‘Non-figurative.’
‘Sorry?’
Rachel raised her voice and pronounced each syllable. ‘Non-figurative. You must know some artists regard “abstract” as a pejorative term?’
Becky blinked. There was that patronising tone again. For all her sinuous charm, there was something sharp and spiky about Rachel. Besides, Becky couldn’t imagine Charlie giving two hoots what anyone called his work.
‘Right. Well, as I said, I’m no expert. But Mrs Stone was very convincing and offered to drop her gallery’s commission to thirty per cent.’
Rachel frowned. ‘I don’t usually deal with such matters. You would need to speak to the owner regarding commissions.’ She flicked her pink tongue over her lower lip. ‘Thirty per cent, you say?’
A voice from the other side of the gallery cut in, saving Rachel the indignity of having to deal with anything as vulgar as money. ‘Then the Coulson will charge twenty-five.’
The speaker, while as tall as Charlie, had the wiry build of a long-distance runner. Becky guessed he was in his mid-thirties and his suit had cost a hundred times that. Taken together with the confidence of his oily swagger, she concluded this was the gallery’s owner, Virgil Locke.
He sidled over to Rachel and stood close to her, perhaps too close, leading Becky to give more credence to the rumour about their romantic involvement.
Becky shook his hand as she marvelled at his green eyes and gleaming teeth. The symmetry of his features made him seem slightly unreal, as if he had been baked by the gods themselves, trimmed from golden clay using a cookie cutter labelled: ‘Improbably handsome mortal. Use sparingly and with extreme caution’.
And yet there was something familiar about him.
‘A pleasure to meet you, Ms Watson,’ he said.
As he released her hand, Becky fought the urge to wipe it on her jacket. Black marks were stacking up against him: he oozed arrogance, he had interrupted her conversation with Rachel and, now he was in sharp focus, he reminded her of Dylan’s father. Another incredibly attractive, confident bastard.
His grin slipped and he narrowed his eyes. ‘Haven’t we met?’
Becky blinked. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Hang on … it’ll come to me.’ Virgil tapped his index finger against his lips. ‘Ah! I have it now: Amber Rose’s wedding. A couple of weekends ago. Hideous woman but the food was superb. Were you a fellow guest?’
Oh please, thought Becky, pressing a hand to her stomach. Not now. The Coulson was the lynchpin of the project. If she had to answer questions about her other line of work then the whole plan would go to hell in a handcart.
She adjusted her glasses, hoping they would be as effective a disguise for her as they were for Clark Kent. ‘I’m sure I would remember if we had met, Mr Locke.’
His grin returned. ‘I would hope so.’ He glanced at Rachel and continued, ‘But I interrupted you ladies talking about an exhibition. All I have to add is that if Ms Stone here believes our little gallery is the place for Mr Handren’s show, then it must be. I won’t take no for an answer.’
Ugh! That smugness again. If giving the show to the Coulson hadn’t been so central to the plan, Becky would have enjoyed telling him she’d decided on the Stone.
‘Well, in that case, I’m sure you’d be happy with fifteen per cent,’ she said.
The grin didn’t falter, although his eyes went cold. ‘I see you are as shrewd as you are beautiful, Ms Watson.’
Becky wanted to laugh, but restricted her reaction to a raised eyebrow. Did that sort of line work on anyone?
‘Twenty per cent.’ He raised an eyebrow to match hers. ‘And dinner.’
‘Excuse me?’
She glanced at Rachel to see if her surprise was shared, but she hadn’t moved. The skin over her high cheekbones was pale, her arms were locked across her chest and her dark eyes were downcast.
Virgil drew himself up and cleared his throat. ‘I’d very much like to take you to dinner.’
Becky wondered whether the offer sounded chivalrous, rather than creepy, in his head. Worst of all, she suspected the demand, disguised as an invitation, was intended to wound Rachel in some way. On the other hand, although reluctant to include her personal time in any bargain, she had spent more time with worse people. Plus, if his invitation did upset Rachel, it might make her more receptive to Charlie’s advances. And if Ronnie found out she’d turned down a date with a man this good-looking there’d be hell to pay.
‘Done.’ She nodded. ‘But I choose where and when.’
He beamed. Appearing to remember Rachel was standing next to him, he placed a hand on her arm to bring her back into the conversation. ‘Splendid. Now, I’m sure Ms Stone will take care of the contract and all those other trifling details.’ He chuckled. ‘She’s in charge after all; I just own the place. Isn’t that right?’
Rachel raised her head enough to glance at him and give a curt nod, but Virgil reacted as if her response had been enthusiastic. ‘Excellent!’ he said, glancing at his Rolex. ‘It’s been a pleasure, but sadly I must ask you to excuse me.’ He pulled his sleeve over the watch, adjusted the cuff and strolled away, leaving a subtle scent of sandalwood and musk behind. Becky began to turn her back to him when he glanced over his shoulder and said, ‘I hope to see more of you soon, Ms Watson,’ then disappeared through a door at the end of the gallery.
As the door clicked shut and the smell of Virgil’s cologne faded, Rachel took a deep breath in through her nose. She raised her chin and stared in the direction of Virgil’s departure. The colour had returned to her cheeks, her eyes were bright and tone clipped as she said, ‘Let’s go to my office to talk terms, shall we?’
Becky shuffled after Rachel’s aggressive strutting towards a door next to the reception desk. ‘Does Mr Locke often get involved in exhibitions?’ asked Becky.
Rachel opened the door and gestured for Becky to pass through. She sniffed. ‘I run the gallery. Mr Locke has always preferred the role of silent partner.’
‘Until now?’
Rachel looked Becky square in the eye. Prior to Virgil’s appearance, Rachel had glanced at her with light contempt, but now her stare was intense and dark. ‘Yes, well. He can be fickle in his interests,’ she said. ‘I suppose something about this show has caught his attention.’ She wrinkled her nose and looked Becky up and down. ‘At least for the time being.’
Chapter 13
After making a calm and dignified exit from the Coulson, Becky ducked around the nearest corner and did a mini victory shuffle. She grinned at her reflection in a nearby shop window, tucked her hair behind her ears and strode off in the direction of the Old Station House.
When she arrived, she banged on the door until her impatience brought Charlie running. Unable to hold it in, she blurted out the news when the door was only half open.
‘You have your show! The Coulson. Opening the eighth of January and running for four weeks.’ She suppressed the urge to rerun her victory dance and took a breath before delivering a mock-casual flourish. ‘Oh, and their commission will be twenty per cent.’
Charlie’s jaw dropped, but otherwise he appeared to have turned to stone. Pressing her back against the doorframe, Becky edged past him into the living room and waited for him to react.