• • •
While the hard work was going on without him, Nat spent the afternoon at his club with Harry. They had both been members there for many years and loudly appreciated the fact that it was still possible to find a place that wasn’t overrun with women. Much as they both appreciated women, they were incredibly reactionary when it came to what they thought women could and should do. Or be seen doing. Drinking the afternoon away was not on Nat and Harry’s list of ladylike activities.
“Congratulations, old chum,” said Harry again. Considering he spent so much of his life raising glasses in a toast, he didn’t have much of a repertoire. Congratulations. Cheers. Bottoms up. That was about the extent of it. Still, Nat was very happy to be toasted, however inexpertly.
“They went to Ehrenpreis before us. Can you believe that? Still, she obviously didn’t do much of a job of it,” said Nat. “She” being Carrie Klein. “They were about ready to bite my hand off when I started to offer them terms. They know a real expert when they see one.”
“They certainly do,” said Harry. “What do you think of this claret? A little musty, I believe. I think we should upgrade. Is this on your account or mine?”
Harry called over the nearest waiter and requested a bottle of something twice as expensive as the one they were working their way through. This was how afternoons with Nat and Harry always proceeded. They started out fairly modestly. Sometimes even the house claret. But with each bottle they upped the ante, until they were drinking the kind of wines that most people save for eightieth birthday parties and wedding anniversaries, not for a Tuesday evening after work.
“So,” said Harry, “how has it been going with that Lizzy girl? I must say, Nat, after your candid camera moment in the lift, I thought you were toast. I thought, He’s done it now. He’s stuck his pecker in the wrong pie. Lizzy Duffy is going to take him down. But she didn’t,” Harry added with a slightly puzzled look on his face.
“She tried,” said Nat. “You don’t really think it was any coincidence that I got called into John’s office about those stupid Victorian watercolors again? I’m sure that won’t be the last time she pulls a stunt like that. I’ve got to get her out of my hair.”
“How are you going to do that? It’s bloody hard to sack someone these days, Nat. She could be here till she dies.”
“If that’s what it takes,” said Nat grimly.
Harry straightened up in his armchair. It wasn’t easy. The chair had cradled many distinguished bottoms over the years and had the consistency of blancmange. Once someone settled into it, they were generally there until one of the club staff tipped them out of it at closing time.
“Nat, you’re not …”
“Of course I’m not,” said Nat. “It was a figure of speech. But trust me, I am keeping a close eye on Lizzy Duffy, and I predict it won’t be long before she makes a mistake.”
Relieved that Nat wasn’t really considering murder as an answer to the Lizzy problem, Harry sank back into the warm and welcoming cushions of his wing chair and took another glug of wine.
“This is okay,” he said.
“Bloody should be,” said Nat. “It’s seven hundred pounds a bottle.”
“Yes,” said Harry, “but imagine how much you would have to pay for this retail!”
They contemplated the horror for a second or two. Harry never paid retail for wine.
“So,” said Harry, “about those fake Victorians. Do you think you’ve heard the last of that?”
Nat nodded. “Oh yes,” he said. “I don’t think there will be any more developments on that front. I’ll soon have everything sorted out.”
CHAPTER 58
A week after her late-night visit from the police, Serena still jumped out of her skin every time the doorbell rang or her mobile chirruped to let her know she had a message. She tried to convince herself that the fact that Julian hadn’t been in touch was good news. It meant either that nothing was wrong after all or that the police had tracked him down but their inquiries had not led them back in Serena’s direction. But it was tough to stay optimistic, and when she received a call from a landline she didn’t recognize—a London number—she immediately assumed the worst.
“You sound terrible,” said her old friend Jane. “Are you expecting bad news? Well, if you want some, I’ve got some. My bloody husband has been having an affair. I found three orders from the florist on his credit card bill. I’m at the Berkeley hotel. I need you here at once.”
Fortunately for Jane, it was one of those rare weekends when Tom was actually doing his fatherly duty and Serena could get away. The following day Serena traveled up to London with Katie on the train and did the handover at Paddington Station. Katie had spent much of the journey up complaining that she didn’t want to spend time with her father and his new girlfriend, so Serena was glad to see that Katie was in the end easily distracted by promises of a trip on the London Eye and lots of ice cream.
Serena took the tube to the hotel, where she found Jane lounging by the pool, a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket beside her. She was sparing no expense on her emergency therapy, and thankfully it seemed to be working.
“Is there no hope you two can patch things up?” Serena asked.
“Of course there is,” said Jane. In truth, Jane had little evidence of an affair other than the appearance of that florist on his AmEx bill, and she had yet to give him a chance to explain that away. “He’s been calling every three minutes. I’ll go home tomorrow night, but I want this little mini-break of mine to be a shot across his bows and remind him how painful it’s going to be if I ask for a divorce.”
Serena was glad to see her friend in relatively good form. She had expected a twenty-four-hour nightmare of sobbing, but Jane wasn’t having that. She didn’t want to talk about it. There was nothing to do except be pampered and read the papers. That was how Serena discovered the terrible news.
“Oh my God,” she couldn’t help but exclaim.
“What’s up?” Jane looked up from behind a copy of Vogue. “Someone you know die?”
It was far worse than that, but Serena couldn’t possibly explain that to Jane right at that moment.
“Erm, I was just looking at this picture of Cate Blanchett in Cannes. She’s as thin as a rake. Can’t believe she ever had a baby.”
Jane tutted. “Perhaps she didn’t. I heard about one Hollywood star who went around with a strap-on bump while a surrogate carried her child. Baby’s born. A week later the star’s tum is as flat as an ironing board—of course—and she’s promoting a post-baby diet book. It’s an absolute scandal. Then our bloody husbands expect us to keep up.”
“I’ve come to take you for your massage,” a fresh-faced beautician interrupted.
“See you later,” Jane said, and left Serena alone by the pool. Serena picked up the color supplement again and read the article more closely this time. It wasn’t possible. Yasha had promised this would never happen. At least not in her lifetime. But there it was in full color.
“Ludbrook’s the auctioneer has consigned a previously lost work by Ricasoli for their forthcoming old masters sale.”
Serena stared at the tiny photograph. It was too small to be 100 percent certain, but something inside her, almost a parental instinct, told her that the painting in that photo was not a Ricasoli original.
Jane emerged from her treatment looking pink and slightly breathless.
“I’ve got to go,” Serena told her. “Something urgent.”
“What? Now? What’s happened? Has something happened to Katie?”
Serena crossed her fingers behind her back as she told her big lie. “Yes. Tom’s bloody cow of a girlfriend has come down with shingles, and he doesn’t think Katie should be around her.”
“Katie’s had chicken pox, hasn’t she?” said Jane.
“Yes. I know. But I suppose that stupid bitch doesn’t want Tom’s attention to be diverted in any way. I’m going to pick Katie up and take her home. I don’t wa
nt her to be where she’s not welcome.”
Jane bristled. “Tom’s her father, Serena. You’ve got to tell him to step up and take his responsibility toward his daughter seriously. He can’t keep off-loading her like this. I swear, Serena, if I were you, I would have told him you’re staying here all week. This is the first time he’s had Katie to stay in months.”
“I know,” said Serena, looking at the floor, fearing that if she looked up Jane would see she was lying. She almost felt wicked for maligning Tom when, for once, he didn’t deserve it. But she had to get away, and she didn’t want Jane to come with her.
“I’ll come with you,” said Jane. “You and Katie can stay with me for a couple of days. Then, when Madam is feeling a little better, you can send Katie back to Tom and we’ll finish this spa break.”
“No,” said Serena. “You’ll lose what you spent on this weekend.”
“It’s not my money,” Jane reminded her with a grin.
“I really don’t want you to cut short your weekend for me.”
Jane narrowed her eyes. “You know,” she said, “if I didn’t know you better, I might think that you were hiding something from me.”
Oh God, thought Serena. Here we go. It was all going to come out. But Serena couldn’t let it come out. Much as she loved Jane, she knew that her friend was an impossibly awful gossip. She had never before managed to keep a secret on Serena’s behalf for longer than five minutes. And this was a secret that just could not be allowed to escape. Serena’s stomach lurched as she thought of the painting she had created in an attic in Italy being pored over by world-renowned art experts and put up for sale with an estimated price in the tens of millions. If it got out that the painting was a fake, then heads would roll. Literally, she had no doubt.
“Okay. I was lying about the shingles.”
“Whatever for?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why are you being so weird? Come on.” Jane gave her a friendly prod in the stomach. “You can tell me. It’s a man, isn’t it? You’re sneaking off to see a man.”
Serena found herself nodding. This was the path of least resistance. She would let Jane make all the inferences.
“You’ve been seeing someone, you sneaky cow. Why didn’t you tell me? I’m supposed to be your friend.” Jane looked thoughtful for a moment. “Oh God. It can only mean one thing. He’s married, isn’t he? Serena, tell me you’re not the girl who’s been fucking my husband?”
“Christ, no,” Serena jumped in. “Jane, I would never do that to you. But yes, it is a man. And yes, the situation is very complicated.”
“Complicated!” Jane spat. “I can’t believe you would do that to some other girl after what you and I have been through.”
Serena hung her head. Jane should have known that Serena would never, never sleep with another woman’s husband. Especially after what she had been through with Tom and bloody Donna. But right then all Serena needed was to get away, and if the only means of achieving that without having to tell Jane the whole story was to leave Jane thinking the worst of her, then Serena would do it.
“God, Serena,” Jane continued. “I would have thought you had more sense. And compassion. What did he tell you? That their marriage is dead except on paper? That they haven’t slept together in years? I hope you’re listening well, because that’s exactly what Tom said to Donna, and it’s what your new man will be saying to the next sucker about you in a few short months, if not weeks.”
“Jane,” Serena interrupted, “I can’t talk about it now. I will explain everything one day, I promise. You have to believe that I’m the person I always was and I would never do anything to betray our friendship.”
Jane harrumphed. “Whatever,” she said, dismissing Serena with a flick of her wrist.
Leaving the Berkeley hotel spa without even drying her hair, Serena jumped into a taxi and headed for Mayfair. She had to find Yasha.
Yasha wasn’t at his gallery, and the girl on the front desk was understandably reluctant to let a very wild-looking Serena know where he might be. But Serena didn’t have to look far. As she walked back out of the gallery she caught sight of him sitting outside a café a little farther down, reading the very supplement in which she had discovered his betrayal.
“My driver needs paying,” she said, slapping her copy of the newspaper down on the table in front of him.
“Serena?” Yasha was surprised. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”
“This is not a pleasure trip,” said Serena. “I’m out of cash. I would be grateful if you could pay the cabbie, and then you and I can get out of here and have a conversation.”
Yasha did as he was told.
“What is this about?”
“Middle pages.”
Yasha opened the paper. “Ah yes.”
“Is that all you’re going to say?”
“Let’s go for a walk,” he suggested, leaving a little pile of change on the table for the waitress. “I don’t think we want to be overheard, do you?”
CHAPTER 59
They walked from the café to Hyde Park. It was a beautiful afternoon, and the park was full of people eager to enjoy the sunshine. This was London after all. Any sunny day might be the last till the next year.
Yasha and Serena walked close, talking quietly so as not to be overheard. From a distance, they might have looked like lovers, but their conversation had no loving tone.
“You knew about this?”
“Of course I did,” said Yasha. “I set up the auction. And in due time I was going to let you know. I didn’t realize that Ludbrook’s would let the news slip quite so early. But why are you so worried?”
“Come on.” Serena frowned. “Because this is not the real painting.”
“Of course it is.”
“Yasha, I know. It isn’t. I just know.”
“What? You think that Ludbrook’s would consign a fake?”
“I know that Ludbrook’s would consign a fake! And so do you.”
“Not at this level. Or do you think my client would try to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes by giving Ludbrook’s the fake once they’d consigned the real thing?”
“That’s what it looks like to me. You can’t let it happen,” said Serena.
“So what if it isn’t the real thing? What am I supposed to do?”
“Tell someone. If you don’t, I’m going to go to the police.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because they’ll find out. And it will get back to me. I’ll tell them that I was coerced.”
“But how would it ever be traced back to you?” Yasha asked. “I promised you I would keep you safe from any repercussions, and I will. Don’t go to the police. You have no idea who you’re up against, and everyone says they were coerced. You’ll go to jail, my darling.”
“Don’t call me darling.”
“You’ll go to jail and you’ll lose your daughter. And where will she go? You’ve already told me that it’s hard to persuade your ex-husband to have her for a whole weekend. Do you think his new girlfriend is going to want Katie in their lives on a permanent basis? She’ll end up in foster care. Maybe a children’s home. It’s no place for a young girl. For any young child.”
“That wouldn’t happen,” said Serena. But she thought about the options. If Tom really didn’t step up, then where could Katie go? Serena’s mother was months away from needing to go into a nursing home. Would her brother be willing to offer a home to his niece?
Serena began to cry. Yasha stopped walking and pulled her to sit down on the grass beside him.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. Look. So what if the painting is yours? There’s no reason why you should worry at all. In fact, I think you should be very pleased with yourself. You convinced some of the world’s most highly respected art experts. Apparently any one of the big auction houses would have been happy to take it on. I told you it’s a great painting, Serena. Here’s yo
ur proof.”
“It won’t last,” said Serena. “Someone will question its authenticity again at some point, and then …”
“It won’t happen,” said Yasha. “No one wants to hear it. Too many people would end up red-faced. The painting will sell. Probably for way more than its estimate. And then we won’t hear of it again for years. Paintings like this don’t keep turning up at auction. And even if it did, every time it is sold, it gets that little bit harder to trace it back to us.”
“Yasha, the thing is, I think someone is on to Julian and me. The police came looking for him at my place. And, well …”
“It could have been about anything.”
“No. I don’t think so. They were from the Metropolitan Police’s department of art and antiques. I tried to raise Julian afterward, but he didn’t return my calls.”
“But they haven’t come back for you? Then it’s fine.”
Serena bit her lip. She was on the point of telling Yasha about the pictures she had taken on her phone and sent to her former lover. If Julian was wanted in connection with the forgeries, then wasn’t it likely that someone would seize his phone and see the evidence?
“I’m just so worried,” she said without elaborating.
“Serena,” Yasha promised, “I will deal with this. You are safe. I swear to you. I will keep you safe. No one will ever find out that you painted The Virgin. As for Julian Trebarwen, the only thing you can do is keep your mouth shut. I very much doubt that this is about the paintings you did for him. He’s not an honest man, Serena. I can think of a thousand reasons why the police might want to question him.”
Serena’s brow wrinkled.
“I promise you,” said Yasha, “that so long as you let me handle this, and follow my instructions, everything will be fine. Now, I want you to carry on as normal. Forget about Julian Trebarwen. Whatever you do, don’t call him again. The less ways there are for anyone to link you to that loser the better.”
Serena shook her head. She had to tell him about the photographs she had taken and forwarded. Then he would realize how serious the situation could be. If Julian was fingered by Ludbrook’s for the other paintings, then Serena couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t use those photos of the Ricasoli to get himself out of a hole. But she didn’t have a chance. Suddenly, Yasha gathered her into his arms. Being held like this, she felt for a moment that Yasha really might be able to protect her. She had missed the feeling of a man’s arms around her like this. She couldn’t remember when Tom had stopped trying to comfort her physically. She breathed in the warm scent of Yasha’s chest. His clean blue shirt.
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