Free The Modigliani Scandal by Ken Follett

It was wrong that she should be able to change the course of a young girl′s life with such a small gesture. The money it would cost would be negligible—and probably tax-deductible, she realized suddenly. It made no difference. What she had told Anita was true. Samantha could quite easily have lived in a stately home in Surrey, or a villa in the South of France: she spent virtually nothing of her vast earnings. Anita was the only full-time servant she had ever employed. She lived in this modest house in Islington. She had no car, no yacht. She owned no land, oil paintings or antiques.
    Her thoughts turned to the man who had called last night—what was his name? Julian Black. He had been a bit of a disappointment. In theory, anyone who called on her on the hop had to be interesting: for everyone assumed they would have to pass through a battery of security guards to get at her, and the duller sort of visitor never bothered to try.
    Julian had been pleasant enough, and fascinating on his own subject, which was art. But it had not taken Samantha long to find out that he was unhappy with his wife and worried about money; and those two things seemed to sum up his character. She had made it clear she did not want to be seduced by him, and he had made no advances. They had enjoyed a couple of drinks and he had left.
    She could have solved his problems as easily as she had solved Anita′s. Perhaps she ought to have offered him money. He didn′t seem to be asking for it, but it was clear he needed it.
    Perhaps she ought to patronize artists. But the art world was such a pretentious upper-class scene. Money was spent with no clear idea of its value to real people: people like Anita and her family. No, art was not the solution to Samantha′s dilemma.
    There was a ring at the door. She looked out of the window. The taxi was outside. She picked up her script and went down.
    She sat back in the comfortable seat of the black cab and flipped through the script she was going to discuss with her agent and a film producer. It was called Thirteenth Night, which would not sell any cinema tickets: but that was a detail. It was a reworking of Shakespeare′s Truelfth Night, but without the original dialogue. The plot made much of the homosexual innuendoes in the play. Orsino was made to fall in love with Cesario before the revelation that Cesario was a woman in man′s clothes; and Olivia was a latent lesbian. Samantha would be cast as Viola, of course.
    The taxi stopped outside the Wardour Street office and Samantha got out, leaving the commissionaire to pay the driver. Doors were opened for her as she swept into the building, playing the role of a film star. Joe Davies, her agent, met her and ushered her into his office. She sat down and relaxed her public façade.
    Joe closed the door. ″Sammy, I want you to meet Willy Ruskin.″
    The tall man who had stood up as Samantha entered now offered his hand. ″It′s a real pleasure, Miss Winacre,″ he said.
    The two men were such opposites it was almost comical. Joe was short, overweight, and bald; Ruskin was tall, with thick dark hair over his ears, spectacles, and a pleasant American accent.
    The men sat down and Joe lit a cigar. Ruskin of fered Samantha a cigarette out of a slim case; she declined.
    Joe began: ″Sammy, I′ve explained to Willy here that we haven′t come to a decision on the script yet; we′re still kicking it around.″
    Ruskin nodded. ″I thought it would be nice for us to meet anyway. We can talk about any shortcomings you might think the script has. And I′d naturally like to hear any ideas of your own.″
    Samantha nodded, collecting her thoughts. ″I′m interested,″ she said. ″It′s a good idea, and the film is well-written. I found it quite funny. Why did you leave the songs out?″
    ″The language is wrong for the kind of film we have in mind,″ Ruskin replied.
    ″Right. But you could write some new ones, and get a good rock composer to write