Charlie glanced round as she came in but didn’t return her greeting. Instead he turned back to his workbench and the task in hand. He was wiping brushes on a rag, using sharp, jerky movements, as though he were trying to decapitate them. His exertions were accompanied by a series of sighs, each one containing more exasperation than the last.
She was too late.
‘You’ve spoken to Rachel then?’
‘Yes, Becky.’ He threw the brush he’d been mauling onto the bench, causing two others to leap off to take their chances on the floor. He put his hands on his hips and glared at her. ‘Rachel’s upset she had to find out from the event organisers that one of my paintings is being donated to the art society ball.’
‘But she’s not upset with you, is she? You had nothing to do with it.’
‘Yes. It became very clear, very quickly, that I have no clue what’s going on with my work, which you feel you have the right to give away as you please!’ He strode towards her, nostrils flaring. ‘Rachel suggested I get a better handle on my staff and maybe she has a point.’
Becky crossed her arms over her chest. He was upset. Fine. It must have been disorientating to hear about the auction from Rachel. And probably embarrassing too. But she was not being called staff by him, especially not when he was parroting the snobby comments of an over-privileged Compton princess.
‘Well, before you dismiss me to the servants’ quarters,’ she said, taking a step towards him and lifting her chin to look him in the eye, ‘perhaps you would like to hear my side of the story?’
Charlie didn’t back away. He was so close she could feel the angry heat of his breath. His eyes bulged and his lips had all but disappeared. If he hadn’t been so obviously hurt, there would have been something comical about his expression and stance. A shorn grizzly bear with a sore head.
Becky held her ground. She refused to be intimidated by a man she had recently had to carry out of this building, particularly when he wasn’t giving her a fair go. She narrowed her eyes. ‘Or perhaps you don’t want to hear what I have to say. Perhaps you’d prefer to assume I’m failing to act in your best interest. I’m sure that’s what the lovely Ms Stone thinks and she is your inspiration, isn’t she?’
Charlie turned pink. Then puce. A muscle in his jaw twitched and he snapped his gaze away from her and down to his hands, which he started to clean on the paint-stained rag.
She watched him clawing the scrap of cloth for a moment. Much more of that and he’d either rip it to shreds or take a layer of skin off. And they’d still be no closer to understanding each other.
‘Ugh!’ Becky closed her eyes and shook her head, disgusted at them both. This stand-off was ridiculous. Someone had to be the bigger man. Besides, as Ronnie never tired of telling her, she was staff. And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t foreseen this reaction if Rachel got to him first. ‘This is stupid. Why don’t we sit down for a few minutes and I’ll tell you about it from the beginning?’
Relaxing out of his rigid warrior pose, Charlie retreated to the sofa as she launched into her defence.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about all this sooner, but I was waiting until I knew for certain it was happening. As soon as I did, I came here. But apparently the jungle drums travel faster than I can walk.’
Charlie snorted, and the corners of his mouth flickered. Taking this as a sign his mood was improving, Becky decided it was safe to perch next to him on the arm of the sofa.
‘This is a great opportunity to generate interest in your show a week before it opens, particularly with the Compton arty brigade and their friends. This auction pushes the bidders to be more generous, so we’re practically guaranteed a terrific sale price which will set the bar for the rest of the exhibition.’
‘Will I have to be there for the auction?’
‘Yes. But that has a silver lining too,’ she said, raising her voice over his groan of despair. ‘You can ask Rachel to be your plus one. It’s the perfect invitation: if you ask her and you think she’s reluctant to be your date, you can always say you’re asking because, as your curator, she should be there for the auction.’
Charlie seemed to have slipped into a trance. Unable to tell if it was a good ‘dreaming of Rachel’ reverie, or a bad ‘Becky’s pushing me into another nightmare’ coma, she carried on. ‘And, even if it isn’t a date, going to the ball should cheer Rachel up about losing the painting because she’ll get to share in the glory. And you’ll get to spend more time with her socially. Two birds with one Stone!’
His lips definitely twitched that time.
‘And if all that isn’t enough for you, giving the painting to the ball will have earned you brownie points with Rachel’s mother.’
He stirred, turning his head towards her. ‘Her mother?’
‘Did Rachel not mention her mother organises the ball? It’s one of her activities as president of the art society.’
Charlie’s jaw dropped. ‘Barbara Stone is Rachel’s mother?’
‘Oh, didn’t you know? Strange that’s never come up while you and Rachel have been chatting.’
Becky turned away from his still-dangling jaw and hid a smug smile by wandering towards the painting in progress. She pretended to appreciate it while she reviewed what she had told Charlie. All of it was technically true. Of course, she hadn’t mentioned that getting on Barbara’s good side was likely to hinder rather than help his cause with Rachel, but she would try to get round the troll under that particular bridge when and if necessary.
‘And,’ she said, turning back to him, ‘the proceeds of the auction go to the local hospice. You can’t deny it’s a good cause.’
Charlie threw his hands up. ‘All right. Let’s say I’m OK with this. What would I have to do?’
‘Stand next to the painting while they take photos. Introduce the piece, mention your show, say how pleased you are to contribute to such a good cause …’
He looked as if he were about to be hit by a bus. ‘I’ve never been good at public speaking. What if I can’t think of what to say?’
‘It’ll be a few words and your audience will be fairly tanked by then. And I’ll be there if you need a prompt.’
His shoulders and frown relaxed.
‘I’m going to go.’ She got to her feet. ‘And, Charlie, I’ve said it before, but you need to trust me. I’m trying to help you.’ She rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘I guessed Rachel wouldn’t be too happy about the auction, so it was best you didn’t know about it so all the blame could go on me. Now you’ll be able to tell her you’ve had a stern word with your staff, as she suggested, and then you can offer to take her to the ball to make it up to her.’
Charlie looked as if the oncoming bus had been joined by a train.
Becky continued, ‘Just think about it. I’ve got to get going. This pushy serf has more people to piss off.’
Chapter 32
The third Saturday in November was the Spencer–Swift wedding. Becky arrived at the South Compton Country Club shortly after noon, having left the church while the confetti was still airborne. Her plan was to check the reception venue before it was cluttered with guests—one more small way of preventing unwanted surprises.