Ronnie grinned, touched her cup to Becky’s and took a swig of scalding tea.
Charlie shook his head. ‘I guess there’s no better way to start a friendship than with someone getting fired.’
‘There certainly are worse ways,’ said Ronnie darkly, taking the largest plate off the tray and sliding it in front of Charlie. She was treating him to one of her tasting platters, usually reserved for clients visiting to discuss a large commission. The six dainty slices were each inspired by a flavour of ice cream, from raspberry ripple to mint choc chip.
As Charlie investigated the handwritten labels beneath each slice, Becky was distracted by a far less appetising prospect. She sniffed in Dylan’s direction and wrinkled her nose. ‘Excuse us,’ she said, lifting Dylan out of his buggy and rustling in the nappy bag for essential supplies. ‘We’re off to change someone’s stinky bum.’
As soon as the door to the customer toilets closed, Ronnie tapped Charlie on the back of the hand. ‘So what do you think of Becky’s plan for you?’
Dragging his senses away from the cakes in front of him, Charlie was caught off guard. He was never comfortable talking to people he had just met and he didn’t want to talk about Becky behind her back. Plus he didn’t know how much Ronnie knew or was supposed to know.
But, good God, her stare could cut through lead.
‘Um. She seems confident about it.’
Ronnie grabbed Charlie’s arm and squeezed. ‘I know right now you think she’s some bossy cow who’s full of shit. But I warn you …’ She narrowed her eyes and wagged a finger at him. ‘I know Becky and you shouldn’t underestimate her. Yeah, you’ll probably want to kill her at some point, but she’ll make your dreams come true. Even if she has to go to hell and back to do it.’
Chapter 11
The oak door was solid and forbidding. Ignoring her trembling fingers, Becky laid her palm flat against it and closed her eyes. Beyond it was just another room in South Compton Country Club. A venue she had worked so many times it was practically her office. Nothing to be scared of.
She wiped her clammy hand on her skirt, balled it into a fist and knocked on the door.
‘Enter,’ boomed a voice from within.
Becky inhaled, pushed back her shoulders and stepped over the threshold.
The oak continued on the other side of the door. Dark panelling covered the walls, broken by the fireplace on the wall opposite her. A fire burned high in the grate despite the sweltering heat outside and, for the first time, Becky was pleased she’d switched her comfortable trousers and boots for a skirt and strappy sandals. Her heels were low, but sank into the deep-pile carpet as she approached the two high-backed chairs facing the fire. A discarded newspaper lying next to the chair on the left and a pair of black patent shoe tips in front of it were the only signs the room was occupied.
Unsure how to proceed, Becky cleared her throat.
A hand appeared on the arm of the chair, a silver pocket watch resting beneath its short, pudgy fingers. ‘Right on time,’ the voice said, its owner punctuating the comment by snapping the watch closed. ‘An excellent start. Do take a seat, Ms Watson.’
The tickle in her throat was now real. She coughed again and did her best to glide through the carpet, which sucked at her unfamiliar heels like a bog. Reaching the chair without falling over was an achievement and Becky sank onto the paisley upholstery with relief.
Unlike her, Lloyd Blake was clearly in his element. Snugly tucked into his armchair, a crystal brandy snifter cupped in his left hand, he eyed her, unblinking, the reflected firelight dancing across the toes of his shoes. Lloyd had been a club patron for forty years and was once an admired host and honoured guest of the Comptons’ most dazzling high-society soirées. From the whispers Clarice had been able to gather, Becky knew exhibition openings had been Lloyd’s particular favourite. And looking at him now, with his thick silver quiff, piercing blue eyes, crisp-cut suit and gold signet ring, she could imagine him standing in the centre of rooms lined with beautiful art and people, watching as the suns and stars of Compton society danced to his tune.
But that was years ago, before disgrace and downfall.
Lloyd sipped his drink and studied her over the rim of the glass. She wondered if she should speak first, but somehow that didn’t feel right. If you willingly enter the dragon’s lair, best to wait to see how it will react, rather than poke it. That said, his gaze was far from reptilian. In fact, it seemed amused and warm. She adjusted her glasses to stop her hands twitching and caught sight of the dry skin on her knuckles. Lloyd was sure to have noticed; she bet most of the women he dealt with had silky hands and fresh manicures. But then they didn’t change their children’s nappies, scrub floors or mishandle hot pans.
She folded her hands in her lap, palms upwards. Lloyd watched the movement and smiled. ‘It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Ms Watson.’
‘Likewise, Mr Blake.’
‘Of course, I’d heard of your work and hoped our paths might cross one day. But when your friend suggested a meeting … Delightful girl. Clarry, Clara …?
‘Clarice.’
‘That’s it.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Hugh Barry’s girl. Cornered me at one of her aunt’s ghastly socials. Although she did rescue me from having to be civil to that dreadful cousin of hers, so I owed her. And here you are.’ He placed his drink on the table. ‘So, down to business. You have a proposition for me in connection with John Handren, I believe. Although I suppose you call him Charlie.’
Becky’s mouth went dry. Used to working in the shadows, it was unsettling to come across anyone who knew about her work at all, let alone the details. And, while she was more comfortable using subtlety to get her way, this was one occasion when she guessed it would be best to get straight to the point.
‘I want Mr Handren to have a solo exhibition of his new works in a South Compton gallery—a good one—in the new year,’ she said. ‘And I would like you to use your influence to help get him the show.’
The fingers of Lloyd’s right hand clasped the arm of the chair, but his face remained immobile. It was a big ask. But Becky had hoped he’d be flattered. After all, no one had appreciated this man’s talents for twenty years, when once he had been surrounded by acolytes keen to benefit from his support.
Lloyd Blake had appeared in South Compton in the late 1980s, sidling in on the back of a rumour, apparently self-sown, that he was a possible heir to the extinct earldom. The gossip opened doors, but it was his charm and intelligence which earned him the respect of the more rarefied tiers of local society, and his wealth won over any who were reluctant to subscribe to his fan club.
Working his way up the pecking order, he’d entered into business with several gallery owners. And his star rose until an aggrieved former associate put it about that Lloyd’s claim to the earldom was a farce and he had, in fact, built his fortune in property development. Why, the man was little more than a common builder!
Feeling duped by an upstart fraud, Compton’s great and good turned their chipped shoulders away from him. Yet they didn’t dare turn their faces for fear he would fashion a dagger out of the dirt he had quietly compiled on each and every one of them and use it to stab them in the back.