I take the brochure in front of me and start browsing, looking up when I hear people starting to filter into the room. I try my hardest not to appear dumbfounded by the mass of wealth coming at me from every direction and closing me in as they all take their seats, but it’s hard. Very hard. I feel inferior. I’m so far removed from my father’s store, I could be on the moon. Peeking over my shoulder discreetly, I spy Becker looking down and assume he’s engrossed in the pages of the glossy catalogue, but a subtle movement reveals his mobile phone in his hand. He smiles and slips it back into his pocket before returning to flicking the pages, bringing his ankle up to rest on his knee. My wayward mind wonders what he’s smiling at. Alexa? Did she text him?
‘Afternoon, miss.’ The greeting from my left tugs my attention away from Becker to a stout, grey-haired man who’s grinning down at me. ‘I’m Peter. Peter Ramsbottom.’
I politely smile my hello, thinking it’s best to limit my interaction with anyone. No interaction means no concern about what to say. Then I return to my mindless viewing of the antiques adorning the pages in my lap. I fear the worst when he lowers to the chair next to me.
‘Haven’t seen you here before.’
I smile down at the pages like an idiot, avoiding eye contact. He’s going to try and make conversation. This doesn’t bode well. ‘First time,’ I say, not offering anything more in the hope it’ll deter him. He looks like a chatty type, but I’m in no mood to chat. And I’m not allowed to, anyway.
‘Then welcome to Countryscape.’
‘Thank you.’ Maybe I could excuse myself and hide in the ladies’ until Becker’s done.
‘Are you buying?’ he asks, leaning in to see what page of the catalogue I’m viewing. It’s only now that I notice the title of the piece on the page before me. Head of a Faun.
‘Ah.’ His pudgy finger lands on one of the photographs of the sculpture. ‘Causing quite a stir, this one. Who do you work for?’
My tongue thickens in my mouth as I take in the lost piece of treasure currently looking up at me with narrow, somewhat evil eyes. Many people have anticipated what it looks like. For years, a cast was held in the Bargello Museum and was attributed as Michelangelo’s Head of a Faun. That thing looked pretty creepy, but it hasn’t a snitch on what I’m looking at now. It looks like pure evil, could possibly even be mistaken as a depiction of the devil.
‘Who do I work for?’ I repeat his question mindlessly, buying some time. If I answer, I could spike a whole other barrage of questions that I don’t know how to answer. ‘Um—’ I race through my options, and just as I’m about to take the easiest, most obvious escape and declare my need for the loo, a laugh captures my attention.
I deflate and sink into the chair in despair.
‘Good afternoon, Peter.’ Brent takes a seat on my other side, cornering me, and reaches across my tense body, offering Peter his hand.
Peter takes it and shakes mildly, but he’s reluctant. ‘You got in, Wilson,’ he says with as much enthusiasm as his handshake. I can only assume that Brent clearly tried Peter for an endorsement for Countryscape, too. It doesn’t sound like Brent Wilson is very highly thought of. Or maybe everyone is playing the same game, trying to limit competition.
‘I certainly did.’ Brent’s clearly chuffed with himself. ‘So, you’ve met the lovely Eleanor.’
‘Yes, but she’s a bit taciturn.’
I cringe, wishing they’d hurry up with their frosty greeting so my path is clear to escape. If I was a suspicious type, which I am, I’d think their joined hands in front of me is an ploy to keep me where I am.
I can feel Brent staring at me, but I refuse to indulge him. ‘I wonder why that is,’ he muses, releasing Peter’s hand, much to my relief. I engage my muscles, ready to stand, but Brent’s hand falls straight to my lap and scoops up the catalogue. ‘You’ve been reading up on this incredible piece.’ He turns into me, making it impossible to pass him if I try to leave, which I suspect is another ploy.
I narrow my eyes, thinking now would be a great time to deliver that slap I’ve been mentally promising him. ‘There’s not much I don’t know about Michelangelo.’
‘This is quite exciting for you, yes?’
I pluck my catalogue from his hand and return forward, going back to browsing it. ‘Yes.’
‘Did I mention, Peter,’ Brent muses casually, ‘that Eleanor here works for Hunt.’
‘Oh, she does?’ Now Peter turns into me too, and I resign myself to sitting still and shutting up, not because Becker told me to, but because these two are clearly out for information. What information that might be is beyond me, but their interest in me now has my alarm bells ringing.