She means his vulnerability. His hurt. ‘Me too,’ I agree. Maybe I am different. I know she also means the fact that Becker has put me in the middle of the Hunt family history. He’s not just exposed himself, he’s exposed his secrets.
She sighs and turns to leave, while I drift into a daydream, finally giving my other situation the attention it deserves. I need to make time this morning to check my flat. And collect my new phone. ‘Mrs Potts,’ I call, placing my mug on the tray. I need to make sure she’s okay with me. I’d go to her, be a brave girl and face her up close so she can see my sincerity . . . if I wasn’t butt naked under Becker’s bedding.
She stops at the door but doesn’t turn around. ‘No need, dear,’ she tells me, not really giving me anything but giving me everything with those three small words. ‘Just . . . be careful.’ Another three, except these are overflowing with genuine concern. ‘Your bag is in the bathroom, dear.’ She leaves.
Be careful. Easier said than done with Saint Becker Boy Hunt.
I collapse on my back and try to form any kind of sense out of the break-in. But I’m struggling. I’ve been violated again, but not in a delicious way.
I feel my way down the stone steps, unable to find a light switch to help me out. What is it with dark corridors and alleyways in this place? I’m taking my life into my own hands just wearing heels around here. And today they are particularly high. My cropped trousers skim my ankles and a super-fluffy cream jumper is keeping my body warm.
When I get to the bottom, I make my way to the library to grab the McDonald file. And once again, my eyes are pulled to the secret compartment where I know that map is hidden, except now I know the significance of it. I stare at the section of bookcase, wondering where the missing piece could be. Becker said he’s close. I bite my lip as a surge of excitement springs from nowhere. A treasure map. A treasure hunter. I shake my head in wonder and force myself away from the bookcase with the hidden compartment, grabbing the McDonald file and heading for the door. I’m pulled to a stop when I hear a phone ring, and a quick scan of the room shows Becker’s mobile on the couch. I rush to answer, seeing Paula’s name greeting me. ‘Hi, Paula. It’s Eleanor. Becker must’ve left his phone in the library.’
‘Eleanor, how are you?’
‘I’m well, thank you. Anything I can help you with?’
‘Oh no, it’s nothing important. I heard Becker got himself into a bit of a bidding war with Brent Wilson. Just wondering how the injured soldier is after losing.’
‘Oh, Head of a Faun.’ I laugh. ‘News travels fast. He’s taken it quite well. Left Countryscape with a smile on his face.’ Shit. I immediately berate myself. I shouldn’t have said that. ‘I mean, I think it was forced, but—’
‘He took you with him?’
I frown down the line. ‘Yes.’ There’s silence for a few moments, and after Paula hasn’t come back with anything, I feel compelled to ask her something, if only to kill the painful quiet. ‘You deal in art?’ I ask casually.
‘No,’ she answers coolly. ‘I’m just an Italian Renaissance enthusiast. That’s all. Have Becker call me, would you?’
‘Sure.’
She hangs up, and I stare at Becker’s phone. Well, that was strange, but I don’t spend too much time dissecting the call. I have work to do.
When I leave the library, I head straight for the kitchen. I need more coffee.
‘Hey, boy,’ I say, spotting Winston in his dog bed in the corner. He’s up like lightning and sprinting towards me excitedly. I laugh and crouch, opening my arms to him. But he skids to a stop a foot away from me. He might be a dog, but I can see clear as day that he’s looking at me suspiciously. ‘C’mon, boy,’ I encourage him on a laugh, patting my thighs.
He cranes his neck forward, keeping his paws grounded, stretching his neck to reach me. I can only watch, baffled by his sudden cool approach to me. He sniffs me. Then he snorts. He bloody snorts, spraying my outstretch hand with sticky doggy drool. ‘Eww.’ I shake it off, and Winston turns on his bear paws, sticks his arse in my face, and trots away, the whole back end of him swaying haughtily.
Rip-roaring laughter fills the air, and I glance up, finding Mr H at the table eating poached eggs. ‘Oh.’ He chuckles, shoulders jigging. ‘Oh, that’s tickled me.’
I let the old boy have his moment and move across the kitchen to wash my hands. ‘I don’t know what’s got into him,’ I mutter, squeezing some soap on to my palm.