‘I hear his paintings are about to go to auction.’
‘His paintings?’ Did Merritt paint? she wondered.
‘Yes – the art world is abuzz. Apparently they found over seventy paintings of his great-great-grandfather or something. His wife had painted over them.’
‘Eliza?’ asked Willow.
‘Eliza? Who’s Eliza? No, his great-grandfather’s wife painted over them. And anyway they found them underneath and they’ve had them restored. He’s selling them soon; two weeks I think,’ said Rose. ‘He’s going to be rich after they sell. There’s a big interest in Victorian Romanticism. I might have a look actually,’ she said.
Willow listened with interest. ‘How did they find them? How did they know?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know any more than that. There was an article in the Independent about it – you could probably find it if you looked it up online.’
Willow thought about the computer she had left at Middlemist. She would buy a new one tomorrow, she thought as they ordered.
The dinner was wonderful and Willow found the company stimulating and hilarious. When they left, the paps were there as they said goodbye to Rose and Max at the door. Willow kept her head down low as Jack hopped into a cab with her.
‘Hello again.’ She looked up and saw the cabby from earlier in the evening.
‘Oh hi,’ said Willow.
Jack looked at her. ‘Where you headed?’ he asked.
‘Home,’ said Willow, nervous. There had been no frisson between them at the restaurant, and she wondered now if he would try something and whether she would knock him back. It had been a while since sex with Merritt and she missed it – the sex, she thought, but not Merritt. Ah fuck, who the hell was she kidding; she missed Merritt also.
‘I’m at Blakes. Mind if you drop me off?’ he asked.
Willow sighed with relief. ‘Of course not,’ she said, and they chatted companionably with the cabby as they headed towards his hotel.
He kissed Willow’s cheek as he left the car. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he said, and she waved him goodbye.
The cabby pulled out again into traffic and headed in the direction of Willow’s home.
‘I picked him up the other day,’ said the cabby.
‘Really? What a coincidence,’ she said, looking out of the window.
‘He was with his boyfriend though.’
She looked at him. ‘I don’t think Jack Reynolds is gay. I’m pretty sure of it,’ she said.
‘Oh right,’ said the cab driver. ‘He had a nice young Italian man with him; an actor. Dante or something. Oh well, I must have been mistaken,’ he said as he drove. But he knew he wasn’t. Twenty years of driving cabs taught you a thing or two about people, and he knew a gay man when he drove one. And he knew a heartbroken woman when he drove one, he thought as he glanced at her in the mirror.
Shame, he thought as he dropped her off; young, beautiful and all alone. The world wasn’t fair. And all the while Willow was thinking that she must remember never to drive with that cab driver when she had a secret; it would be all over town by the end of his shift.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Merritt sat in the private viewing gallery that overlooked the auction room. The crowd was swelling and he could hear the hum from below. Kitty had joined him for the auction, as had Ivo, which shocked her when she walked into the room.
‘Why is he here?’ she hissed to Merritt, but before he could explain Henry walked in.
‘So you’re the Kitty I’ve heard about,’ said Henry, shaking her hand.
Kitty smiled. ‘What has Merritt told you?’ she asked shyly.
‘Not Merritt, Ivo,’ said Henry smiling. ‘I understand you have tamed the beast.’
Kitty looked at Ivo in surprise; he was looking back at her, his face flushed. She ignored his gaze.
‘Well, I’m afraid the beast is back in the wild,’ she said, and turned her back on them both.
Henry looked at her in surprise and Ivo mouthed the word ‘sorry’ to him. He had hoped that the excitement of the auction and the anticipation of a potential sale would soften her resolve, but he was mistaken, it seemed.
Kitty held the catalogue. She had had a private viewing with Merritt before the catalogue was released, and together they had chosen a painting each that they loved.
Kitty had chosen a painting of a small child reading a book on a chair in a garden. An auspicious omen, she thought, and Merritt had hugged her when he saw her choice.
‘How’s the reading going?’ he had asked.
‘It’s good