Secret Things and Highland Flings

by Tracy Corbett

  ‘And I appreciate it, really I do. But you didn’t have to let me loose with a paintbrush.’

  ‘Actually, I did. Even I could see this pad needed your style input.’

  Another white lie. The flat had looked fine. The real reason Tasha wanted a change of décor was because of Harriette.

  Tasha had only had one serious relationship before Harriette, a woman called Sara, whom she’d dated for two years. But the relationship had soured when Sara became clingy and jealous of Tasha and Lexi’s close bond. In the end, Sara left, claiming Tasha never put her first. Tasha was heartbroken.

  Tasha had steered away from relationships for a few years, but then she’d met Harriette, who seemed like the real deal. She was funny, kind and brought a lightness to the relationship that balanced out Tasha’s tendency for melancholy. They made a great couple and Tasha adored her. So much so, Harriette moved into the flat and they spent months doing up the place and making a home together.

  But then Harriette fell pregnant and returned to her ex-boyfriend, whom Tasha had no idea she was still seeing. Tasha was devastated. More than that, she felt betrayed, which manifested into rage, resulting in her smashing up the flat, destroying furniture and ripping up curtains and soft furnishings. Hence the need for a makeover.

  Tasha had recovered, but there was a hardness to her now, as Marcus had discovered when Tasha had slashed his tyres. Not that she felt sorry for Marcus. But Tasha wasn’t someone you wanted to get on the wrong side of.

  Tasha leant against the worktop. ‘Besides, this place is a damned sight better than that monstrosity of a mansion in Notting Hill. You never looked right there. This place is more you. Retro-chic.’ She inspected a chipped nail. ‘Marcus would hate it.’

  Lexi grinned. ‘That’s part of the appeal.’

  Tasha laughed, something she rarely did. ‘Talking of Dickwit, have you heard from him lately?’ She reached over for the bottle of orange liqueur Lexi had used for baking. ‘Christ, paint stripper’s more palatable than this stuff. We need something decent to drink.’

  ‘I meant to restock, but I ran out of cash. I’ll pop to the wholesalers on Friday. I’m planning a big shop.’ She untied her blue chequered apron.

  Tasha looked appalled. ‘What have you got planned for Saturday, sorting through your sock drawer?’

  Lexi threw the apron at her. ‘Make yourself useful, there’s a sink full of washing-up.’

  Tasha grunted something unintelligible. ‘Fine, but then I’m heading to the off-licence.’

  Lexi checked the progress of her cupcakes. ‘In answer to your question, my beloved ex is—’

  ‘Hang on.’ Tasha held up her hand. ‘If we’re going to discuss Scumbag, we need suitable background music.’ She went over to the jukebox. A few seconds later The Platters started up with ‘The Great Pretender’.

  Lexi glared at her sister. ‘Are you trying to be funny?’

  ‘Hell, no.’ Tasha came back into the kitchen. ‘If I’d wanted to be funny, I’d have chosen ‘I Could Have Told You’. Ole blue-eyes says it much better than I ever could.’

  ‘And with slightly less sarcasm.’

  Tasha picked up the pink rubber gloves draped over the sink. With her kohl-black eyes and asymmetric bob, she looked the most unlikely of domestic staff. But then, she’d always been a contradiction, a cocktail of sweet and sour … only these days it was more sour than sweet. Heartbreak tended to do that to a person.

  ‘So, news on Scumbag? Please tell me he’s been kidnapped by guerrilla terrorists and is being held at gunpoint somewhere deep in the Amazonian jungle.’

  The timer on the oven pinged. Lexi opened the oven door and removed her cakes. ‘You have a warped mind.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  Lexi rested the baking tray on top of the oven. ‘Until today, I’d assumed Marcus was still in Spain with Cindy.’

  ‘And he’s not?’

  ‘He showed up at the gallery this morning.’

  Tasha spun away from the sink, dripping foamy suds over the kitchen floor. ‘You’re kidding me? What did he want?’

  Lexi refused to meet her sister’s inquisitive gaze. ‘Usual stuff. He’s sorry, he didn’t mean to hurt me … where’s his money. You know the pattern.’ She spoke quickly, hoping her sister wouldn’t catch on.

  ‘Where’s his money? What money?’

  There was no point hiding anything from Tasha, she was too astute … which was why not telling her about taking the twenty-seven grand from the house was so stressful. ‘It turns out he surrendered a life insurance policy, which I knew nothing about. He forged my signature so he could cash it in. The official receiver’s got wind of it and wants the money returned. Twenty-seven thousand pounds.’

  ‘The little shit!’ Tasha threw the saucepan in the sink. ‘And Marcus thinks you have it? After everything he did, the guy’s lucky I don’t put a contract out on him.’

  Lexi wondered if her sister was being serious. Some of Tasha’s customers at the tattoo parlour certainly looked capable of inflicting a knee-capping.

  ‘And even if you did have his filthy ill-gained money, as if you’d give it back after what he did. He virtually bankrupted you, jeopardised your business and hooked up with a woman who could’ve auditioned for the starring role in Barbie Does Dagenham!’

  Lexi sighed. Tasha losing her rag wasn’t a surprise, but it was slightly puzzling as to why her sister was still so angry after all this time. Lexi had moved past wanting to dismember Marcus a long time ago. Well, mostly anyway. She still loathed what he’d done, the way he’d done it, but there were no active emotions left, just an overwhelming sense of sadness that settled over her when she dwelt on things too much.

  Like the day they’d first met.

  It was Valentine’s Day 2014 and she’d gone to London for an exhibition. She’d stopped off for a coffee on the South Bank and became aware of a man staring at her. The next thing she knew, he was sitting next to her, making her laugh and persuading her to join him for dinner. By the end of the evening, she was smitten. When he’d kissed her goodnight and told her she was the woman he’d been waiting for all of his life, her fate was sealed. A six-month whirlwind romance followed, filled with love, laughter and excitement. He lavished her with expensive gifts and took every opportunity to ‘flash the cash’, keen to demonstrate his wealth and back up his promises of a financially secure life. She never doubted his honesty or sincerity and ignored her sister’s concerns that he was ‘too good to be true’. They married in a registry office and for the first year everything was fine. But then he started disappearing for days on end, stressing over his used-car business and behaving strangely. He became secretive, moody and defensive when questioned. But it wasn’t until he cleaned out their savings account and ran off to Spain with his PA that she’d discovered the depth of his deception.

  Seeing him today had been hard, a test of her resolve, but it had confirmed one thing: she no longer loved Marcus. Cindy was welcome to him.

  But Tasha hadn’t finished ranting. ‘Money-laundering, scum-sucking wanker! Why the hell does he think you have his rotten money? Anyone with an ounce of sanity knows you’d never touch anything illegal.’

  Lexi decided it was time to change topic. If her left eye started twitching it would be game over.

  Although, why she hadn’t told Tasha about taking the money, she wasn’t sure. She hadn’t said anything at the time, because she’d genuinely believed the money was from the sale of her paintings. But now it looked like the money was from the insurance payout, what was her justification for continuing to keep quiet? Perhaps it was because she didn’t want to fuel her sister’s hatred of her ex-husband. Or, more likely, she didn’t want to risk Tasha’s disappointment in her. Because however she tried to justify it, she’d broken the law. She was a thief. No better than Marcus … Well, marginally better than Marcus, but equally guilty. Would her sister forgive her if she came clean? Based on her reaction to Harriette’s betrayal, she wasn’t su
re.

  ‘Tasha, calm down. I told Marcus to take a hike and I explained to the investigator that I had no knowledge of the insurance policy. I’m sure once he looks into it he’ll realise I’m telling the truth, and they’ll go after Marcus and not me.’

  ‘They bloody better had. If I ever get my hands on Marcus—’

  ‘Tash, let it go.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Seriously, I’ve had enough. What with dealing with money problems, being investigated and then seeing Marcus again, I’m shattered. And I still haven’t sorted through the shipment from the Wentworth estate. I know you mean well, but can we please discuss this another time?’

  Tasha sighed. ‘Fine.’ She didn’t look happy. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘Help me sort through the shipment, and then we’ll be free to eat cake, drink liqueur and make voodoo dolls of Marcus to stick pins into. Okay?’

  ‘My kind of evening. Lead the way.’

  It was still light outside. The May sunshine was reluctant to call it a night, but Lexi flicked on the lights as they descended the stairs leading to the thermostatically controlled storage basement below the gallery. The chill tickled her skin. It was welcome after baking in a hot kitchen.

  She caught the eye of the Woman at the Window propped on an easel and smiled. She’d relocated the painting after Marcus had visited. It was a shame not to display such a beautiful piece of art, but Lexi wasn’t taking any chances. The Italian temptress was staying out of harm’s way.

  ‘Remind me again whose paintings these are?’ Tasha tore off the protective wrapping from the crates.

  ‘Eleanor Wentworth.’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have. She never sold anything during her lifetime. But she’s dead now and her daughter has asked me to evaluate her work. She’s also asked me to catalogue and value the art collection at Rubha Castle in Scotland.’

  Tasha binned the discarded sheeting. ‘Are you going to accept?’

  ‘I wish I could. The castle is centuries old. I can only imagine the art they must’ve collected over the years. But how can I with everything that’s going on at the gallery? The business won’t repair itself. Especially not now Marcus is back on the scene.’

  ‘Even more reason to accept.’ Tasha used a Stanley knife to cut through the plastic safety strips. ‘Marcus is only back to cause trouble. My advice? Get as far away from his sorry arse as possible.’

  ‘What about the gallery?’

  ‘You have an assistant, don’t you? Ask Mel to cover while you’re away. She’s more than capable.’

  It was true – Mel was proving to be a good investment. She was studying for an art degree and working part-time around her lectures. The university year had concluded, so maybe she’d be available to cover for a few weeks.

  Tasha binned the plastic strapping. ‘The break’ll do you good. Whereabouts in Scotland is it?’

  ‘Somewhere deep in the Highlands.’

  Tasha looked incredulous. ‘You’ve been offered an art gig in a castle in the Highlands and you’re not sure you want to go? Are you batshit crazy?’

  Lexi laughed. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘There’s a fee involved, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the possibility of further commission if they decide to sell any of the collection?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Then it’s a no-brainer. Take the job and go up to Scotland. Mel and I can run the gallery. And you can focus on forgetting about Scumbag and the investigators hounding you for money.’

  ‘You’d do that for me?’

  Tasha jimmied off a crate lid. ‘Like you even have to ask.’

  Could she accept? It certainly sounded like the dream commission. And she’d never been to Scotland. Marcus had insisted they holiday at the villa in Spain.

  ‘So you think I should go?’

  ‘As long as you promise not to run off with a Gerard Butler lookalike because you’ve been enticed by what’s under his kilt.’

  Lexi laughed. ‘That I can promise. I’m off men for good.’

  Tasha grimaced. ‘God, me too.’

  ‘Idiot.’ She kissed her sister’s cheek. ‘I’ll give it some serious consideration.’

  ‘Good.’ Tasha removed the bubble wrap from the crate. ‘Right, what have we got?’

  Lexi lifted a canvas and held it up.

  It was a portrait of a middle-aged man leaning against a large ornate desk. He looked relaxed, his pale eyes smiling over the top of a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with such tenderness it spoke volumes about the relationship between artist and subject. All the paintings were reputedly of similar style, portraits of the Earl of Horsley’s family at various stages of their lives. The paintings had struck a chord with Lexi, which is why she’d agreed to exhibit the work when she’d seen the photos.

  As well as specialising in replicas, she occasionally freelanced for a few museums and private collectors helping to value and catalogue their work. She’d also started mentoring new up-and-coming artists, wanting to diversify her collection. The combination of collecting copies of the masters along with discovering new talent was proving an exciting development.

  She angled the painting so her sister could see it. ‘What do you think?’

  Tasha tilted her head. ‘Fine, if you like family portraits. Too elitist for my liking.’

  ‘Maybe, but I like the contrast between conventionality and intimacy.’

  Tasha shrugged. ‘Still looks like some posh git with too much money to me.’

  Lexi replaced the painting. ‘Philistine.’

  ‘Excuse me? I have a degree in fine art.’

  ‘I know, I was there, remember?’

  ‘Just because I choose skin as my canvas, doesn’t mean it’s not art.’

  ‘I agree.’

  Tasha was by far the more talented sister. With a shared love of art and an unwillingness to be separated, they’d both won places at Oxford Brookes to study fine art. But whereas Lexi had gone on to study for an MA at The Courtauld Institute in London so she could focus on evaluating and selling art, Tasha had attended the Tattoo Training Academy in Essex. The result was two slightly unconventional outcomes but two highly successful businesses … Well, one successful business and Lexi desperately trying to hang on to the other, thanks to her cheating ex-husband.

  Tasha frowned. ‘Hang on. There are twenty paintings here, but only nineteen listed.’

  Lexi checked the list. ‘That’s strange. If I go through them, can you check for the corresponding listing on the inventory?’

  ‘Sure.’ Tasha picked up a pen. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Okay. So we know the first painting is the middle-aged man.’ Lexi placed it to one side. ‘The second painting is a child’s portrait.’ She viewed the reverse of the canvas. ‘Thomas Elliott-Wentworth, aged nine, garden scene, fifteen-inch dark wood frame.’

  Tasha made a note.

  Lexi systematically went through each painting, casting her eye over the quality of the work. The more she saw, the more she warmed to the artist. The intimacy of the poses, the awkwardness of the human form had been captured perfectly.

  Tasha ticked off each painting as she went through the collection. ‘That’s everything on the list.’

  Only one remained.

  Lexi picked up the last painting. ‘This must be our stowaway.’

  After removing the protective sheet, she placed the nineteen-inch frame on an easel and stood back to look.

  When Tasha swore, she knew she wasn’t the only one startled by what had been uncovered. For a moment, neither of them moved.

  Finally, Tasha came over. ‘Is that Renaissance?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  Tasha let out a slow whistle. ‘It has to be a fake, right?’

  Logically, Lexi would have to agree. The chances of it being genuine were almost non-existent and yet every artistic instinct she possessed screamed that it wasn’t.

  ‘Can yo
u tell if it’s real?’

  ‘Perhaps, but I’d have to carry out a series of tests. I’d need the owner’s permission.’

  ‘What’s your gut telling you?’

  ‘I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm to make a quick assessment.’ Lexi tried to switch off the art fanatic in her and view the painting through critical eyes. ‘The frame clearly isn’t as old as the canvas, so it’s been replaced,’ she said, pointing to the main body of the painting. ‘In contrast, the canvas has evidence of multiple repairs and restoration, which is hard to fake.’

  She searched out her magnifying glass and ultraviolet fluorescent wand. After switching off the lights, she waved the purple light over the painting, her skin prickling with nervous excitement. ‘There’s an intricate pattern of spiderweb cracks covering the surface.’

  ‘So we know it’s old.’

  Lexi’s pulse quickened. ‘Really old. Look at the long, confident brushstrokes. Most fakes are revealed by a sense of hesitation, an effort to replicate rather than create.’ She studied the canvas through the magnifying glass.

  Tasha peered closer. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Shiny pigments, indicating the use of lead whites, and possible traces of azurite and smalt infused in the paint during the 1600s.’ She pointed to the detailing on the cloth around the old man’s neck. ‘Can you see the way the minerals dance on the surface, like the sun sparkling off the ocean?’

  ‘Very poetic.’

  Lexi switched the lights back on. ‘Judging by the thickness of paint and swirling brushstrokes, the paint has been applied with a palette knife instead of a brush.’ She handed Tasha the magnifying glass. ‘The style is very distinctive.’

  Tasha studied the canvas through the magnifying glass. ‘So if this is a fake, then whoever painted it really knew their stuff.’

  ‘A master in his or her own right. Without further lab tests on the paint I couldn’t be sure, but they don’t appear to have made a single obvious mistake.’

  They both descended into silence. It was Tasha who broke it.

  ‘So, this is either a really good forgery …’

  ‘Or it’s an original Albrico Spinelli.’