‘Of course,’ she said, calling to mind the difficulties the artist had experienced, but also how afterwards she had thrived and flourished.
‘Then is it beyond the realm of imagination that your father would name you after such an incredible woman because he sensed those same traits in you?’
Sebastian allowed her to sit with her thoughts while he rose to retrieve the wine and topped up their glasses.
‘So, what is it about Allegory of Fame that is so significant for you?’
Pushing her musings aside, Sia couldn’t help but smile as the image of a painting she knew like the back of her hand rose in her mind. ‘It’s a remarkable painting, but in a private collection even the Bonnaire’s name won’t allow me to access. Fame—depicted as a woman—isn’t portrayed as being classically beautiful. She’s not Titian, or half naked, she’s not under some intense sensual sway or an object for male appreciation. She is handsome, powerful in her own right, and there’s a look on her face... She seems to be watching something happening off the canvas and her acceptance of it is striking. As if it’s shocking, sad, but also unsurprising.’ She realised that Sebastian was looking at her in a strange way. ‘Sorry, that sounds fanciful.’
‘Not at all. It’s your perfect day to do with as you please. Did you always want to be an art valuer?’
‘I always wanted to be in the arts,’ she said, skirting around his question. ‘It was more than just following in my father’s footsteps. I wasn’t lying when I said it was in my blood; turpentine and oil paints flow through my veins,’ she confided ruefully.
‘Did you ever want to paint?’
‘Yes,’ she said, remembering her childhood obsession with colour, with recreating images in her mind, light and shade, depth and composition. The expression of meaning and emotion beyond language, which cried out and screamed in colour and texture. She could feel it rising within her now as if Sebastian had set off an avalanche within her and she was beginning to feel everything, feel too much.
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I...’ Sia considered all the possible answers and felt a wave of tiredness at constantly filtering her words as if they might be used against her in whatever game it was they were playing. She wasn’t sure she wanted to play it any more. So she told the truth. ‘I was afraid. Of only being able to copy artists like my father. Of not having any natural talent myself.’ She realised then that it was a little like her fear of passion...that she might have inherited both her parents’ worst traits. But hadn’t Sebastian shown her a way around that? To navigate that fear, access her own passion and not be like her mother?
What might art school have looked like if she’d not let her fears in there too? Unable or unwilling to face the answer to that question, she turned to him.
‘What about you?’
‘What about me? I have eleven hotels, a combined total of seventy-two stars, many of which are Michelin—’
‘I know,’ she interrupted, slightly frustrated at his almost standard response. ‘But...is this what you really want? Please don’t get me wrong,’ she stated quickly, sensing that Sebastian was growing annoyed. ‘I don’t mean to question you on it, but you’re just going to keep opening more and more hotels? Make more and more money? I’m not disparaging what you’ve achieved, Sebastian, because it’s incredible and it has clearly supported your family to a great extent. But—’ she searched for something that would pin down what she meant, what she was looking for, his hopes and dreams, not obligations and responsibilities ‘—what did you want to be as a child?’ she finally asked. ‘Astronaut? Deep-sea diver? Surely you wanted to be more than...’
And then she could have bitten off her own tongue. She genuinely hadn’t meant to belittle his accomplishments, as if somehow being a billionaire was distasteful, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t, perhaps never had been, what he’d intended to be. She took a mouthful of wine, hoping to swallow some of the guilt and shame.
‘I was going to be a doctor. I’d got into Harvard Medical School.’
Her heart broke at the way he said it. As if he’d meant to pick something up on a shopping list and forgot it. No big deal. But it was precisely that which told her how much of a sacrifice it had been.
‘After the exile I couldn’t afford to go, and I wouldn’t leave Maria. Eduardo was barely capable of holding his head up and Valeria was too busy bemoaning her fate of being married to an ex-Duke, so neither would have been able to look after her. Do you like the wine?’
The swift about-turn of the conversation nearly gave her whiplash.
‘I do. It’s delicious.’
‘Theo will be glad to hear that,’ he said before she could try and steer the conversation back. Instead, she let him have the space he needed.
‘You know the vintner?’
‘A very good friend of mine.’
‘You have friends?’ she teased, trying for levity.
‘You seem surprised,’ he observed wryly, taking a sip of the wine.
‘No,’ she replied easily. ‘I’m just curious as to what they’d think of you stealing a painting worth one hundred million pounds.’
‘Is that your question for today?’ he replied around a smile.
‘No,’ she said, her tone suddenly serious, thinking back to what he had said last night. Was it really only last night? It felt as if so much had passed since then.
The look in Sebastian’s eyes told her that he was thinking of the same thing. She heard his sigh taken away by the gentle breeze of the night and waited. Because she couldn’t help but think that his response, this response, would be the answer to nearly all of her questions.