten days somewhere interesting with an expert along--that's you--to help them make their selections, and to ship the big stuff home. Nothing too ostentatious, of course, but unusual and quietly elegant. Loads of charm, just like us. Trip of a lifetime. What do you think?"
"I guess it's not the worst idea you ever had, Clive," I conceded.
"I knew you'd love it," he said. "You see the beauty of it, don't you? The price of the tour includes all your expenses. You do some buying while you're there, and the trip costs us nothing. If people buy a lot of stuff, we might even get a container paid for out of it. Great isn't it?"
"Where?" I asked. It was useless to protest. "How about London? Portobello, Camden Passage, the Silver Vaults? A visit to the furniture galleries at the Victoria and Albert so they start to develop an eye for what's really good. Maybe take in some theater while we're there? Tea with scones and cream and strawberry jam served from a trolley in some elegant courtyard." I was beginning to warm to this idea.
"Too dull," he replied, with a dismissive wave.
"Okay then, France. Paris first. A charming Left Bank hotel, a sweep of les marchés aux puces, the flea markets at Clignancourt and Montreuil. Great wine, good food, magnificent art. An afternoon sipping pastis in Place des Vosges. Then we could take a few days and go to Provence. Stay in town, Avignon perhaps, or maybe even a farmhouse . . ."
"Too French," he interrupted, unburdened as he is with even the remotest concept of political correctness.
I sighed. "How about Rome? That would work, wouldn't it? A cappuccino in the Piazza Navonna, then a leisurely stroll through the antiques shops right around there, with a little diversion to the market in the Campo dei Fiori, then a side trip to Florence, the Uffizi . . ."
"Too common," he sniffed.
Rome? Common? He took me by the arm and led me into the office where we keep a map of the world dotted with little colored pins that mark the whereabouts of our shipments. We don't need the pins, of course: We have a computer to do our tracking now, but we like the look of it a lot. At least I do.
"We need something more exotic," he said. "Somewhere everybody else isn't going. The way to be successful in this business of ours is not to spot the latest trends; it's to start them. That's a good line, isn't it? I'll have to use it again." His hand waved over the surface of the map, index finger pausing for a second or two over Afghanistan, then sweeping on to Libya.
"Too dangerous," I said firmly.
"There!" he exclaimed, tapping his finger on the north coast of Africa. "Of course. The medina and souks of Tunis, the mosaics at the Bardo, a little time wandering the ruins of Carthage, a visit to the mosque at Kairouan, the ancient Roman cities in the desert--what are they called? Thuburbo Majus, Dougga, I think. You remember what that was like." I tried to look vague. "You do remember," he said leering at me. "Moonlight on the water, the garden of the hotel, you in my arms."
Of course I remembered. Tunisia was where Clive and I spent our honeymoon, nigh on twenty years ago. And I suppose the souks and mosques and ruins and moonlight were lovely. What I remember most about that trip, however, was the realization that I had made a mistake, although it took me something like twelve years to do anything about it. The question was, did I want to go back there, with Clive or without him?
"Think blue and white everywhere," Clive was saying, as I returned to the present, "tiles with that North African look, those charming wire birdcages, useless maybe, but they look wonderful and people love them, copper, maybe one or two of those splendid box beds with all the carving. We could do up the back showroom in a come-with-me-to-the-casbah look. People would lap it up. And carpets. We need lots more carpets, and as you say, Pakistan and Afghanistan are a bit dicey these days. Beautiful," he said. "Don't you agree?"
I nodded. "Beautiful," I said, shrugging in Alex's general direction. I figured it would never happen. Clive's enthusiasm would wane as quickly as it usually did, and he'd be on to something else. Even if it did come about, there were things to be said for it. We were always on the lookout for new merchandise for the store, that was true, and, speaking personally, a week or two away from Clive and his brilliant ideas would be just fine with me. I had to admit that it really wasn't the worst idea in the world.
"I DON'T USUALLY take tours," the thin, elegant woman was saying to her companion, in a tone that implied this kind of travel was far beneath her. "When my husband was alive, he always took me on his business trips abroad, first class, of course. I've never traveled economy. But since he passed away . . ."
"Don't you worry, honey," her companion said, patting her hand, and completely misinterpreting the other woman's words. "I'll keep my eye on you. I take at least two trips every year now, since Arthur passed on. He hated to travel, so now I'm making up for lost time--with his money." She chuckled gleefully. "Now, what did your husband do, Catherine? It is Catherine, isn't it? Can I call you Cathy?" Catherine looked horrified.
Susie Windermere, group busybody, I thought, checking her off my list, and Catherine Anderson, group snob. The two women couldn't have been more unlike, the one with outlandishly dyed red hair, dressed in a long T-shirt that did its best to hide her pendulous breasts and little potbelly, her legs, clad in green and pink tights, surprisingly thin, making her look like a plump little bird on spindly legs; the other rather well turned out in a quietly expensive pantsuit, and just loaded with jewelry. She wore a gold watch laced with diamonds, an impressively heavy gold chain around her neck, and pear-shaped diamond earrings that were probably worth a fortune.
"Mrs. Anderson," I said joining them. We were not yet on a first-name basis, most of us, and with Catherine Anderson, quite possibly never would be. And for certain it would never be "Cathy." "Perhaps you missed my advice not to bring expensive jewelry on the trip. It can be a magnet, I'm afraid, for thieves."