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‘A Rembrandt?’ she squeals, delighted. ‘Good Lord. What would your father make of this super career you’re carving out?’
I swallow down my laugh. He’d turn in his grave, that’s what he’d do.
‘I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’ I land in Becker’s office and shut the door behind me. ‘I really need to go.’
‘Okay, darling. I’ll call you next week.’
I hang up and spend a few moments marvelling and appreciating how bright she sounded. ‘Tickets,’ I say, quickly pulling up Google on my phone. I order a return ticket for the week after next and send it to the printer, rushing to the double pedestal masterpiece desk. The printer doesn’t kick in, but the screen on the printer is telling me to load a new ink cartridge. Fabulous. Ink. Where does he keep the ink? I drop into the chair and grab the brass pull of the left-hand top drawer and tug, but it doesn’t shift. It’s locked. ‘Damn,’ I mutter, trying the remaining three drawers in quick succession before moving to the other pedestal and working my way down the four drawers on that side. All locked. I growl under my breath, my eyes flitting around his office. It’ll have to wait. I need to get the showing room prepared. It’s nearly 3p.m. ‘Where are you, Hunt?’ I say to myself, getting up. My phone rings, and I glance down at the screen to see the estate agent calling. ‘Hello,’ I say as I make my way around Becker’s desk.
‘Miss Cole, Edwin Smith from Smith and Partners here.’
‘Hi, Edwin. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m late for a meeting. Can I call you back?’
‘This shouldn’t take long. I have good news for you. We have an offer on the shop.’
I come to an abrupt stop. My heart suddenly aches a little. ‘That’s great.’ I don’t sound very happy at all.
‘Full asking price, too. They’re cash buyers, so it will be a very quick and easy transaction. I assume you’ll be accepting it?’
I swallow and nod, the ache intensifying. This is it. The last scrap of my dad’s legacy will be gone. It’s bittersweet. Mum will be relieved of the financial burden, but I’ll be burdened with more guilt. I clear my throat. ‘Of course.’
‘Excellent. If you could let me know the name of your solicitor, I’ll get the deal memo drawn up. I’ll need the spare sets of keys, too, ready for handover.’
Keys. Goddamn it, the keys. ‘I’ll get it sorted, Edwin.’
We say our goodbyes and I stare down at my phone. Just do it. Get it out of the way. I pull up David’s number and dial. He answers almost immediately. ‘Elle?’
‘I didn’t get my keys back for Dad’s store.’ I get straight to the point. ‘The agent just called me. It’s sold, so they’ll need all the keys ready for completion. Would you mind dropping them into the agent on the high street when you’re passing?’
He’s silent for a second. ‘Sure.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Listen, Elle, about that night in the pub . . .’
‘Let’s not, David,’ I say, heading for the door. No rehashing today. Or any day.
‘I just wanted to apologise, that’s all. I was out of line.’
I slow to a stop again. That’s big of him to admit. ‘Okay.’
‘And for everything, actually. I’m sorry for everything.’
I smile at thin air before me. He might be sorry, but I can’t be. His betrayal led me to somewhere special. And now . . . closure. ‘That means a lot, thank you. Listen, I really must go. Thanks for the keys thing.’
‘No problem.’
I hang up and exhale, but my relaxed body soon tenses up again when my mobile sings. Becker. God, I bet he’s seething after losing the car to Brent. I get on my way, mindful I still need to get the showing room ready, and hurry to the Grand Hall as I connect the call. ‘Hi,’ I squeak, my neck shrinking into my shoulders, waiting for his fury.
‘Hey, princess.’ He surprises me with his upbeat greeting. He sounds far too chirpy for someone who has just lost to their nemesis. ‘I have a new woman in my life.’
‘What?’ I cough, coming to a stop in front of the Rembrandt. I know what that means . . . I think. A woman like Gloria?
‘We’ll need to make room in the garage,’ he goes on. ‘I can’t decide whether to get rid of the Merc or the Audi to make room for her.’
I should refrain from advising him that his quandary of which car he should get rid of has technically already been decided. He’ll see for himself when he pulls up into the factory unit. I shrink a little, but then straighten back up when the puzzle starts to click slowly together: Brent’s smugness; Becker’s chirpiness. It’s familiar. Clarity smacks me in the face like a boulder. I don’t need luck. Trust me. Oh good Greek god. He promised me no more secrets. He promised! I want to be mistaken but judging by Brent’s smug news earlier and Becker’s happy mood right now, plus the fact that I know Becker will be out for payback after the O’Keeffe theft, there can be no other explanation. Becker sounds as cheerful as he did when we left Countryscape that time, when he’d just turned Brent over for fifty-fucking-million.
I feel my way to the chair – the one that Becker fucked me on after he proposed to me this morning with a three-million-quid emerald – and collapse into it. My hand rests on my stomach to hold it, my tummy spinning. How does he think he’ll get away with this one? I don’t even know what he’s done or how he’s done it, but I’m going to bloody well find out. Just not yet. I want to look into his corrupt eyes when I hit him with my suspicions. Plus, he doesn’t know that I have cause to be suspicious, or where the cause for suspicion has come from. He doesn’t know that I’ve encountered Brent today, and I’m thinking he shouldn’t.
‘Eleanor?’ Becker says. ‘Are you there?’
‘Congratulations,’ I shriek, startling myself. I can’t be sure, but I think the sound of a bang could be Becker dropping his phone, probably as a result of being startled too.
There’re a few seconds of muffled noises down the line before he’s back. ‘Thanks,’ he says, obvious wariness lacing his tone.
‘Welcome.’ I clamp my teeth together and smile nervously at the Rembrandt. ‘The countess will be here soon. I need to get the painting over to the showing room.’
‘You’ve not done it yet?’
‘No, I . . .’ My words tail off when I remember why I’m running behind. I must not tell Becker that I bumped into Brent. Or that I’ve spoken to my ex. Not right now. Maybe never. ‘I took a call from the estate agent dealing with my father’s shop. There’s been an offer, and I’ve accepted.’ My mind is reeling, wondering what Becker’s done and how the hell he’s done it.
‘That’s great. You must be relieved.’
‘Yeah,’ I reply quietly. Great. Is it? And how the heck has he got a new woman?
‘Have you seen Gramps today?’ He cuts into my tatty mind with his question, and I’m grateful, because my brain is beginning to hurt.
‘Three million quid, Becker.’
‘Oh, I didn’t tell you that bit?’
He knows damn well he didn’t, a bit like he neglected to mention that he planned on turning over Brent again. Wasn’t fifty million enough self-satisfaction? ‘No, you didn’t.’
He chuckles, light and sweet. ‘Don’t worry, it’s insured. But don’t lose it, eh?’
Air inflates my cheeks. ‘I have work to do. I’ll see you soon.’ I’ll grill him about the car when I can look him straight in his shady face.
‘Actually,’ he says. ‘Something just came up. I have to stop by in Clapham. Can you take care of the countess yourself?’
Clapham? What’s in Clapham? I narrow an eye, suspicious. ‘Sure,’ I say slowly. ‘Where will I find the papers in case she wants to see them?’
‘In the file in the library. See you soon, princess.’
I hang up and tap my foot, trying to figure out what’s gone down
. I know how much Becker wanted that car. How’s he pulled this off? ‘What have you been up to, Saint Becker?’ I ask thin air, as I try to think. My brain begins to ache again. I haven’t got time for this, and something tells me I need it. As well as some aspirin to soothe my thumping head. I go to the library to fetch the paperwork before collecting the painting and weaving my way through the maze of Becker’s other treasures with the utmost care, peeking over the top of it as I go.
I reach the showing room and lay it gently on the floor, tuck the file in the corner, before grabbing the only easel in the room and positioning it near the back wall, perfectly centred, so when you enter the room, it’s the first thing you see. My next job is stripping down all of the protective coverings, so I start to pick and feel for an edge to peel at.
‘We have visitors.’
I look over my shoulder and find Mrs Potts’s peeking around the door. ‘Two minutes.’
She nods and backs out of the room, leaving me to continue carefully peeling away the coverings. The painting in all of its glory is revealed, and it literally takes my breath away. ‘Wow, you’re so pretty,’ I muse, my eyes skating over the oil on panel. The frame is now perfect, and the painting looks so much brighter in the flesh, polished and almost new.
A shrill laugh distracts me from my admiring, reminding me that I haven’t got time to sit here gazing at the magnificent piece of art. I jump up and place the painting on the easel, making sure it’s dead centre and secure before gently releasing it and tentatively pulling my hands away.
‘Ready, dear?’ Mrs Potts is back.
I give a sharp nod, feeling unreasonably nervous, and hold up the protective sheeting with a questioning face. Mrs Potts puts her hand out, and I rush over to give her the rubbish. ‘Thank you,’ I say, brushing down my dress and moving back a few steps.
‘Good afternoon.’
The greeting makes my head snap up and my back snap into shape. The accent told me what I would be faced with before I got a chance to look, so I don’t know why I’m surprised when I find a woman in fur. It’s everywhere, in the form of a hat on her head, a stole over her shoulders, the cuffs of her suede gloves, and the trim of her leather riding boots. She’s tight-jawed and looking me up and down.
‘Where’s Becker?’ she asks, sniffing back her obvious disappointment to find me here instead.
I need to nail this. Grin and bear it. So I do. I slap a ridiculous smile on my face. ‘He’s tied up.’ I didn’t mean to say that.
She looks at me, her painted on eyebrows forming high arches. ‘Tied up, you say?’
She’s imagining that. Becker tied up. She must be sixty. A looker, even if she has a stick up her arse. ‘You’ll be dealing with me today.’ I sweep out my arm, gesturing to the painting. ‘Petronella Buys, Wife of Philips Lucasz.’ Just talk about the painting. I can do that. ‘Are you familiar with Rembrandt, madam?’ I ask, smiling at the painting fondly.
‘Of course.’ She sniffs, unimpressed and maybe a little insulted. I keep my smile in place as she wanders into the room, cocking her head from side-to-side, studying the painting. ‘It’s not as spectacular in the flesh as I anticipated,’ she says, and I only just swallow down my surprise before it leaps from my mouth. It’s fucking stunning, the ignorant cow. I already didn’t like her. Now I positively loathe her. I watch her scanning the art, her lips twisting. ‘What do you think, sweetie?’
Sweetie? I frown. That’s a bit familiar. ‘Well, I think it’s beaut—’ I choke to a stop when someone appears in the doorway of the showing room.
‘I think it’s average, Auntie.’ Alexa nails me in place with a look that could turn steel to ashes as she sashays into the room. Oh . . . good . . . Greek . . . god. My eyes follow her every step, my scowl rivalling hers. It takes every teeny tiny piece of my self-control, but I manage to stay on this side of the room, as oppose to throwing myself across it and wiping that smug smirk from her face.
Auntie? Oh my days. ‘Excuse me for a moment.’ I rip my death glare away from Alexa and dart out of the room, leaving the countess and her niece – her fucking niece – in the showing room alone. I’m guessing this is not part of the showing protocol, and Becker won’t be best pleased if he finds out I’ve left his treasure unattended, but this is an emergency. I can’t be trusted in that room with that woman.
I dial him and look through the door, seeing the countess and Alexa standing in front of the painting.
‘Princess.’ He still sounds chirpy. Not for long.
I swing around, hunching over a little, like making myself smaller will reduce the risk of being heard by them. ‘Don’t princess me. The countess has brought a relative along.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh?’ What does he mean, oh?
‘I feared she might.’
I gasp. The bastard. ‘You knowingly put me in this position?’
‘It’s a massive sale, princess. If you can pull this off, you can pull anything off.’ Is he testing me again? ‘Anyway, she’s less likely to pounce on you than she is me.’
‘Which one?’ I ask, checking over my shoulder. ‘Auntie or niece?’ They’re still looking at the splendid painting.
‘Both.’
I cringe and force myself to ask the question that keeps molesting my mind. ‘Becker, tell me you haven’t . . . with . . .’
‘I haven’t, though she’s tried plenty.’
I grimace, looking up to the heavens. I bet she has, and I bet she scared Becker to death. It’s quite a feat. ‘You wanker.’
‘Now, now, princess. Let’s not get personal.’
‘Fuck you, Hunt. You knew damn well Alexa would be here.’
‘Sell the painting, Eleanor. Not a penny under thirty million. Make me proud.’ He hangs up, and I close my eyes, calling on all of my willpower. Sell the painting. Just sell that painting for a cool thirty million and kick her out of here. Just not literally. Escort her out. Or better still, call Mrs Potts to show her the way, because putting myself in a dark alleyway with that woman could be fatal.
My head drops back in mental exhaustion at the thought of being professional and courteous. Never a dull fucking moment. The phrase ‘the things you do for love’ is being tested to the limit here. ‘You’re a bastard, Becker Hunt.’ But I’ll show him.
Filling my lungs with plenty of air, I whisper encouraging words to myself as I wander back into the showing room. Both women turn to me when they hear my steps, and both sets of eyes narrow to evil slits as they follow my path to the foot of the painting.
I remember Becker’s approach to showing a piece. He stood back silently and let the work speak for itself, let the client silently study it, but the atmosphere is too heavy to do that. Plus, I expect the only thing in this room they’ll study is me. So I adopt a different approach. ‘Oil on panel,’ I begin, searching deep and shifting everything I know about Rembrandt and this painting to the front of my mind. ‘Amazingly preserved, and I think you’ll agree it’s stunning in the flesh.’ I ghost a finger delicately over the frame. ‘Dated 1635, and until now its whereabouts was unknown.’
‘And where was it?’ The countess asks, throwing a spanner in my works. That’s the only thing I don’t know, damn it.
I smile tightly, ignoring Alexa’s amused smile. ‘Lost in history,’ I reply coolly and finally.
‘The paperwork? Certification?’
‘All present,’ I say, glancing over to the file in the corner. I take a few steps back, giving them space, and also because being too close to Alexa is giving me hives. ‘I believe Mr Hunt sent the papers to the National.’ What am I doing? ‘I’ll ensure you have access to them once they’ve been returned.’
Her head whips to mine. ‘The National?’
I smile on the inside. ‘The National Gallery,’ I confirm, for no other reason than relishing in making her hear it again. ‘They have the companion p
ortrait of Philips Lucasz. They’re keen to have the two pieces back together.’
Urgency springs into her eyes. ‘Price?’ she demands.
I join my hands in front of me, remaining calm and collected. ‘Thirty-five.’ I reel off my price confidently, keeping a perfectly straight face, even when her eyes slightly widen. She wants this painting, and not even the National will stop her.
‘Thirty,’ she counters, slipping some glasses on and leaning towards the painting, her eyes travelling across the oils slowly.
‘Thirty-five, Lady Finsbury,’ I affirm, glancing at Alexa. She’s silent, watching me in action. I expect she knows fuck all about art, which begs the question why she’s here. Becker. Becker is why she’s here, and she can’t hide her disappointment that he’s not. My lips tip into a satisfied smile.
‘Thirty-two,’ the countess counters.
‘The price is thirty-five, Lady Finsbury.’
‘Fine,’ she barks, striding towards me. ‘I want to see the paperwork. In person.’ She looks me up and down, and I take it all. I know what’s coming next. ‘And I want Becker to show me it.’
Of course she does. ‘I’m sure that won’t be a problem.’ I’m being sickly sweet and it’s killing me, but I’ve done my job. More than my job.
‘Very well.’ She arranges her fur stole over her shoulders and wanders out, and I catch Mrs Potts through the glass looking busy, but she still manages to chuck me a reassuring smile. I smile right back, satisfied and proud for maintaining my professionalism, despite dealing with two very tricky customers.
But my smile soon falls away when my skin becomes irritated again, and I turn and find Alexa giving me evils. ‘My aunt wants to deal with Becker in future, not his skivvy.’ She saunters past me, slipping her oversized sunglasses on, and my body turns slowly to follow, my lip curling in contempt.
‘I’ll put forward your request when I see him in bed tonight.’
She stops, turning to face me.
‘Pillow talk,’ I go on, seeing her stiffening before my eyes when I give a casual flash of my ring. I take the few steps that bring me close to her, then lean up on my tiptoes so I can speak into her ear, forcing myself to tolerate our closeness. ‘He loves it when I talk dirty to him.’ I carry on past her. ‘Mrs Potts will show you out.’