by Karen Swan
‘Of course,’ Tor said, enjoying Laetitia’s discomfort, and watching her go. She realized how alone she looked in this big saleroom, where everyone seemed to move in packs or pairs, but she didn’t care. Hugh hadn’t left her for Julia after all. He’d lied. Tried to save face. There had been hope. He had still been hers.
The gavel banged down hard three times and the auctioneer took to the podium. The jet velvet curtains opened smoothly, revealing a small watercolour of Florence.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please refer to Lot 1 in your catalogues. We have for sale Signoria Square in Florence, by Bernardo Bellotto, student to Canaletto. In fine restored condition. Bidding will start at eighty thousand. Do I have eighty-five thousand? Yes, I have eighty-five. Ninety? Thank you, sir. A hundred thousand?’
And they were off.
Tor tried to pay attention but she felt an overwhelming urge to stand up and scream and dance and jump. She wanted to tell someone, but there was no one to tell. It had been her guilty secret, her burden. No one had known. Well, only James, and she couldn’t ring him. What would he care about this little bit of small print? His life had moved on with Amelia. It was irrelevant to him whether Hugh had died going to stay with a friend, or with his mistress. That small twist simply preserved Tor’s memories and reclaimed them as hers. It didn’t change his role in the whole affair and the fact that Hugh would still be alive if James hadn’t kissed her. In essence, nothing had changed except her emotional ownership over her marriage, but she felt heady with relief and as light as a leaf.
The sound of polite applause disturbed her thoughts and she looked back up. They were on to Lot 3 already. She checked the catalogue to see what was coming up, when there was a shuffle of people getting up from their seats to allow some latecomers into the sale.
She settled more comfortably into her chair and watched as the stream of top-tier paintings were paraded and bid for and won.
‘Have I missed much?’ whispered a silky voice.
Tor looked up to see Anna Brightling assuming her customary leg-wrapping pose, which showed off her ankles to their best advantage. As usual, she looked divine, in a pair of cream trousers, beige silk blouse and a baby blue sheepskin coat. Tor’s shoulders slumped as she demoted herself from looking like an office worker to a polyester-clad bank clerk.
‘How lovely to see you again,’ Tor smiled. Anna had thawed considerably after their initial introduction at the cricket and Tor had come away liking her a lot. ‘They’re on Lot 36. Are you here to buy?’
‘Not especially. I always come if I can, and I was in town today so I thought, why not?’ She paused and lowered her voice. ‘Anyway, there’s a better than average chance of seeing James here.’
‘Is there?’ Tor quickly looked around.
‘He never misses a fine art sale if he can help it. He’s addicted to the thrill of the chase. He’ll be ruined if he ever discovers eBay.’
Tor giggled.
‘Are you buying?’ Anna asked.
Tor rolled her eyes. ‘Yuh, Harry wants the Reynolds.’
‘Good lord. So does half the room. That’s why everyone’s here. What’s your limit?’
‘There isn’t one. I am beyond nervous . . . I can’t tell you. I’ve never done this before.’
Anna discreetly studied the room. She’d been coming here for years and she could see Tim Slatter from the Beaton Gallery and Gerald Monmouth from Duke’s. There’d be no doubt they were interested. Their impassive stares and utter indifference to the preceding lots meant they were here for something specific, not to window shop.
‘Well, I can see a couple of big dealers in here. I can tell you for a fact they’ll be after it too.’
‘Oh God,’ Tor said, swallowing hard.
‘Relax. Just enjoy it. It’s not your money. Imagine how many women would kill to be in your position, to spend a couple of million of Harry Hunter’s money.’
‘A couple of million!’ Tor spluttered. ‘I can’t spend that!’
‘Oh yes you can – and the rest,’ Anna muttered. ‘Whatever Harry wants, Harry gets. Believe me.’
Tor shook her head. ‘I need a drink.’
‘Let’s go get one then. We’ve got plenty of time.’ And before Tor could stop her, she was up and moving along the row.
They went out and immediately found a young waiter holding a tray of chilled champagne flutes. Dozens of people were milling about, a low buzz of conversation acting as tenor accompaniment to the alto action in the saleroom.
‘Cheers! Here’s to breaking the bank,’ Anna smiled.
Tor took a gulp so deep that bubbles went up her nose and she tossed her head about like a horse.
Anna smiled. ‘I used to get nervous too. But now – well, I’ve been coming here for years. James used to take me all the time. When we were doing up our first house together, we pretty much bought everything from here. His family are old patrons and get invited to lots of events. I’ve almost forgotten what it would be like to walk into the General Trading Company and just buy a table.’
Tor remembered how James had said he’d met Coralie here, buying her the painting to get her to have dinner with him. Tor realized she hadn’t even warranted dinner, much less a painting. Twice, he had just pounced on her when she was half-cut at parties.
‘So why are you trying to see James here?’ Tor asked. ‘Surely there are easier ways of getting hold of one’s ex-husband?’
‘Well, no one’s been able to get hold of him since he was suspended. He’s not answering his mobile and his secretary’s fielding all his calls. I thought . . . ’ She shrugged. ‘I thought old habits die hard. He might turn up.’
Tor choked on her drink.
‘Suspended?’
Anna looked at her. ‘Haven’t you heard? Surely you must have? It’s been all over the papers.’
Tor shook her head.
‘He’s being hauled up in front of the General Medical Council. Harry Hunter’s suing him, claiming James broke patient confidentiality and has been leaking information to the press.’
‘James wouldn’t do that!’
Anna was bemused by Tor’s indignance. ‘I don’t think so either. Not really. But they do despise one another. And you can’t keep taking the kind of hits Harry dishes out and not retaliate. Who knows – maybe he did seek revenge.’
Tor looked away. ‘At the very least, he wouldn’t do that to Kate,’ she said. But even as she said it, she realized he would. Look what he’d done to Kate and Monty for his sister’s sake. She’d been disposable once before. Why not again?
‘I’m really worried about him, Tor,’ Anna said, looking around, as if expecting him to walk in. ‘This has really knocked him for six. It’s put his relationship with the royals in jeopardy. Even so much as the suggestion that he’s slipshod with confidentiality could mean he’s out.’ She sighed. ‘And if that happens, I don’t know what he’ll do. It’s not just bread and butter to him. His entire career shadows his father’s. Did you know his father was the royal obstetrician too?’
Tor shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘James went into medicine as a way of keeping close to his father. His parents’ divorce hit him hard when he was young and there was a period when he didn’t see him much at all. I think he chose medicine so it would be their shared world. That’s why there was never any competition when it came to choosing between me and the job, you see.’
Tor nodded, wanting to know more, just as Lot 60 was called.
‘You’re nearly up. We’d better get back in there.’
They darted back into the saleroom, Tor colliding inelegantly with a terrific young blonde who was stalking out. Tor’s bag dropped to the floor and she hurt her elbow against the door jamb, but the blonde didn’t stop, nor apologize, nor miss a stride on her long lissom legs.
‘God! Manners!’ Tor cried after her, feeling horribly matronly as she did so.
She picked up her bag and dusted herself down, trying to gather her c
omposure, looking for Anna in the crowd. Spotting her five rows from the back, she sat down, just as a mythological tableau was being lifted off the easel and carried away. Laetitia’s glossy posse was still there, tossing their long manes about.
‘Ugh, thank God we didn’t have to sit looking at that! What a hideous thing,’ Anna said unequivocally, making Tor giggle.
The champagne had definitely helped fuzz her brain, though her fingers still felt fizzy with adrenalin. She opened her catalogue at the correct page and looked up towards the podium, gasping with delight as a watercolour of three children playing in a stream was carried in.
It was just a watercolour, and quite small, but the two girls and small boy had been beautifully rendered and Tor couldn’t help but clutch her hands to her chest. It could be her own babies. Oh, she wanted it, she wanted it so much!
She looked down quickly. There was no point letting her head go there.
‘You like that?’ Anna whispered. ‘Go for it. It’s a steal. Look, they’re struggling to even make the reserve.’
But Tor shook her head briskly. ‘I’d love to, but I just can’t.’
Anna nodded, just as a new bidder came in and a small bunfight between two paddles ensued, driving the price up to an unexpected £18,000.
‘Wow,’ Anna whistled softly. ‘Just as well, really.’
Tor rubbed her elbow distractedly . . . something about that blonde . . . but said nothing, picking up on the charge in the room as the big guns were wheeled in and the tension tightened. They were at Lot 61, and the bidding was becoming fast and furious, with lots of finger-pointing, chin-tipping, eyebrow-raising and zeros involved.
Finally though, it was her turn. The Reynolds was wheeled in and positioned against the jet velvet, and there was a long respectful silence as everybody took it in, like a pope lying in state.
‘I’m sure this doesn’t need much introduction, Ladies and Gentlemen. Lot 63, our final lot of the sale . . .’ the auctioneer intoned before launching into his overture, pointing rhythmically around the room like a maestro to his orchestra, gathering up the crescendo of bids and sweeping Tor along until she finally, breathlessly, unbelievably, found herself the last note in the symphony and writing out a cheque for £5.7 million.
Chapter Forty-six
Cress started using her elbows as weapons as she pushed past the media scrum in the hallway. She’d had a nightmare getting here. The Euston Road had been closed off as word had got out that Harry Hunter was sequestered in the General Medical Council headquarters, and tourists, fans and stalkers had joined the ranks of journalists prepared to wait outside all day for a word, look or soundbite.
‘For heaven’s sake, move,’ she hissed to yet another fully-paid-up member of the great unwashed who was barring her way to the door. She’d had enough of reporters for one lifetime.
The journalist turned, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as he clocked Cress’s poison dwarf routine. Why was she familiar?
‘It’s you!’ he cried suddenly. ‘The publisher. What’re you doing here? This is a medical hearing.’
‘I’m supporting Harry, of course,’ she lied, through gritted teeth. ‘Now shift. I’m late.’
The journalist opened his mouth to ask her another question but Cress – stressed enough already – gave him a sharp jab just below his ribs (one of the advantages of being so short) and made it past the final frontier.
She fell into the room noisily, slamming the door behind her.
Everyone turned as she stood up and smoothed her hair. As long as the hair was in place . . .
There couldn’t have been more than ten people in there. The hearing was confidential, and only legal representatives and witnesses were present. Cress had wanted to blag Tor as a potential character witness for James, just for the moral support. She still couldn’t believe she was actually doing this.
Kate and Harry were standing off to the right, with their backs to the room.
Cress stared at her friend, so much the same – her usual bling cuffed around her wrists and fingers – and yet so different, with Harry Hunter’s baby in her belly, and his hand on her bum.
Kate, sensing the scrutiny, turned around and stared straight at her. They hadn’t seen each other since that night in Oxford, the night Cress had fought back and dumped her friend in it. Not that Kate knew that – yet.
Kate whispered something to Harry, who turned around and looked at her. Barely able to muster a smile, his face appeared to be set in a mask of cold, indignant anger. He had only one person in his sights today.
Kate walked over, her bump now prominent and taut in her black Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress.
‘How are you?’ she asked casually, stopping in front of Cress.
Cress shrugged. ‘Good. You?’
Kate nodded. ‘I will be, once this is sorted.’ Her hands rested on her tummy.
‘Look, there’s something you should probably hear from me . . .’ Cress began nervously.
A door at the far end of the room opened and a team of four men and two women trooped in.
‘I’d better get back. But I appreciate your support,’ Kate cut in, sounding like a politician on the campaign trail.
Cress watched her walk away. This was going to be so much harder than she’d thought. Although the proceedings in this room were closed to the press and entirely confidential, it didn’t change the fact that she had to sit opposite Harry himself and tell the people in this room everything that had happened. And that was a big problem. She could tell the truth – but not the whole truth. She could admit that she and Harry were using the media as warfare against each other, but she couldn’t reveal why – not without getting them both sent to prison.
The members of the General Medical Council sat in a line at the top table, facing Harry and Kate, and James. A single chair and table was set forwards of theirs, midway in the floor.
The man in the centre of the table, whose place name revealed him to be Mr Bracken, leant forward. ‘We are here today to examine the complaint put before us that Lord White is in breach of his professional duties of care, revealing confidential information to members of the press regarding the pregnancy of Miss Kate Miller.’
Mr Bracken sat back a little and gestured to the empty desk. ‘Lord White, would you come up, please.’
Cress looked over at James, who was wearing a sober grey wool suit and navy tie. She couldn’t see his face but she could see he had lost weight. It made him appear even taller, and she could tell by the stiffness of his movements, and the way he formally buttoned his jacket as he walked, that he was stressed. It helped remind her why she was doing this.
‘Lord White, do you accept the charges that have been levelled at you here?’
‘I do not.’
‘Could you start by recounting, in your own words, your encounters with Miss Miller and Mr Hunter?’
James cleared his throat.
‘Miss Miller and Mr Hunter had booked an appointment to see Mr Fallon, a colleague of mine, at our Harley Street clinic on Tuesday November the 17th of last year. Mr Fallon was called into the Portland on an emergency to deal with an ectopic pregnancy. I agreed to take his clinic for him, that afternoon.’
‘And did Mr Fallon brief you that you were going to be seeing Miss Miller and Mr Hunter?’
‘No, I didn’t have a clinic list until I got to the consulting rooms and I hadn’t spoken to him directly. His secretary had contacted mine and I agreed purely on principle to help him out.’
‘So you didn’t know that he had put Miss Miller and Mr Hunter down as VIPs?’
‘No. Not that it would have made any difference if he had. I have a great many high-profile patients. It doesn’t alter the way I treat any of my patients.’
‘So when was the first you knew that you were treating Mr Fallon’s VIPs?’
‘When I walked into the consulting room.’
‘But I understand that you personally know both Miss Miller and Mr Hunter.’
‘Yes.’
‘So surely, then, you would have recognized their names?’
‘No. I knew Miss Miller by her married name, Marfleet, so I didn’t make a connection when I saw her name on the notes, and obviously, Mr Hunter’s name was not on the cover of the notes. Up until I walked into the consulting room, I had no idea whatsoever that they were even in a relationship.’
‘I see. Please continue, Lord White, with what happened next.’
‘Well, Mr Hunter and Miss Miller were displeased to see that I was their acting consultant and asked to see someone else.’
‘Why were they displeased to see you?’
‘Miss Miller and I had had a disagreement – over a personal matter – a few months before.’
‘And so did you refer them to another consultant?’
‘No. I was the only consultant on duty.’
Mr Bracken smoothed his hair and adjusted his glasses.
‘What was the purpose of their visit?’
‘It was a booking-in appointment.’
‘Why couldn’t a registrar have taken the records and performed the scan?’
‘Miss Miller had a complicated medical history and I felt she needed to be seen by a consultant.’
‘Well, how did you know her medical history?’
‘Because she had been coming to me for IVF treatment, prior to this pregnancy.’
‘With Mr Hunter?’
‘No. With her husband.’
‘Oh. I see.’ There was a terse silence. Cress saw Kate’s head drop a little, and cringed for her. ‘Go on.’
‘I checked Miss Miller’s blood pressure and took bloods and urine samples, checked and measured the fundus, and performed the scan.’
‘Did you leave the consulting room at any time during the appointment?’
‘No.’
‘Not once?’
‘Not once.’
‘Did you speak to the receptionist or any other member of staff, during the appointment?’
‘No. There was no need to.’
‘I see. Then can you explain why Miss Miller and Mr Hunter believe that you tipped off a member of the press that they were at your clinic?’