Mini Shopaholic (22 page)

In fact, I’m beginning to
feel
guilty. I feel like I’ve just maxed out my credit card and all the stuff is hidden under the bed.

‘Becky …’ Luke passes a hand over his brow. ‘What the hell is going on?’

‘Nothing!’

‘Nothing.’ He gives me a sceptical look.

‘Nothing at all.’ I try to sound firm and confident. Although I’m now wondering if I’ve overdone it.

Maybe he’s not fooled by my act for a moment. Maybe he’s thinking, ‘Well, she obviously
hasn’t
been shopping so what else could she be trying to hide, aha, I know, a party.’

For a few moments we just look at each other. I’m breathing hard and my hand is still clenched round the handle of the bin drawer.

‘Found?’ Minnie’s voice breaks the spell. She’s standing in the middle of the room with her hands clasped tightly over her eyes, which is how she hides.

‘Becky!’ Dad appears at the door. ‘Darling, you’d better come. You’ve got a delivery.’

‘Oh, right,’ I say, taken aback. I wasn’t expecting a delivery. What can this be?

‘Found?’ Minnie’s voice rises to a wail.
‘Found?’

‘Found
you!’ Luke and I hastily say in unison. ‘Well done, Minnie!’ I add as she opens her eyes and beams proudly at us. ‘Very good hiding! Who’s this delivery from?’ I turn to Dad again.

‘It’s a van from fashionpack.co.uk,’ says Dad as we follow him out to the hall. ‘Quite a lot of stuff, apparently.’

‘Really?’ I wrinkle my brow. ‘That can’t be right. I haven’t been shopping on fashionpack.co.uk. I mean, not recently.’

I can see Luke eyeing me quizzically, and flush. ‘I
haven’t
, OK? It must be a mistake.’

‘Delivery for Rebecca Brandon,’ the delivery guy says as I reach the front door. ‘If you could sign here …’ He holds out an electronic device and a stylus.

‘Wait a minute!’ I hold up my hands. ‘I’m not signing anything. I didn’t order anything from you! I mean, I don’t
remember
ordering anything—’

‘Yeah, you did.’ He sounds bored, as though he’s heard this before. ‘Sixteen items.’

‘Sixteen?’
My jaw drops.

‘I’ll show you the receipt if you like.’ He rolls his eyes and heads back to the van.

Sixteen
items?

OK, this makes no sense. How can I have ordered sixteen items from fashionpack.co.uk and not even remember? Am I getting Alzheimer’s?

A minute ago I was pretending to be guilty about shopping, and now it’s all coming true, like some kind of bad dream. How can this be happening? Did I somehow
make
it happen?

I suddenly notice Luke and Dad exchanging looks above my head.

‘I didn’t do it!’ I say, rattled. ‘I didn’t order anything! It must have been some kind of weird computer glitch.’

‘Becky, not the computer-glitch excuse again,’ says Luke wearily.

‘It’s not an excuse, it’s true! I didn’t order this stuff.’

‘Well
someone
clearly did.’

‘Maybe my identity’s been stolen. Or maybe I was sleep-shopping!’ I say in sudden inspiration.

Oh my God. Now, that makes
total
sense. It explains everything. I’m a secret sleep-shopper. I can see myself rising silently from my bed, coming downstairs with a glassy stare, logging on to the computer, tapping in my credit-card details …

But then, why didn’t I buy that fab bag from Net-A-Porter that I’ve been lusting after? Does my sleep-shopping self have no taste?

Could I write a note to my sleep-shopping self?

‘
Sleep-shopping?’
Luke raises an eyebrow. ‘That’s a new one.’

‘No it’s not,’ I retort. ‘Sleepwalking’s a very common ailment, I think you’ll find, Luke. And I expect sleep-shopping is, too.’

The more I think about this theory, the more sure I feel that it’s true. It would explain so much about my life. In fact, I’m starting to feel a bit resentful towards all those people who’ve given me a hard time over the years. I bet they’d change their tune if they knew I suffered from a highly specialized medical condition.

‘It’s very dangerous for you to wake the person when they’re in a trance,’ I inform Luke. ‘It can give them a heart attack. You just have to let them carry on.’

‘I see.’ Luke’s mouth starts to twitch. ‘So if I see you buying up the whole of Jimmy Choo online in your PJs I just have to stand back and let you do it, otherwise you’ll die of a coronary?’

‘Only if it’s in the middle of the night and I’ve got a glassy stare,’ I explain.

‘My darling.’ Luke gives a short laugh. ‘It’s
always
in the middle of the night and you
always
have a glassy stare.’

He has such a nerve.

‘I do
not
have a glassy stare!’ I’m beginning furiously, as the guy returns from the van.

‘Here you are.’ He shoves a piece of paper at me. ‘Sixteen Miu Miu coats in green.’

‘Sixteen coats?’ I stare at the page disbelievingly. ‘Why on earth would I order sixteen coats, all the same colour and size?’

To be honest, I have
looked
at this coat online, and I even put it in my basket, but I never actually—

My thoughts stop mid-flow. A sudden, terrible picture is coming to me. My laptop, left open in the kitchen. The page open. Minnie, clambering on to a chair …

Oh my God, she
can’t
have done.

‘Minnie, did you press the buttons on Mummy’s computer?’ I turn to Minnie in horror.

‘You’re kidding.’ Luke looks staggered. ‘She couldn’t do that!’

‘She could! She can use a mouse easily. And that website has got a one-click button. If she just bashed at the keyboard enough times and clicked enough times …’

‘You mean to say,
Minnie
ordered these?’ Dad looks equally flabbergasted.

‘Well, if
I
didn’t, and Luke didn’t …’

‘Where shall I put them?’ The delivery guy interrupts us. ‘Inside the front door?’

‘No! I don’t want them! You’ll have to take them back.’

‘Can’t do that.’ He shakes his head. ‘If you want to return ‘em, you’ll have to take delivery, use the return form and send ‘em back.’

‘But what’s the point of taking delivery?’ I say in frustration. ‘I don’t
want
them.’

‘Well, next time you don’t want something, can I suggest you don’t order it?’ says the delivery guy, and gives a hoarse chuckle at his own wit. Next thing I know, he’s lifting a big box down from the back of the van. It’s about the size of Dad.

‘Is that all of them? Actually, it’s not as bad as I thought.’

‘That’s one.’ The guy corrects me. ‘Come individually packaged on a hanging rail, they do.’ Already he’s hefting down another one. I stare in horror. What are we going to do with sixteen great big coats in boxes?

‘You are a naughty, naughty girl, Minnie.’ I can’t help taking it out on her. ‘You do
not
order Miu Miu coats off the internet. And I am going to … to … cut your pocket money this week!’

‘Miiiine box!’ Minnie reaches longingly towards the boxes, her honey sandwich still in her hand.

‘What’s all this?’ Mum appears out of the front door. ‘What are these?’ She gestures at the massive boxes. They look like upturned coffins, standing there in a row.

‘There’s been a mix-up,’ I say hurriedly. ‘They’re not staying. I’m going to return them as soon as I can.’

‘That’s eight …’ The guy hefts another one down. He’s enjoying this, I can tell.

‘There are sixteen in all,’ says Dad. ‘Maybe we can fit some in the garage.’

‘But the garage is full!’ says Mum.

‘Or the dining room …’

‘No.’ Mum starts shaking her head wildly. ‘No. No. Becky, this really is enough. Do you hear me? It’s enough! We can’t deal with any more of your stuff!’

‘It’s only for a day or two …’

‘That’s what you always say! That’s what you said when you moved in here! We can’t do it any more!
We can’t deal with your stuff any more!’
She sounds hysterical.

‘It’s only another two weeks, Jane.’ Dad takes hold of her shoulders. ‘Come on now. Another two weeks. We can do it. We’re going to count it down, day by day, remember? One day at a time. Yes?’

It’s like he’s coaching her to get through labour, or a prisoner-of-war camp. Having us to stay is the equivalent of a –
prisoner-of-war camp?

And all of a sudden I’m stricken with mortification. I can’t put Mum through this any more. We have to go. We have to move out right now, before she loses it completely.

‘It’s not two weeks!’ I say hurriedly. ‘It’s … two days! That’s what I was about to tell you. We’re moving out in two days!’

‘Two
days?’
echoes Luke incredulously.

‘Yes! Two days!’ I avoid his gaze.

Two days should give us enough time to pack. And find somewhere to rent.

‘What?’ Mum lifts her head from Dad’s chest. ‘Two days?’

‘Yes! The house suddenly all came together, so we’re moving out. I meant to tell you.’

‘You’re really going in two days?’ falters Mum, as if she can’t let herself believe it.

‘Promise.’ I nod.

‘Hallelujah,’ says the delivery guy. ‘If you could sign, madam?’ His eyes swivel to his lorry. ‘Oi! Young lady!’

I follow his gaze and gasp. Shit. Minnie’s climbed up into the cab of his lorry.

‘Drive!’ she yells joyously, her hands on the wheel. ‘Miiiine drive!’

‘Sorry!’ I hurry to get her down. ‘Minnie, what on
earth
are you—’ I clap a hand to my mouth.

There’s honey smeared all over the steering wheel. Honey and crumbs are decorating the seat and the window and the gear stick.

‘Minnie!’ I say furiously, under my breath. ‘You naughty girl! What have you
done?’
A horrible thought suddenly strikes me. ‘Where’s your sandwich? What have you done with it? Where did you—’

My gaze falls on the built-in tape player.

Oh … bloody hell.

The lorry driver was amazingly nice, bearing in mind he’d just delivered sixteen coats to someone who didn’t want them and then her daughter shoved a honey sandwich inside his tape machine. It only took about half an hour to clean everything up, and we’ve promised him a state-of-the-art replacement.

As the lorry disappears out of the drive Mum and Dad head into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and Luke practically hauls me upstairs.

‘Two days?’ he demands in a whisper. ‘We’re moving out in two
days?’

‘We have to, Luke! Look, I’ve got it all planned. We’ll find a rental place and we’ll tell Mum we’re moving into the house and everyone will be happy.’

Luke is regarding me as though I have a screw loose.

‘But she’ll want to visit, Becky. Hadn’t you thought of that?’

‘We won’t let her! We’ll put her off until the house has been sorted out. We’ll say we want everything to be perfect first. Luke, we don’t have any choice,’ I add defensively. ‘If we stay here any longer we’ll give her a nervous breakdown!’

Luke mutters something under his breath. It sounds a bit like, ‘You’re going to give
me
a bloody nervous breakdown.’

‘Well, have you got a better idea?’ I retort, and Luke is silent.

‘And what about Minnie?’ he says at length.

‘What do you mean, what about Minnie? She’ll come with us, of course!’

‘I didn’t mean that.’ He clicks his tongue. ‘I meant, what are we going to do about her? I take it you’re as concerned by what just happened as I am?’

‘By the honey sandwich?’ I say in astonishment. ‘Come on, Luke, relax. It was just one of those things, all children do it—’

‘You’re in denial! Becky, she’s getting wilder every day. I think we need to take extreme action. Don’t you agree?’

Extreme action?
What’s
that
supposed to mean?

‘No, I don’t.’ I feel a little chilly around my spine. ‘I don’t think she needs “extreme action”, whatever that is.’

‘Well, I do.’ He’s looking grave and not quite meeting my eye. ‘I’m going to make some calls.’

What calls?

‘Luke, Minnie isn’t some kind of
problem
,’ I say, my voice suddenly a little shaky. ‘And who are you calling, anyway? You shouldn’t call anyone without telling me first!’

‘You’d tell me not to!’ He sounds exasperated. ‘Becky, one of us has to do
something
. I’m going to sound out a couple of child experts.’ He pulls out his BlackBerry and checks it, and something inside me flips.

‘What experts? What do you mean?’ I grab his BlackBerry. ‘Tell me!’

‘Give that back!’ His voice rises harshly and he pulls the BlackBerry out of my grasp.

I stare at him in shock, blood pulsing through my cheeks. He really meant that. He really didn’t want me to see. Is this about Minnie? Or … something else?

‘What’s the secret?’ I say at last. ‘Luke, what are you hiding?’

‘Nothing,’ he says defensively. ‘There’s work-in-progress on there. Rough stuff. Sensitive stuff. I don’t like anyone seeing it.’

Yeah, right. His eyes keep flicking to his BlackBerry. He’s lying. I know it.

‘Luke, you’re keeping something from me.’ I swallow hard. ‘I know you are. We’re a couple! We shouldn’t have secrets from each other!’

‘You
can talk!’ He throws back his head and laughs. ‘My darling, I don’t know whether it’s shopping, or some massive debt, or you really
are
having Botox … but there’s
something
going on that you don’t want me to know about. Isn’t there?’

Shit.

‘No there is not!’ I say hotly. ‘Absolutely not!’

Please let him think it’s shopping, please let him think it’s shopping …

There’s an odd, tingly pause, then Luke shrugs.

‘Fine. Well then … neither of us is hiding anything.’

‘Fine.’ I lift my chin. ‘Agreed.’

THIRTEEN

As soon as I get up the next morning I call Bonnie’s line and leave an urgent message for her to call back.
She’ll
tell me what’s going on. Downstairs at breakfast there’s a prickly atmosphere, and Luke keeps glancing warily at me as though he’s not sure how to proceed.

‘So!’ he suddenly says in fake, cheerful tones. ‘Big day today. I’m trying to arrange a meeting with Sir Bernard Cross’s right-hand man, Christian Scott-Hughes. We feel Sir Bernard might be sympathetic to the climate-technology cause.’

God, he’s transparent. He’s not going to tell me about whatever-it-is on the BlackBerry … so instead he’s offering me some boring old piece of information about climate technology and he thinks that’ll fool me.

‘Fab,’ I say politely.

Actually, I
am
quite impressed. Sir Bernard Cross is massive. (In both senses: he’s always in the news because of being a billionaire philanthropist with lots of extreme views, and he weighs about twenty-five stone.)

‘Christian Scott-Hughes is Sir Bernard’s executive director and hugely influential,’ Luke is saying. ‘If we can win him round, then we’re a long way down the road.’

‘Why don’t you go and meet Bernard Cross himself?’ I say, and Luke gives a little laugh.

‘Sir Bernard doesn’t just meet people,’ he says. ‘That’s like saying, “Why don’t we just meet the Queen herself?” You don’t do that. You go through layers. You work the system.’

I don’t get that at all. If I wanted to see the Queen, I’d aim to see the Queen. But there’s no point saying that to Luke, because he’ll just give me some lecture about how I don’t understand the complexities of his business, like that time when I suggested matchmaking all his single clients.

And anyway, I don’t really care one way or the other about Sir Bernard Big-belly

‘How about you?’ He drains his coffee. ‘Work OK?’

‘Booming, actually,’ I say smugly. ‘Our appointment book is fuller than it’s ever been and the managing director just sent me an email telling me how brilliant I am.’

Luke gives an incredulous laugh. ‘I don’t know how you do it. Every other sector is dead, but you’re still managing to sell expensive designer clothes …’ His face suddenly blanches. ‘Becky, please tell me you’re not just selling them all to yourself.’

I gasp with affront. Number one, I made a promise, which I am
keeping
. Number two, if I was doing that, then why would I be standing here in a skirt which I bought five years ago from Barneys?

‘If you
really
want to know,’ I say haughtily, ‘we at The Look have a unique approach to fashion selling which is seeing us through the difficult times.’

I won’t explain that ‘unique’ means ‘we hide the clothes in computer-paper boxes’. Luke doesn’t need to hear every tedious little detail of my job, does he?

‘Well, all power to you then.’ Luke gives me a disarming smile. ‘I have to go. Give my love to Suze.’

I’m meeting Suze before work to see Ernie’s art exhibition at his school and – hopefully – bump into his headmistress. (I’ve prepared all sorts of cutting remarks. She’ll be quaking in her boots by the time I’ve finished with her.) And then we’re both going on to The Look for the big promotional tie-in meeting.

This is the other reason why my star is so high at work at the moment: my idea about linking Danny’s new collection with Shetland Shortbread totally worked! The whole collection is centred around tartan, so it’s perfect. They’re doing a special offer and joint publicity, and it’s all in association with the British Wool Marketing Board, and the promotional shoot took place on Tarkie’s farm with super-thin models standing amid herds of Tarkie’s sheep. And the best bit is, it was all my idea, and now everyone’s really impressed.

Jasmine said the other day that maybe they’d even make me a director! Of course, I instantly gave a modest little laugh and said, ‘Oh, rubbish.’ But I’ve already worked out what I could wear for my first board meeting – this amazing pale-yellow jacket from the new Burberry Prorsum collection, over dark pinstriped trousers. (I mean, you’re allowed to buy new clothes if you get on the
board
of something. Even Luke must know that.)

On my way to St Cuthbert’s two emails arrive on my BlackBerry which make me want to whoop. The first is from Bonnie, which she obviously sent last night. It says we’ve had forty-three acceptances already. Forty-three! I can’t
believe
Luke is so popular!

No. That came out wrong. Obviously I can.

But still, forty-three in two days! And that’s not even counting all the Brandon Communications staff, who still don’t know there’s a party but think they’re going to a conference.

And the other is from Kentish English Sparkling Wine. They want to provide drinks for the party! They’re sending me fifty bottles! All they ask is that they can issue a press release and publish photos of Luke and his guests enjoying their high-quality product. I mean, I’ve never tasted Kentish English Sparkling Wine, but I’m sure it’s delicious.

I can’t help feeling proud as I stride along. I am doing
so
well. I’ve got the marquee, the drinks, the canapés, the pompoms,
and
I’ve booked a professional fire-eater called Alonzo, who doubles as a Country and Western singer, if we want it. (He doesn’t sing Country and Western songs
while
he’s fire-eating. He gets changed and calls himself Alvin.)

St Cuthbert’s is in one of those posh white squares with lots of railings and stucco, and I’m nearly at the school gate when my mobile rings and shows Suze’s ID.

‘Suze!’ I greet her. ‘I’m just outside. Where shall I meet you?’

‘I’m not there! I’m at the doctor’s.’ Suze sounds despairing. ‘Ernie has a terrible earache. We’ve been up all night. I won’t be able to come to The Look, either.’

‘Oh, poor you! Well … should I just leave?’

‘No, don’t be silly! Go to the exhibition and grab yourself a cake. They’ll be delicious. Half the mothers have done a cordon-bleu course. And you could always look at Ernie’s painting,’ she adds, as though it’s an afterthought.

‘Of
course
I’ll look at Ernie’s painting!’ I say firmly. ‘And we must meet up as soon as Ernie’s better.’

‘Definitely.’ Suze pauses. ‘So … how are you?’ she adds. ‘How are the party preparations going?’

‘Great, thanks,’ I say ebulliently. ‘All under control.’

‘Because Tarkie and I had this great idea, if you’re serving coffee …’

I feel a flash of annoyance. No one will believe I can do this, will they? Everyone assumes I’m totally incompetent and can’t even serve coffee properly.

‘Suze, for the last time, I don’t need your help!’ The words shoot out before I can stop them. ‘I can do it on my own! So leave me alone!’

Instantly I regret sounding so harsh. There’s silence at the other end and I can feel my cheeks turning pink.

‘Suze …’ I swallow. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘You know, Bex, sometimes people
want
to help.’ Suze cuts me off, her voice suddenly trembling. ‘And it’s not always about
you
, OK? It’s not because we think you can’t do it. It’s because Luke isn’t just your husband, he’s our friend too, and we wanted to do something nice for him. Tarkie suggested getting the Shetland Shortbread guys to come up with a special shortbread recipe just for Luke. And we thought we could serve it at the party with the coffee. But fine, if you’re that prickly we won’t. Forget it. I have to go.’

‘Suze—’

It’s too late. She’s gone. I try redialling but get the busy signal.

Oh God. She sounded really hurt. Maybe I
was
a bit defensive. But how was I supposed to know she had special shortbread?

For a few moments I just stand there, wincing. Should I text her?

No. She’s too angry with me. I’ll just wait till she’s cooled down a bit. And maybe had a night’s sleep.

There’s nothing I can do right now. I might as well go in and have a cake.

I head through the school gates, past all the babbling mothers, and follow signs to the exhibition. It’s being held in an airy hall with a parquet floor, and I can already see what Suze means about the cakes. There’s a whole trestle table of candy-coloured macaroons and mini chocolate brownies, and lots of very toned mummies in low-slung jeans, holding cups of coffee and eyeing up the goodies with hostile eyes. Not a single one is eating a cake – so why do they bother to have them?

‘Hi!’ I approach the trestle table, where a well-groomed blonde woman is serving. ‘I’d like a chocolate brownie, please.’

‘Of course!’ She hands me a tiny sliver of brownie in a napkin. ‘Five pounds, please.’

Five quid? For two bites?

‘All for the school!’ She trills with laughter that sounds like icicles and puts my fiver into a felt-covered cash box, trimmed with gingham. ‘Now, are you a new Reception mummy? Because we
are
expecting the decorated gingerbread houses by Tuesday, and response
has
been a little disappointing—’

‘I’m not a mummy,’ I hastily correct her. ‘At least, not here. I’m just a visitor. My daughter isn’t at school yet.’

‘Ah. I see.’ The interest in her eyes dies a little. ‘So where will your daughter be going?’

‘I don’t know.’ My voice is muffled by the brownie, which is absolutely scrumptious. ‘She’s only two.’

‘Two months.’ The woman nods knowingly. ‘Well, you’ll have to get your skates on …’

‘No, two.’ I swallow the brownie. ‘Two years old.’

‘Two years old?’ The woman seems riveted. ‘And you haven’t started?’

‘Er … no.’

‘You haven’t got her down anywhere?’ She stares at me with wide, twitchy eyes.
‘Nowhere?’

OK, this woman is freaking me out, with her super-white teeth and stressy manner. I mean, I know schools get full up and everything. But come on, even the waiting list for that new Prada bag was only a year. No school can be more exclusive than a limited-edition Prada bag, surely?

‘Thanks so much for the brownie!’ I quickly walk away. Now I feel all anxious, like I’ve missed the boat and I didn’t even know there
was
a boat. They should have
Vogue
for schools. They should have this month’s Must-Have and Latest Trends and timings for all the waiting lists. Then you’d
know
.

Anyway, I’m not going to get obsessive about this. We’ll get Minnie into a lovely school, I know we will.

I wonder where Madonna sends her kids to school. I mean, not that I’d send Minnie to a school because of the celebrities. Obviously not.

But still. Maybe I’ll look it up online. Just out of interest.

I buy myself a coffee and then head towards the art. Most of the paintings are of flowers, and when I get to Ernie’s picture, right in the corner, I’m a bit startled. It’s … different. It’s very dark and splodgy, and shows a sheep on a dark background that might be a moor …

Ah. Looking more closely, I think the sheep is dead.

Well. There’s nothing
wrong
with painting a picture of a dead sheep, is there? And the blood trickling from its mouth is quite realistic. I’ll say that to Suze, when we’ve made up. Yes. I’ll say, ‘I loved the blood! It had such … movement!’

‘… absolutely revolting!’

‘Gross!’

I become aware of a cluster of little girls, also looking at the painting. One of them has perfect blonde French plaits and a hand clamped over her mouth.

‘I feel sick,’ she declares. ‘You know who painted this?
Ernest.’

‘He’s
always
drawing sheep,’ says another one derisively. ‘It’s all he can do.’

The others break into bitchy giggles, and I stare at them, livid. They all look like junior versions of Alicia Bitch Long-legs. A bell rings and they hurry off, which is a good thing, otherwise I probably would have said something undignified and immature involving the word ‘cows’.

Suddenly I notice a woman with dark hair in a bun and a queenly air sweeping the room, smiling graciously at people and having short conversations. I watch on tenterhooks as she nears me.

Yes! I thought so. On the lapel of her cardigan is a badge saying ‘Harriet Grayson MA, Headmistress’. This is the one who’s been giving Ernie a hard time.

Well, I’ll give
her
a hard time. Especially as I still feel guilty about snapping at Suze.

‘Hello.’ She smiles at me and extends her hand. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to remind me, are you in Reception?’

‘Oh, I’m not a parent at the school,’ I begin. ‘I’m …’

I was going to launch into, ‘I’m Ernest Cleath-Stuart’s godmother and I’ve got a few things to say to you.’ But now I have an even better idea. No one knows me here, do they?

‘Actually, I’m a professional art scout,’ I say coolly.

‘An
art
scout?’ She looks taken aback.

‘Yes, Professor Rebecca Bloomwood from the Guggenheim junior department. I’m sorry, I don’t have my card.’ I shake her hand in a brisk, professional way. ‘I’m over here on business. We scouts like to visit school art events incognito, assess the new talent coming through. And I’ve found some, right here.’

I point at Ernie’s dark, splodgy painting and the headmistress follows my gaze uncertainly.

‘That’s by Ernest Cleath-Stuart,’ she says at last. ‘An interesting child, Ernest.’

‘Incredibly
gifted, as I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you.’ I nod gravely. ‘Look at the subtle way he plants his message in the … the texture.’ I gesture at the sheep. ‘Look at the form. So easy to underestimate. But as a professional, I saw it at once.’

The headmistress’s brow is wrinkled as she peers at the painting.

‘Quite,’ she says at last.

‘I’m sure an excellent school such as yours is drawing out this unique child and nurturing him.’ I smile at her with gimlet eyes. ‘Because, believe me, you have something very special there. Does he have a scholarship for art?’

‘Ernest? A
scholarship?’
The headmistress seems pole-axed at the very idea. ‘Well, no …’

‘I foresee other schools wishing to poach this extraordinary talent.’ I give her another gimlet smile and glance at my watch. ‘Unfortunately I must go now, but thank you for your time.’