Second Chances (31 page)

He
could
not
have
chosen
a
better
time
to
single
her
out.
Even
though
she
had
studied
in
Paris
for
two
years,
she
hadn't
been
back
for
ages
and
her
small
gallery
in
London
had
become
a
struggle.
It
seemed
in
straightened
times,
buying
art
plummeted
to
the
bottom
of
even
the
most
ardent
collectors
list.
She
needed
an
injection
of
something
to
give
the
gallery
a
lift.
Some
new
French
artists,
might
do
it.
God
knows
she
had
tried
everything
else.
And
then
there,
at
the
reception,
in
the
centre
of
the
room,
surrounded
by
a
wall
full
of
the
work
of
new,
engaging
artists,
had
been
Claude,
talking
to
her
father
who
occasionally
leaned
forward
to
study
the
painting
in
front
of
him.

Etienne
had
whispered,
turning
away
slightly
so
as
not
to
be
suspected
of
gossiping.:
'Wonderful
imagery.
Teaches
at
Beaux
Artes.
Wants
to
start
a
gallery.'

'Must
be
mad,'
she
shuddered.
'Why?'

'Money.
Two
or
maybe
three
children.
I’m
not
sure.
Marriage
broken
up.
Expensive
wife.'

'Is
that
what
he's
bending
Dad's
ear
about?'
He
had
amazing
eyes
she
noticed
when
he
glanced
in
her
direction.
For
some
reason,
she
couldn't
look
away.

Etienne
shrugged.
'Maybe.'
He
took
her
arm
as
he
spoke.
'Come.
Meet
him.'

He
led
her
to
where
they
were
talking.
She
thought
he
said:
'Alice?
This
is
Claude
Fauborge.
Claude?
This
is
Harry's
daughter.
You
may
have
heard
of
her
gallery.
In
London?'

Of
course
he
hadn't
heard
of
her.
Or
her
tiny,
narrow
gallery
perched
on
the
corner
of
Jacobs
Yard
on
a
gently
bustling
corner
in
Pimlico,
but
he
had
politely
agreed
that
he
had.
She
took
in
dark
curly
hair,
pale
olive
skin,
and
little
darts
of
grey
around
the
temples.
Mid
thirties?
Not
especially
tall.
Even
white
teeth.
And
he
had
not
taken
his
eyes
off
her
face.
Later,
Grace,
Alice's
best
friend,
said
it
had
been
a
coup
de
foudre.
Alice
said
if
that
felt
like
being
dropped
without
a
parachute
down
a
cliff,
then
quite
possibly.

On
her
advice,
Harry
had
bought
the
painting.
A
retirement
present,
he
had
said,
for
someone
on
the
board.
It
was
a
mesmerising
piece
of
work.
Impressionist.
A
shaft
of
sunlight
on
the
Seine
at
its
modest
source
in
Dijon.

'You
like
it?'
Claude
had
asked
carefully
as
the
others
moved
away.

'More
than
like
it,'
she
had
said.

She
had
felt
ridiculously
breathless
and
at
the
same
time
annoyed,
that
her
father
could
even
think
of
giving
such
a
painting
to
just
anyone.
In
a
few
years
it
would
be
worth
a
fortune.
Of
that
she
was
certain.
'Could
we,'
Alice
remembered
saying
to
Claude.
'I
mean,
would
you,
like
to
talk
about
having
one
or
two
in
my
gallery?
In
London?'

She
never
made
Le
Meurice.

Within
days,
in
the
shadow
of
his
energy
and
passion
that
seemed
to
be
built
into
his
very
bones,
Alice
was
no
longer
capable
of
rational
thought.
In
awe
of
his
capacity
to
live
his
life
just
the
way
she
had
often
dreamed
she
would
lead
hers,
passionately,
alive,
aware
of
colour,
sounds,
feelings.
They
spoke
in
French
because
Claude's
English
was
practically
non-existent
and
so
hilariously
wrong
when
he
tried,
and
her
French
was
almost
fluent
-
it
was
much
easier.
They
still
did.

She
spent
her
days
wanting
to
make
him
happy,
and
it
was
so
easy
when
he
openly
adored
her,
gently
teased
her
and
made
her
feel
clever.
Never
in
her
life
had
she
been
so
pursued,
so
loved.
No-one
could
take
it
away.
No-one.
Not
even
her
father,
now
standing
in
front
of
her,
demanding
that
she
abandoned
her
whole
future.

The
phone
in
her
pocket
vibrated.
Alice
clutched
it,
fumbled
for
the
button
and
switched
it
off.
Not
now.

'For
heaven's
sake,
girl,'
Harry
leaned
across
the
table
glaring
at
her.
His
face
was
now
not
red
but
quite
pale.
'Do
you
think
I'd
part
with
a
penny
of
my
money
to
someone
so
blatantly
using
my
daughter?'