Alaric considered the question for a moment. “No, I don’t. If we hadn’t let it go, I’d always have regretted not trying.”
I knew at that moment that I’d take the job with Emmy. Why? Because if I didn’t, I’d always regret not trying.
CHAPTER 20 - BETHANY
“BETHANY, CAN YOU bring us drinks, please?” Henrietta smiled as she asked, but it was fake, and I knew the “please” at the end pained her. “And do you know where Gemma is?”
“Sorry, I don’t. What would you like?” I asked her clients. “Tea? Coffee? Wine? A soft drink?”
“Do you have Scotch?” the husband asked.
At eleven in the morning? “I’m afraid not.”
“A glass of red, then. And Belinda will have mineral water with a twist of lemon, won’t you, darling?”
Belinda nodded. I hadn’t heard her say a word since they arrived, just like I hadn’t seen Gemma do any work. When I first started at the gallery, she’d flitted about constantly, always busy, but now? Henrietta had asked her to dust the tops of all the frames, but the only evidence of her presence was a step-stool and a cleaning caddy abandoned by a limited edition Hockney print. At least I knew the Hockney wasn’t stolen. It had been traded in by a big shot at a London law firm who wanted “something with more gravitas” after he got promoted to senior partner.
Last night, I’d barely slept, agonising over whether I should phone Emerson and mention the two suspicious paintings. That way, the problem would be out of my hands, but if Hugo found out I’d reported him… Bye-bye reference.
Perhaps I could wait until I found a new job and then make the call? It wasn’t as if the paintings were still at the gallery in any case. They were both long gone. My tired hands shook as I slopped wine into a glass. A little alcohol loosened the purse strings—that’s what Henrietta always told me—so I stopped just short of the brim. Water, fresh lemon, cappuccino with caramel syrup for Henrietta… I could come back and make a drink for Hugo afterwards.
To call or not to call, that was the question.
The question I was still agonising over as I stubbed my toe and stumbled in the main gallery. The tray went flying, and wine, water, and coffee splattered over the wall, the floor, and—oh, fuck—a Heath Robert original. Shocked gasps came from all around, from Henrietta, her clients, and Gemma, who’d materialised out of nowhere together with the cleaning caddy, which she’d dumped right in my way to trip over. And Hugo. Of course, Hugo had to be walking past too.
Gentleman that he was, he offered me a hand, and I staggered to my feet, wincing as I put weight on my twisted ankle. But his face had blackened with the fury of a winter storm, even if he tried to hide it in front of our customers.
“Gemma, would you get this cleared up, please? Take the Robert to my studio. Bethany, I’ll see you in my office.”
“Of course, Hugo,” Gemma said. “The cleaning supplies are— Oh, they’re right here.”
That little… How dare she act surprised to cover up her own carelessness?
I didn’t miss Henrietta’s smirk as I slunk from the room. If she hadn’t been with the red-faced boozehound, I might even have suspected her of moving that caddy herself.
Could the Robert be saved? It was protected by glass, but if any liquid had seeped under the edges of the frame… I wanted to go back and help, to make sure Gemma had blotted everything she could, but I didn’t dare. First last night’s laptop incident and now this. Luckily, the laptop had come back to life again this morning, although the “C” key was still being a bit temperamental.
I willed my foot to stop tapping while I waited for Hugo to arrive, fidgeting in his visitor’s chair as I prepared my apology in my head. I was never normally careless like that. Never. This week had taken its toll. The theft of my car, Red After Dark, what I’d found on the FBI’s website. Sky. Emerson. Alaric. Yes, perhaps I’d thought of Alaric a little more than I should have. But in an afternoon filled with chaos, he’d acted with decency.
It wasn’t long before I heard the click of Hugo’s leather wingtips on the polished wooden floor. How bad would this be? Henrietta had dropped a painting last month and cracked the frame, and she’d got away with a rather peeved lecture according to Gemma, who’d listened at the door.
“Bethany.”
“Hugo, I’m so sorry. I tripped, and it honestly was a complete accident. If there’s any damage, I’ll pay for the repairs.” Somehow. I had no idea quite how since I barely had any money, but maybe Hugo could deduct it from my pay?
“This is two accidents in two days.”
“The laptop’s working almost perfectly now. I promise I won’t place drinks on the desk again.”
“No, no, I appreciate that.” He took a seat opposite me and adjusted his bow tie. “Let’s not beat around the bush, eh? You’re still on your probationary period, and I’m not sure this is the right position for you long-term. If the painting you just soaked had been an unframed watercolour…”
What? His words slowly sank in, and I vaguely recalled something about an initial six-month trial in my contract. Hugo was letting me go?
How would I pay my bills? What would happen to Chaucer? And worse, how would I explain this to my parents? There’d be no avoiding it—Hugo ran in the same circles as my father, and if past gossip was anything to go by, every guest at tomorrow’s party would know I’d been sacked by the time I walked through the front door.
My parents would start applying the pressure again. Toe the family line or face poverty. The only asset I had left was my apartment, but even if I put it on the market tomorrow, it wouldn’t sell in time for me to pay Chaucer’s next livery bill. And once that money was gone, then what?
“But I love working here,” I tried, even though I knew my pleas would be in vain.
“I just feel that it might be better if you moved on. It’s nothing personal.”
“There’s nothing I can do?”
“I’m sorry, Bethany. I’ll pay you until the end of the month.”
I will not cry. Eyes prickling, I managed to make it to the break room and stuff the few belongings I kept there into my handbag. Lipstick, spare tights, a framed photo of Chaucer. Then I got in my car and started driving. I didn’t have a clue where I was going, and even if I’d wanted to go home, I had nowhere to park.
My brain was barely functioning, and on autopilot, I ended up on the M4 heading out of town. Just sitting with Chaucer would make me feel better. It always did.
Crawling along behind a lorry on the elevated section, I felt hurt. I felt panicky. And perhaps I felt a tiny bit angry too. Until today, Hugo hadn’t shown the slightest indication that he wasn’t happy with my work. Yes, I realised I’d made two mistakes, but Henrietta messed up on occasion as well, and Gemma had barely done a thing for weeks.
That anger was why I ended up with my phone in my hand when traffic came to a standstill. I’d saved Emerson’s number just in case, and I jabbed at the screen until I heard ringing through the car’s speakers.
“Emmy Black’s line, Sloane speaking.”
I’d been psyching myself up to speak to Emerson, not an assistant who, from her accent, sounded as if she was in the United States, and now I stuttered.