to avoid the limelight and inevitable press intrusion that would follow if the painting came close to achieving the sort of sales figure the valuation team were expecting, and had gone away on holiday. The auction house’s legendary spring fine arts sale had been a calendar fixture for many years, and the Meileau was the star of the show. Lucie couldn’t blame the Richardsons for wanting to stay anonymous.
Carl’s tone increased in volume and enthusiasm as he built up to the finale of his speech. ‘…And without further ado…’ Lucie took the agreed upon cue and moved to the other side of the painting to grip the velvet covering as Carl did the same on his side. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Witherby’s is proud to share with you the first official unveiling of François Meileau’s Summer’s Eve.’
To a round of applause they lifted the cover, Lucie already turning eagerly to drink in the beauty of the painting. Secured safely in the vaults beneath the auction house, it had been several weeks since she’d last set eyes on it, and the myriad photographs she’d taken couldn’t do it justice. Like a woman relearning the face of a long-lost lover, she let her greedy gaze rove over the entire surface of the work, waiting for the flutter of excitement she got every time she was up close to a masterpiece. And waited.
Whether it was too much excitement, or just plain nerves she wasn’t sure, but the gut-punch of pure emotion she’d come to expect didn’t come. The brushstrokes that had once seemed to dance across the canvas lay dull and flat, the delicacy of the colours she’d so admired missing somehow. Feeling strangely hollow, she edged back from the stand allowing the guests to crowd closer. Heat swept through her, churning her stomach and dampening the base of her spine until the silk of her blouse clung unpleasantly to her skin beneath her jacket. As she backed away from the stand, she watched Carl accept congratulations from one of the guests with a clink of their champagne flutes before they turned to face the painting. Arms waving like a windmill, he rabbited a mile a minute, oblivious to the dread creeping through Lucie. She waited for him to react, to notice what she had within seconds, but he continued to chatter to one person after another.
When a reporter clutching a notepad moved up beside him, Lucie found herself swallowing back a mouthful of bitter bile. Unable to watch anymore, she turned away and locked gazes with Piers. A deep furrow arrowing down between his brows, he worked his way across the room before her. Feeling hunted, Lucie backed up until her shoulders bumped against the dark wood panelling of the far wall.
Stopping barely inches from her, Piers cast a horrified glance towards the painting before fixing his confused stare back on Lucie. ‘What,’ he muttered low enough no one else could hear, ‘the fuck is that?’
His unusual use of the expletive as much as the churning inside told her the worst of all possible truths. She hadn’t been wrong, it hadn’t been a case of first night nerves or over-anticipation. ‘I don’t know.’
Piers’ eyebrows all but disappeared beneath the floppy strands of his fringe. ‘You don’t know?’ There was a disbelieving edge to his tone, as though he was shouting at her even though his voice barely carried across the few inches separating them.
Feeling tears prickling behind her eyes, Lucie blinked hard. ‘It’s not the painting I found. It looks like it, but that’s not the Meileau. I don’t know how this has happened.’ Her last words came out as a low wail and Lucie clamped her hand over her lips to stifle it.
Piers opened his mouth, and she flinched back against the wall expecting a tirade of abuse. Not that he was one to rage and shout, but the enormity of the disaster they were facing surely deserved it. It would be ruinous, not just for her career, but for the auction house as a whole. They’d made a huge song and dance about her discovery, had set the Meileau up as the star of the season and instead unveiled what to Lucie’s eyes looked like a poor man’s facsimile of the original. As though his knees were as weak as hers, Piers slumped against the wall beside her, stunned eyes fixed on hers.
‘What are we going to do?’ she whispered.
‘I don’t know,’ he whispered back.
‘We should tell someone.’
He shook his head. ‘Not now. We can’t. Not in front of this lot. It’s not the way.’
The Witherby’s way. God. Making a scene in public might almost be frowned upon more than the scandal of displaying what Lucie was almost entirely convinced was a fake painting. Almost. She wanted to cry. No, she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole. She wanted her mum. But she wasn’t a little girl anymore, and no one was coming to rescue her. ‘Okay, okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to grit our teeth, smile and blag our way through the next hour that’s what we’re going to do.’
Piers stared at her for a long moment before throwing the remaining contents of his champagne glass down his throat. ‘Okay, I’ll get us another a drink.’ With a wave, he summoned a server and swapped his empty glass for a new one. When he spotted the glass of water Lucie still clutched between numb fingers, he swiped it from her and thrust a second glass of champagne towards her. ‘Here.’
‘I wasn’t going to drink tonight.’
He bit off the beginnings of a hysterical laugh. ‘You’re going to need it. And you might as well get something from the company whilst you can.’
Whilst she could? What on earth was that supposed to mean? Oh. ‘They’re going to sack me.’
Piers gave her a sad smile. ‘Well, I don’t think they’re going to invite you to join the board of directors, that’s for sure. Right, drink up and put a smile on your face. This is supposed to be your moment of triumph. If anyone catches you looking like a wet weekend, the game will be up. If one or other of us catches Carl alone, we’ll have to try and warn him.’ Following his own advice, Piers took a long swig from his glass then turned away from her. ‘Ah, Charles, there you are! What do you think of our little masterpiece then?’
*
The hour that followed was one of the longest of Lucie’s life. Fascinated by the backstory as much as the painting itself, one guest after another demanded her version of events from first discovery to finding the bill of sale. Jaw aching from the rictus grin she’d plastered on, Lucie drank and chatted like the life and soul of the party, her eyes never straying far from Piers as he worked the opposite side of the room. Carl maintained his position beside the painting, acting as master of ceremonies and still seemingly oblivious to the impending disaster.
When Piers moved towards him, Lucie feared the champagne churning in her belly would end up spewed all over the antique rug beneath her feet. Like witnessing a slow-motion car crash she watched the colour drain from Carl’s face as Piers muttered into his ear. When Carl’s disbelieving gaze met hers, there was nothing Lucie could do other than nod miserably to confirm the terrible news.
*
‘What the hell happened?’ Carl asked for the dozenth time in the ten minutes since they’d entered his office after ushering out the last guest. Lucie had stopped trying to explain after the first five times he’d asked it. At least he’d stopped yelling. Her eyes strayed to the pile of shattered glass in one corner, the remnants of a Lalique paperweight he’d snatched from his desk and flung against the bookcase in his rage. She’d never seen him out of control and had Piers not stepped in front of her at the first signs of Carl’s temper, she might have been more scared. As though he’d finally blown out the last of his fury, Carl dropped like a stone into the leather chair behind his desk and buried his face in his hands for a few seconds before lifting it to stare at them. ‘We’ll have to cancel the sale. Spin some story about the owner having second thoughts about parting with it. I’ll speak to the publicity department first thing tomorrow.’
Feeling like it was safe to come out from behind Piers now Carl sounded so much calmer, Lucie edged to her right. ‘I’ll see if I can contact Mrs Richardson.’
‘No.’ Carl’s sharp response ricocheted around the room like the bang of a gun. ‘You will gather your things and leave this building immediately. Consider yourself on