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fragrances. I think it was the best omelette I’d ever made.
    Then I got out the calendar. November 1—a good day for my new life to begin. I would give my notice on December 1, and leave at the end of the year.
    At six o’clock, I got into the shower and by seven, my hair was dried and pulled into a knot, my makeup applied. I stepped into a black Chanel suit, sheer stockings, low-heeled pumps, and a triple string of pearls. I looked simple and elegant. And respectful. After all, I was about to find out, officially, that I had a funeral to arrange.

S  I  X
     
    two weeks later
     
    “We wish you luck, Mr. Brace,” Mr. Radcliffe said, getting to his feet. He was as tall as a stork. “But we’ve decided to accept Sotheby’s offer.”
    “May I ask why?” Owen concealed his surprise well. This was his first opportunity to try to close a major piece of business for the house. He’d assumed that the highly prized and pursued Radcliffe Collection would fall into his lap based sheerly on his personal celebrity. “Would you like to discuss the commission further? I’m willing to negotiate.”
    “No, no. Both houses have made identical offers, and I know there’s negotiating room.”
    “Is it the publicity package? Do you think it should be increased?” Color had crept up Mr. Radcliffe’s neck, and his wife’s lips were so tightly clamped, they had almost disappeared into her mouth. “Please tell me, sir,” Owen pressed, “so I don’t make the same mistake again.”
    “All right, young man, I will tell you because you’ve asked me. The fact is, I’m sorry to say, I just can’t relate to a man who wears as much jewelry as you do. We wish you good day.” With that, the Radcliffes left.
    Whoa. The words were almost incomprehensible to a man whose fortune had been built on high fashion, to whom the concept of less-is-more was impossible to grasp. At Brace International, understatement was practically a firing offense. And suddenly, wham, a cold fish right in the face from a member of that upper-class club Owen was so anxious to join. One succinctly cutting phrase forced Owen to acknowledge that his flashy hundred-thousand-dollar, multi–time zone, calendar watch and the Boucheron gold-and-diamond cuff links had just cost the house several million dollars in commissions. Dollars he desperately needed.
    I felt sorry for him. A flush of embarrassment darkened his face and reddened his eyes, which, as best as I could tell, were as close to indigo as eyes can get.
    I closed the office door. “If I may, sir,” I ventured.
    “What is it, Kick?”
    “Well”—I sought to be tactful—“in the auction business, appearances are everything.”
    “Appearances are everything in every business. What’s your point?”
    I persevered. I had nothing to lose. “There are a few realities you need to hear if you’re going to get anywhere . . .”
    Why did I care if he got anywhere? Well, there was just something about him that intrigued me, in spite of his harsh bullyboy manner, rough edges, and absence of Golden Rule ethics. Or maybe it was because of those things. I’d never met anyone like him in my life.
    I couldn’t wait for the next installment in the daily soap opera of his fourteen-month-long marriage to movie star Tina Romero, and the way she bamboozled him, as only a twenty-two-year-old, Puerto Rican, sexpot bombshell can bamboozle a fifty-four-year-old man. She was a tempestuous, spoiled, completely immature, stacked, keg of nitroglycerin. A glamour-puss with a Charo-type accent who would sweep into the office, unannounced, dressed in clothes that could only be described as “missing,” or “transparent,” or “extreme.” These were the kind of clothes that were held in place with double-stick tape. Surefire, front-page attire for an international movie star at the Academy Awards or the Cannes Film Festival, but not the sort of image an auction house seeking its survival ought to present to