by Karen Swan
Flora smiled, reaching up to loosen his tie which he’d tightened as hard as a knuckle. ‘Yep. We’ve got her, all right. It’s over, Freds.’
Freddie slumped, a sob escaping him, and Flora threw her arms around him, rubbing his back as the stress of the past few months overcame him. Flora saw her parents’ white faces looking up anxiously from behind the rain-smeared windows. But something else too.
It took a double-take for her to register the slight figure standing on the opposite pavement, her hands clasped protectively in front, her chin dipped in trepidation, that distinctive fiery hair ablaze in the rain.
Flora gasped. In spite of Freddie’s stark warnings, she had texted Aggie several times, asking her to call, telling her it was urgent – but Aggie hadn’t responded and in desperation yesterday, knowing she risked someone else overhearing (a new boyfriend, flatmate, the cleaner), Flora had left an angry message on her answerphone, explaining exactly what was happening to her ex-boyfriend and the reason why he’d been keeping a profile lower than the dead. Reckless? Yes. There had been every chance Freds would be true to his word and if he found out what she’d done, going behind his back . . .
But it wasn’t going to come to that.
‘What is it?’ Freddie asked, feeling her straighten and pull back. His gaze followed hers and he fell still as he saw Aggie looking back at him, bedraggled and wretched. But here.
She was here.
Epilogue
The saleroom was packed, the buzz of conversation more akin to a cocktail party than a fine-art sale. Flora sat still in her seat, her paddle on her lap as she let the chatter fly around her head. She felt strangely serene in the babble, the swirling passions and torrents of the summer beginning to recede into memories that would one day not hurt any more, but just become vague facts with no emotion attached – a sleepless night in Antibes, a lie laid bare . . . That was all they would become: a string of words, a sequence of images turned down to mute, shed of all the anger and hurt, despair and confusion that had blared at her in surround sound this summer.
A hand squeezed her shoulder, the specialist in Asian Contemporary Art at Christie’s grinning down at her. ‘Thought I might see you here. Congratulations! What a project. I’d love to hear about it. Breakfast next week?’
‘Sure,’ she nodded.
Coolly, she watched a couple of women joyously greeting each other on the far side of the room, lipsticked lips never touching the other’s cheeks. She looked away, unmoved by their excitement, and watched, instead, an older gentleman sitting alone and thumbing the catalogue with great interest, his brow furrow deepening on certain pages as he held them close to the end of his nose.
She hadn’t bothered looking through the catalogue herself, of course; she knew the collection being sold tonight by heart. She found it deeply ironic to be bidding on a piece she herself had found – not just found but inventoried, researched, named, returned to the world. Of course, she was acting for different clients tonight. Angus had promised to be here to represent the Vermeils – as the sellers – and make sure everything ran smoothly. Naturally, his flight was delayed . . .
‘Flora! Haven’t seen you all summer. We must have lunch.’
She raised a smile and nodded back at the Bruton Street gallerist. ‘Lovely. Absolutely.’
None of the family was here either. According to Angus, they had debated it long and hard; the response to the LAPADA advert had been favourably received and overwhelming, especially when it had come out in the press about Von Taschelt’s true role in the war. Whilst he couldn’t be hailed an outright hero – his estate had profited too much from his dealings with the Third Reich for that – his efforts to save the condemned and most notably, smuggle thirteen children to safety in crates, had gone a very long way in restoring his reputation and the family’s name.
In the end, though, they had decided against making a personal appearance here, which could be construed as ‘showy’ or attention-seeking, instead settling for placing an open letter at the front of the sale catalogue, reiterating their wish to return the looted art in their collection to the rightful owners; and where that wasn’t possible – as per this sale tonight – to raise funds for a foundation benefiting children of refugees.
‘Flo! I hope you’ve asked for a pay rise! Coffee soon?’ The vice president for Jewellery at Bonhams was en route to her seat, her eyebrows shrugged high.
‘Love to.’
Ideally she wouldn’t have been here either; whether the family was in the saleroom or not, the moment the first lot came out, they would be all around her again – memories swirling as she remembered their voices gabbling, eyes assessing her, scrutinizing her, dismantling her . . . She sniffed lightly and straightened her back, head held high.
It was fine. Just another sale. She’d only come for the Seurat – a mid-sized portrait of a Moorish woman, for an Ibizan villa belonging to a new German client. She’d flown there only last week in order to see and ‘feel’ the space herself, although she’d already been 80 per cent sure that the Seurat was the right fit. The guide price was £18,000–£20,000 but she was prepared to go to £27,250.
The shuffle of leather-soled shoes and a cloud of cologne announced the arrival of someone in the seat beside her, someone who wasn’t Angus, for whom the seat was provisionally saved.
She turned to find Max St John, of Bonhams and the Concours d’Élégance, settling himself beside her. She didn’t turn him away.
‘Flora! How are you?’ he purred in a low, silky voice, in his natural element as the room swarmed with familiar faces, people taking their seats as the clock ticked ever closer to eight.
‘Very well, Max,’ she replied. ‘I wouldn’t have expected to see you here tonight. Busman’s holiday?’
He smiled. ‘There’s a small still-life pastel that Cynthia’s keen on – bowl of pears.’
She nodded. ‘Oh, yes. The Redon. It’s lovely. Very charming. Great shadowing.’
‘Of course, you’re the real expert on it!’ he laughed, nudging her in the waist.
‘Well, I wouldn’t say expert,’ she demurred, looking back across the crowd. ‘Close observer, perhaps.’
He looked at her attentively. ‘It must have been some experience curating that collection, I bet.’ Her name had been quoted extensively as the specialist in charge of the ‘lost art’ collection and Angus was tap-dancing daily as the new business rolled in. In fact, far from losing her job (Angus had shouted at her most about that when he’d read her email – Are you mad? Stop bloody trying to quit!) it had never been so secure, with a pay rise and an equity stake in the company to boot.
She was riding high. Sort of.
‘It was indeed quite an experience,’ she replied with understatement, remembering the town ball in Saint-Paul-de-Vence, the way Xavier had danced with her, refusing to give her up, that look in his eyes when he’d finally just stopped – stopped in the middle of the dance floor, stopped pretending, stopped pushing her away . . .
She bit her lip and looked down into her lap, taking only a moment’s pause before she looked up again. It wasn’t heartbreak. There was no point in being hysterical about it. She’d be absolutely fine soon.
Soonish.
‘Well, I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you working so closely with them in the midst of that scandal . . . Very stressful.’ He tutted lightly. ‘Mind you, the heat’s well and truly off them now. The press has got itself a new whipping boy, what with the latest revelations about Jean-Luc Desanyoux. I take it you’ve heard?’
‘Desanyoux?’ she asked innocently.
‘Before your time, probably. Retired F1 driver, won everything in the eighties before Schumacher and Ferrari got going; Vanity Fair’s rumours column alleged an inappropriate liking for young girls and now they’re coming out of the woodwork. I can’t say they tried too hard to disguise his identity, so they must have been pretty sure of their facts. Anyway, I understand his wife’s left him.’ He lowered his
voice. ‘I sold him a Porsche 959 once, but I have to say I never warmed to the fellow. Always considered him a rather shady chap.’
‘Goodness,’ she said primly, making a mental note to text Stefan afterwards. He was officially off her hit list.
The first lot was wheeled out, two white-gloved porters carrying a large ornament draped with a protective black cloth. Flora tried to guess what it was from memory. She tried to care. Once upon a time, these sales had set her pulse racing, the bloodlust up as she vied against the rich, the arrogant, the experienced, the entitled. That rush when she won used to sustain her for weeks; she had loved pitching her natural coolness against impatient passions, becoming as impassive as a high-stakes poker player as she’d pitted her strategic sense of timing and pressure against those with bigger wallets. But now? Since returning to London, she’d lost her hunger and thirst for these little battles. She did her job but with no enthusiasm or pride; she should be euphoric after the biggest project of her career but she felt numb.
The auctioneer took to the floor and the lighting changed, funnelling everyone’s attention onto the draped object on the podium. The hum of conversation broke up into speckled silence, people sitting to attention in their chairs.
Flora felt herself change too. The quiet intensity of the selling process made her taut as a quiver – all her attention focused on the ‘what’ and the ‘who’ on the stage. She knew how to scan the room without moving her head, when to introduce her first bid, drop out, then swoop back in for the final kill. This was her specialism – cool, clinical bidding where passion was the enemy. As in life, it came at too high a cost.
The dust cloth was whisked off the object on the podium and a vibrato of appreciation rippled through the room. Flora felt as though her bones had been shot through with steel rods, holding her upright and stiff . . . What?
On instinct, her heart rate immediately rocketing up to 104 bpm, she looked around the room – several clusters of people had their heads inclined together, their eyes on the prize, nodding, others hurriedly flicking through the catalogue to find it.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, our first lot tonight – Love Three. A spectacular bronze rendering. Height one hundred and eleven centimetres, weighing in at four point three kilos—’
Flora’s eyes continued their scrutiny of the crowd, persistently swinging back to the bronze globe as though it was magnetic north.
‘. . . A unique opportunity to purchase tonight from the Vermeil family’s private collection, a piece by Xavier Vermeil himself, hitherto working under the pseudonym Yves Desmarais. This piece is offered exclusively for tonight’s sale with all proceeds going to the charitable foundation established in the family name.’
It was a nice touch, she could see that; a little more generosity, something for the family to give back to the world, another way to say ‘sorry’.
‘Who’ll start me at seventeen thousand pounds?’
A hand shot up in the far-right corner and Flora almost jumped at the sight of it.
‘Seventeen three?’
Another hand.
Flora felt her pulse spike, her mouth become dry as she watched the price spiral upwards. Within minutes, they had sailed past £25,000.
Flora stared at the beautiful sculpture, remembering the hands that had made it, held her. Under the singular beam of light, every notch and stipple of bronze was highlighted, the globe textured like clodded earth beneath the lovers’ feet, their twisting sinuous bodies leaning in to one another, arms and hair upswept and fanning out euphorically—
‘Twenty-seven six.’
The auctioneer nodded at her only briefly, his eyes swinging back in the next moment to a woman sitting three rows in front. Flora jolted as she realized she had moved.
More than moved. Raised her arm. Placed a bid.
What? No! She hadn’t come here to buy this—
‘Twenty-eight two.’
The auctioneer nodded at her again. Flora stared back at him in horror. It was as though she’d lost control of her own body.
She tried to concentrate, to calm down. She wasn’t in this race. Just breathe, Flora.
She looked around, gathering her wits, her usual poise. The bidders had fallen back to two people – a new entry, a phoner (which she never liked – she couldn’t see who she was up against) and the flushed woman just ahead of her, whose make-up was shining under the lights. The Christie’s employee on the phone to the other bidder kept looking over at her, checking to see whether she was coming back into the game.
She forced herself to watch, even though she couldn’t hear the numbers now above the roar of blood rushing in her head. She watched as the two bidders became more entrenched in their positions, a battle-hardened expression on the woman’s face; but Flora could tell by the way her nostrils flared slightly at £29,000 – her face in profile as she surveyed the audience for further bidders – that she was approaching her limit. The phoner was going to win in the next couple of thousand.
She stared at the sculpture. At the very most, if she was advising a client, she wouldn’t have gone beyond £25,000 on this. These bidders were already overpaying and getting carried away. It was stunning – but he was an unknown artist.
Then again, aside from his obvious skill, he came from a prominent family and there was rarity value.
She was surprised when the phoner dropped out at £33,800; she’d thought whoever it was had it in the bag (not that it was easy to tell anything when that person wasn’t even in the room) but going by the woman’s reactions alone, she was teetering on the very edge of being able to afford this.
The woman fell very still – she was within a hair’s breadth of winning the piece now – as the auctioneer went back to the room, surveying the crowd as he checked for other bids, his palm covering the top of the gavel, ready to strike. ‘Going for the final time at thirty-three thousand, eight hundred pou— Thank you, madam.’
His eyes were on her once more and Flora found to her horror that her hand had not only shot up again but was still thrust upright, her arm as straight as a pipe for all to see, as though she was answering a question in class. Mortified, she lowered her arm. What was wrong with her? She didn’t want this piece.
She did. She wanted it desperately. It was the only thing she’d have of him.
No. She didn’t. Why would she spend all that money just to be reminded of how it had felt to be in his arms, to bathe in his gaze, to be the one to make him sigh, smile, moan? Why would she spend all that money to relive how it had felt to watch him walk away, deserting her when she’d been there for him? Why would she want to remember that? Why would she pay for the honour? No, overpay for the honour. She’d have to be mad. She’d have to be—
Her hand shot up again. Oh, dear God.
Beside her, Max chuckled. ‘You go for it, Flora,’ he murmured. ‘Just trust your instincts.’
‘No!’
People in the vicinity turned to look but the sound of the word had brought her to her senses – her instincts had betrayed her before.
Max was looking surprised, even a little embarrassed, but she didn’t feel the need to elaborate; she’d come back to herself.
The phone bidder had come back out to play again too but this time, when the auctioneer looked back at her, she kept her hands down (by sitting on them) and firmly shook her head. There would be no mistaking her withdrawal now, she thought as she tried to calm down.
‘Bad luck,’ Max murmured to her as the hammer came down and the phoner won it.
‘Not at all. You’ve got to know when to quit,’ she said briskly. ‘It’s a nice piece but I’m not prepared to lose my head over it.’
He nodded approvingly. ‘True mark of a professional,’ he cheered, but his eyes were questioning.
The audience politely clapped as the bronze was taken away by the white-gloved porters. Flora rose from her seat. She wasn’t going to bother with the Seurat. Her nerves were shot. She just wanted to get out of here; it had be
en a mistake to think she could go through with this.
‘Not staying to see the Faucheux?’ Max asked in surprise, swinging his legs to the side to let her past.
‘No. I’ve seen it before,’ she smiled. ‘Good luck with the Redon.’
‘Thank you, yes. Big wedding anniversary coming up, thought I should make a proper effort before she sees what a fraud I really am and leaves me for the tennis coach.’
Flora laughed, patting his shoulder as she passed. ‘See you, Max.’
‘Regards to your father.’
‘Sure thing,’ she replied, walking up the aisle to the table at the back and handing in her paddle. Were people staring? She couldn’t help but feel they somehow knew; as though her rash impetuousness had betrayed all her summer secrets.
‘Not staying?’ the coat girl asked, taking her ticket and rifling through the rails for her red double-faced cashmere coat.
‘No.’ The word came out almost as a sob, surprising them both.
She over-tipped and turned away, walking as quickly as she could towards the doors, desperate to feel fresh air on her face. She felt smothered suddenly, her lungs rigid and small, the room too hot, the past too close.
Through the doors she could see it was raining, umbrellas domed over people’s heads as they scurried for shelter, and she burst through, desperate for the feel of it, as though her problems were an ink that could be washed away, him a stain she could rub out.
She stood at the top of the steps for a moment, wondering which way to go, the sound of car horns and the wet hiss of water sluicing off wheels an urban soundtrack in her ears. She wasn’t due to meet Freddie and Aggs for another hour and she had no plans. Coffee, perhaps?
Vodka tonic more like. She felt shaken and—
She saw him.
He was getting out of a car – no doubt here to see what price his sculpture had fetched. The driver was holding up an umbrella, but he shook his head dismissively, fastening the button on his jacket. He looked good – different – in his slim black suit and white shirt, a far cry from the chaotic, barely dressed linens of the summer, that summer when they’d both so nearly come undone.