Priceless

by Olivia Darling

  Serena’s heart leaped as Yasha moved. But it wasn’t to touch her. Instead he picked up the wine bottle and divided the very last of the Chianti between them. It was gone in two mouthfuls, and then there was no reason to stay up any longer.

  “I should go,” said Serena, finding as she said it that she wanted to be challenged.

  But Yasha didn’t challenge her this time.

  “I’ll tidy up,” he said, getting up from the table and taking the empty bottle with him.

  “Okay,” said Serena. She stood too, and there was just a second or so more of potential between them before she bid Yasha good night. He set straight to work, carrying the glasses to the sink. Serena paused at the top of the stairs and looked down on him, missing the kiss that hadn’t happened.

  The following afternoon Yasha put the original Ricasoli and Serena’s copy into the accordion case. Serena felt something akin to a visceral pain as she watched him close the matching Virgins away.

  “Well,” said Yasha, “I have no reason to detain you here a moment longer. I’m sure you are anxious to get back to your life in Cornwall.”

  Serena nodded.

  Luca arrived within the hour to drive her and Katie back to the station.

  Yasha saw them off.

  “I’m sure you won’t ever want to see me again but rest assured I will be there if you ever need me.”

  Serena shook his hand. “Good-bye.”

  As they crested the hill, Serena’s mobile phone buzzed into life with the text and voice mail messages she had been unable to receive at the house. It reminded her of the one thing she had to do. She sent a very important picture message to Julian. Her insurance policy. Because, as strangely fulfilling as the experience had turned out to be, she should not forget that Yasha had blackmailed her into forging a painting for him. She had to remember that she had come to Italy because she’d felt that she and her daughter would be in danger if she didn’t. A cloud passed over her face as she thought back to that night in her kitchen back in Cornwall.

  But back in the U.K. the following evening, she couldn’t help but feel a little nostalgic as she lay in bed and listened to the night sounds outside. She imagined the house in Tuscany. Was Yasha still there, or was it dark and silent again, with nobody but the deer to appreciate its tranquility and beauty? She missed the work. She missed the house. She thought perhaps she missed Yasha.

  CHAPTER 50

  Back in London, Lizzy Duffy was hard at work on the Randon sale. Once he’d gotten over the indignity of it, Nat had decided he was excited by the element of direct competition with Ehrenpreis, and he had transferred his enthusiasm to his staff. Lizzy was nervous. She had to come up with something very special to ensure that Ludbrook’s romped home with the best results.

  Her concentration on the Randon sale was interrupted about two weeks after she got back from the Côte d’Azur. It was to be an embarrassing morning. Moments after she arrived at the office, she had a call from the reception desk, telling her that someone who had bought a painting at the most recent nineteenth sale was very anxious to see her.

  “Very anxious,” said the receptionist, in a way that implied a scene would occur if Lizzy didn’t come downstairs pronto.

  So, Lizzy knew even before she walked into the reception, with her best client-greeting smile on, that this was going to be a difficult encounter. Sure enough it was.

  The middle-aged woman standing at the desk looked as though she didn’t smile very often anyway, but right then she was frowning so hard she could have easily held a two-pence piece in the crevice between her eyebrows.

  “You have sold me a fake,” said the woman without preamble.

  “That’s quite an accusation, Mrs.…”

  “Whittaker. Denise Whittaker. You have sold me a forged painting, and I want to know what you’re going to do about it.”

  There were a few members of the public milling about in the lobby that morning, and it was obvious that they were all tuning in to what was going on. Lizzy knew that her first action should be to contain Mrs. Whittaker before any more accusations were voiced out loud.

  “Mrs. Whittaker,” she said, steering the middle-aged woman by the elbow. “I wonder if you might come into this meeting room and explain to me why you think this misunderstanding might have occurred.”

  Unfortunately, it was no misunderstanding.

  Lizzy had one of the porters relieve Mrs. Whittaker of the painting in question and bring it through into the private room. With the door shut so that no passersby could hear Mrs. Whittaker’s rantings, Lizzy had the porter unwrap the piece and set it on an easel. She took a deep breath. It was important to remain in control of the situation no matter how nervous she felt. She remembered Nat’s teaching. You must never, ever seem apologetic. Concerned. Yes. Serious. Of course. But never apologetic. It gives them reason to think you have something to apologize for.

  Once the painting was uncovered, Lizzy dismissed the porter. She peered closely at the picture, which she remembered only vaguely. She brought out the eyeglass that hung around her neck at all times.

  “There’s no point doing that,” said Mrs. Whittaker. “You’re not going to convince me I’m wrong.”

  “If you’ll just give me a moment,” said Lizzy as she ran the loupe over every inch of the painting, as much to buy her time to think as to investigate its authenticity.

  “I bought this painting believing it to be a genuine watercolor of the Clifton Suspension Bridge by Richard Delapole,” said Mrs. Whittaker.

  “Well,” said Lizzy patiently, “it has all the hallmarks of that painter. The signature, here, is just like every example of his signature I’ve ever seen. And the brushstrokes representing the leaves of the trees. You see? Right there. That looseness of form is typical of Delapole’s later work and—”

  “I know,” said Mrs. Whittaker. “That’s exactly what I thought. But here’s the thing. My son pointed it out to me as soon as he saw the painting when he came home from school on break. This artist died in 1832 and the suspension bridge wasn’t completed until 1864.”

  There was no point arguing with Mrs. Whittaker; she was absolutely right. The suspension bridge was not completed until thirty-two years after the painter’s death. It took two minutes on Wikipedia to find that much out. Lizzy was mortified. It was such an easy thing to have checked up on. She immediately took the blame upon herself. She called Nat down from his office to explain the nature and extent of the debacle.

  “It’s a complete mess,” said Nat. “Who took this picture in?”

  Lizzy wasn’t sure. It wasn’t until much later, when Mrs. Whittaker had been sent away with a full refund and firm assurances that such a matter would be properly investigated at the very highest level, that Lizzy became certain that she hadn’t taken the picture in herself. It was a big ticket item. It had been sold for forty grand. She wouldn’t have dared take on such an important consignment without consulting Nat first. Never. That knowledge helped her feel a little better as she went over and over her confrontation with Mrs. Whittaker that afternoon. But there were other things on her mind now. Things that didn’t quite seem to add up. She waited until the end of the working day to talk to Nat about the matter in private.

  “Nat,” she said, “I need to talk to you about that painting.”

  “It’s okay, darling. It happens to the best of us. I must have fallen for thousands of fakes during the early years of my career. You will get better at spotting them.”

  “Actually,” said Lizzy, “I didn’t have the chance to spot that one. I didn’t even see it until the day of the auction. You put it up for sale.”

  “Did I?” Nat looked surprised. “Gosh. Wow. I must have been having an off day.” He shrugged. “Still, can’t be expected to know the dates of all these bloody painters, can I? I’m not a walking encyclopedia.”

  “Nat,” Lizzy ventured, “the thing is, I don’t think this is the only fake we’ve had in lately. I went out for dinner with Yas
ha Suscenko a few weeks ago, and he was asking some very strange questions.”

  “Why on earth were you having dinner with Yasha Suscenko? More to the point, why didn’t you tell me?”

  Lizzy shrugged. Any other time she would have been gratified that Nat showed a little healthy jealousy, but there were more important matters to discuss.

  “I think he was suspicious about one of the works he bought. The milkmaid portrait. He asked a lot of questions,” she reiterated.

  “Such as?”

  Lizzy relayed the conversation.

  “You’re reading too much into that. If Yasha Suscenko thought we had sold him a moody painting, he would have come straight to me.”

  “But he did come to you. Don’t you remember? And he asked for the name of the painting’s owner.”

  “That wasn’t about faking. He was just trying to cut out the middleman. He wanted to be able to go straight to Trebarwen and offer the brothers a deal for whatever was left in the house. That’s what that was about.”

  “But there was nothing left in the house. Everything of any value went into the sale. You know that. I still find it hard to believe that I would have missed that painting of the suspension bridge when I was down there organizing the house for the big sale. It strikes me that one possible reason why I didn’t find the painting was because when I went to the house last April, the painting really wasn’t there. Because it didn’t exist. I think it’s possible that Julian Trebarwen commissioned that painting, Nat.”

  “That’s a crazy accusation.”

  “At the very least, I think we should consider the possibility that he found it in a junk shop and thought he could get a better value for it if he said it came from his mother’s estate. The idea that it came from Trebarwen certainly would have made me more likely to consider it was the real thing. I can understand what you might have thought.…”

  “Are you implying that I would have taken that painting on just because Julian Trebarwen brought it in?”

  “I understand how it is. We get busy. We have our trusted sources …”

  “Now, Lizzy,” said Nat, suddenly sounding like the boss he really was. “As far as I am concerned, the matter has been settled. Mrs. Whittaker is happy with her refund and our assurances. I don’t see any benefit to delving any deeper. We have received no other official complaints.”

  “But don’t you think it would be a good idea to preempt them by taking a closer look at the consignments we’ve had from Julian Trebarwen since the house sale?”

  “No,” said Nat. “I don’t. Read the small print in the back of any one of our catalogs. We are absolutely indemnified.”

  “All the same, Nat, Ludbrook’s reputation is at stake. And your personal reputation too,” she added, thinking that might swing it. He would know, she was sure, that she was serious about this because she cared about him. Loved him.

  “You know what, I don’t think it would be a good idea to start investigating Trebarwen, but I do think it would be a good idea to go out to dinner. You are free this evening, I hope? I have a table at Scott’s. I know you’ve always wanted to go there.”

  Scott’s. Lizzy knew he thought it would impress her. She didn’t tell him that Yasha had already taken her there.

  “That’d be great,” she said.

  “Eight o’clock. Dress up.” Nat patted her bottom to dismiss her.

  Back at her desk, Lizzy tried hard not to worry. She had expected Nat to take her more seriously when she’d raised her concerns. It was what she was supposed to do, wasn’t it, as his second in command? And yet he had been dismissive. She decided she would talk to him about it later that night. When he’d had a few glasses of wine, he might be more amenable to listening. It was appropriate that they take some more time to discuss the issues between themselves, because Lizzy was going to raise them at the big interdepartmental quarterly meeting that would take place the next day and she didn’t want Nat to be blindsided. She told him that much while they were drinking an aperitif.

  “Let’s not let work interfere with a damn good dinner,” he said. “Come on, Lizzy. I just want to have a bit of fun this evening. I want to relax and enjoy your company.”

  And how could she disagree? She still wanted him so badly. She was every bit as in love with him as ever, and still he showed no sign of moving her properly into his life. But perhaps the best way to have him fully for herself was to separate the two Lizzys—work Lizzy and love Lizzy—more thoroughly. Perhaps he was right. If Yasha Suscenko had made a formal complaint, they would have investigated Julian Trebarwen. But he hadn’t. So Lizzy had to accept that Julian had consigned the suspension bridge painting in good faith. Insurance would deal with it.

  In any case, Lizzy’s desire to be with Nat soon took over her desire to know the truth behind the paintings. He was making an enormous amount of effort to make her happy that evening, it seemed. From the moment they met at the restaurant, he pressed her to have the best of everything. To enjoy herself properly. And that meant a whole bottle of vintage champagne rather than a couple of glasses. The champagne was followed by a bottle of burgundy with the meal and brandy afterward, which Lizzy accepted though she had never really liked the stuff. The amount of wine she had drunk made her forget that she couldn’t handle spirits.

  By half past ten, Lizzy was rolling. She could no more have questioned Nat coherently about the paintings than she could have driven home.

  “Let’s go to Annabel’s,” Nat suggested.

  It seemed like a very good idea at the time.

  Though it was a Tuesday evening, the little club in Berkeley Square was jumping. Lizzy felt a buzz of excitement as she stepped beneath the awning that led down into the club. Like Scott’s, this was a place she had always wanted to go to but had never had the opportunity. Sarah Jane was always talking about the place. She had dated a string of investment bankers who were all members. Sarah Jane went to Annabel’s like most of the girls at Ludbrook’s went to the Pitcher and Piano. Lizzy had imagined something entirely different from the place that greeted her as they walked through the tunnel-like entrance hall.

  To the right of the first bar was a salon that looked like the sitting room of a Chelsea grandmother. Beyond that was a dining room so dark you couldn’t tell if you were eating steak or chicken, and a dance floor straight out of the seventies, glittering with tiny lights that were echoed in the canopy above.

  The clientele was fairly homogeneous. The men were all straight from the city or Mayfair, in their well-cut gray suits, the lighting doing wonders for their half-cut gray faces. The girls were a gaudier bunch. Tall, with model figures and hairdos that looked as though they incorporated the tails of a whole family of recently culled New Forest ponies. The girls all wore Versace and Cavalli, and spoke with Eastern European accents. An alien anthropologist landing at Annabel’s might assume that the female of the species was a foot taller than the male. Standing in the ladies’ room admiring the Amazon reapplying lipstick in the mirror beside her, Lizzy slicked on a little lip gloss in an attempt to keep up, though she still looked like she had come to do an audit rather than to dance.

  Nat had already ordered two glasses of champagne. He patted a space on the sofa beside him, and she duly sat down. He covered her with compliments as that first glass and half of his slipped down her throat. Meanwhile, the DJ played a selection of the cheesiest hits known to mankind. It was the soundtrack of a Home Counties wedding disco. The dance floor was beginning to fill up. A chap who got too hot and took his jacket off was swiftly reminded that stripping down to one’s shirtsleeves simply wasn’t done.

  “You know what I’d really like,” Lizzy said when the DJ put on some Earth, Wind and Fire. “I’d like to dance.”

  “Your wish is my command,” said Nat, standing up and taking her hand.

  Lizzy stood up too, and the room whirled around her for a moment. As she swayed toward him, Nat reached out ineffectually to catch her arm. Seconds later she was on the floor. Not t
he dance floor, as she had hoped, but flat on her back on the carpet. Unconscious.

  Nat somehow got Lizzy back to her flat. He woke up her flatmate, Jools, and ensured that she was put to bed.

  “Tell her I won’t expect her to come in for the interdepartmental meeting in the morning,” he said as he parted. “I’ll explain to everyone that she’s been taken ill.”

  Lizzy didn’t even wake up until the interdepartmental meeting was long finished. Her hangover definitely disproved the theory that good wine doesn’t affect you so badly.

  Lizzy finally made it to the office that afternoon. Sarah Jane smiled knowingly.

  “First time at Annabel’s, eh?” She chuckled.

  “How do you know?”

  “How do you think I know?”

  Nat had been about as discreet as Perez Hilton. How many people knew? Now that Sarah Jane did, probably most of New Bond Street. Lizzy groaned. It was so unprofessional. Out with her boss, getting too drunk to come into work in time for the interdepartmental meeting.

  Later that day, Nat took her to one side and told her, “Now, about last night. First things first, I don’t want you to worry about this business of forgeries at all. I’ve had a word with old Ludbrook himself about it. And secondly, I put in a good word for you at the same time. He was quite upset that you didn’t make the meeting, but I told him that it was a one-off. You’re not the kind of girl who can’t control her drinking so far as I know.”