The Paris Secret (44 page)

‘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,
over
pay 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 been 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.

His head down, keeping out of the rain, he ran up the very steps she was standing on, looking a prince among men. She turned away on instinct, felt the rush of air as he sprinted past, caught a
trace of the smell of him – and that was it, the memories flooded her, crashing down with devastating force.

Why did it have to be him who made her feel like this? Ines had told her that passion rarely follows the rules but the past few weeks had been the worst she’d ever known, trying to
convince herself he was just a Mediterranean storm who’d barrelled into her life, thrown everything against the walls and barrelled out again; after a little clearing up, life would continue
as it had before. Only it hadn’t and she knew it never would. The sun had been pulled from her sky.

She didn’t wait to hear the clatter of the doors being thrown open. She skipped down the steps quickly and turned the corner out of sight, tears blinding her path. The rain fell hard but
she didn’t care, didn’t even notice; it was a good thing, camouflaging her as she stumbled through the crowd.

‘Wait!’

His hand, her wrist. She was swung round in a dance that was becoming their tarantella, her eyes instantly locked on that extraordinary face that commanded spells over her.

‘Flora,’ he panted, flesh and blood and tanned and bergamot-scented and just inches away. She could see the rain in his hair, her face in his eyes.

‘Leave me alone, Xavier!’ she cried, angrily yanking her arm from his grip and attracting searching glances from the commuters hurrying past.