So he stayed on in the area he had made his home, occupying a strange limbo where he was neither shunned nor welcomed, but met with an icy civility. Nevertheless, Becky understood a few calls from him could still move mountains. But even then her request was ambitious. The timescale was daunting, Charlie was damaged goods thanks to the ridiculous article in New Aesthetics, and would any gallery owner be happy to speak to her—an unknown—even if she had an introduction from Lloyd? Just how much power did he still have?
Becky started as Lloyd broke out of his reverie to chuckle. ‘That’s quite the favour, young lady.’ He steepled his fingertips. ‘And why should I use what influence I have to help you and Mr Handren? I have no need for more money. How do you propose to tempt me into taking part in your scheme?’
Had the fire got hotter? Becky fidgeted as she felt sweat forming on her brow. This was the tricky bit. She wished she had a stunning inducement to offer, but she was basing her hopes on one of the Comptons’ oldest rumours and pop psychology. Word was that he was on the verge of retirement. She imagined Lloyd, who had spent a lifetime plotting and manoeuvring, controlling every aspect of his empire, would be dreading letting go. A shark doesn’t stop swimming willingly, even if Clarice said he had some young protégé ready to take over. And then there was the more sentimental appeal of her plan: the chance to recover a long-lost love. If he had ever loved her. That was a matter of some debate.
Another bead of sweat inched its way down her neck. She was either about to get the help she needed to make dreams come true or offend a man who could snap his fingers and stop her from working in the Comptons ever again. She thought of Charlie slumped on the couch in his studio, Phoebe’s doe-eyed worry and Dylan’s beautiful face, and prayed what she was about to say would go down well.
‘First, by helping us you will be back at the centre of Compton’s art set,’ she said. ‘Second, my plan would allow you to greatly upset Barbara Stone before delighting her in equal measure.’ She leant towards him and lowered her voice, inviting him to mirror her movements. ‘And finally, I think you would enjoy taking part in my plan immensely.’ Job done, she sat back. There was nothing left to do but to wait and see whether he would come on board or throw her over.
Lloyd took a gulp of brandy. He eased himself out of the chair, paced over to the fireplace and rested one hand on the mantelpiece. She couldn’t be sure, but for a moment Becky thought his fingers had been trembling.
‘Barbara Stone, you say?’
‘The one and only,’ said Becky.
‘And how would we upset a woman who is as immoveable as her name suggests?’
Becky exhaled. Questions were good. Questions meant he was considering it. ‘Mr Handren’s show will be at the Coulson.’ She let the penny hang for a beat, then fired the shot to knock it out of the air. ‘Rachel Stone is the Coulson’s latest manager.’
Lloyd’s shoulders began to shake. Becky braced herself for an explosive tirade, but was surprised when he threw his head back and roared with laughter.
She smiled. He was halfway to liking her already.
When the guffaws had subsided into a few genteel coughs, he returned to his seat and perched on its edge so his knees were almost touching hers.
‘My dear, I see you and I are of a kind.’
‘How so?’
‘You are a born schemer.’
Becky frowned. ‘I prefer to say I excel at project planning and management.’
He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Let’s not fall out over semantics. It was a compliment. Back to the matter in hand.’ He winked at her. ‘Tell me, how shall I be delighting the Supreme Commander of the South Compton Art Society?’
Ah, yes. Another sticking point. Becky cringed as she said, ‘Do you mind if I tell you when we have the show?’
The impressive white eyebrows lifted. But surprise was better than outrage. She had known he wouldn’t like to be shut out of the finer details, but she had to keep his interest. And how was she going to do that if she showed all her cards now?
Lloyd stood again and slipped behind his chair. His fingers trailed over the embroidered upholstery as he replied, ‘Ms Watson, you found your way to me.’ He extended his hands to take in his lair. ‘You have intrigued me. And most importantly, you have not made the mistake of underestimating me.’ He thumped his hands down on the back of the chair. ‘So I will help you.’
Becky stayed silent, rightly anticipating there was more to come.
‘However, I warn you not to disappoint or try to trick me.’ He stared her straight in the eye. ‘Because I can make sure you never work another event in this area again.’ He came out from behind the chair and extended his hand. ‘Do we have a deal, Ms Watson?’
She stood and smoothed her skirt before clasping his hand. In his eye was an infectious spark of excitement which chased away the last of her jitters. She smiled and placed her free hand on his arm.
‘Please, call me Becky.’
Chapter 12
Getting involved with Lloyd Blake was a necessary risk. Becky knew the limits of her powers as a Mephistopheles and landing Charlie a solo show, in a specific Compton gallery and at such short notice, would be impossible without Lloyd’s help.
It had been Clarice who suggested bringing him into the plan. Sitting in the doctor’s waiting room and fizzing with the excitement of her new project, Becky confided that John Handren had hired her to act as his agent. Clarice was delighted and happy to help by spilling everything she knew about the people involved in the Compton art world, including the Stone family and Lloyd Blake. All Becky had to do was listen carefully. When it came to gossip, who would have guessed the girl was the upper-class Ronnie?
Becky was pleased with how her meeting with Lloyd had gone, especially since she had found his appearance—the staggering white hair, crafty blue eyes and chunky ring—unsettling. She would have been more comfortable if he had been stroking a fluffy white cat; at least then she would have known he was a villain.
Glad to have escaped his lair and confident he had matters in hand, she settled back to wait a month or so to hear from him again. So it came as a jolt when he contacted her only a week after their first rendezvous to announce he had readied the Compton art world for her grand entrance. By various ways and means—Becky didn’t ask for details—every gallery owner and manager in the district had heard John C. Handren was looking for a special venue for his comeback show. Of course, as the man was an eccentric recluse, no one could say which venue would be given the chance to host the exhibition, but every gallery in the area was waiting for a call.
Becky went to the Stone Gallery on Wednesday morning where she was greeted by a grinning attendant. ‘Of course, you’re Mr Handren’s agent. We’re expecting you.’ The woman nodded, sending her oversized chandelier earrings swinging. ‘Please wait here while I let Mrs Stone know you’ve arrived.’
‘Mrs Stone?’
‘Yes.’ She lowered her voice. ‘She came in today especially.’
Bloody hell, thought Becky. Clarice hadn’t exaggerated the extent of Lloyd’s influence.
While a one-to-one meeting with Barbara Stone was sure to help the plan, it did little to calm the squirming in Becky’s stomach. The claustrophobic décor didn’t help either. The floors were an inlaid patchwork of treacle-coloured mahogany. Similarly dark wainscoting covered the lower half of the walls, while the upper half was a bottle green. Lighting was restricted to a few ceiling pendants and wall lamps above the pictures.