of tearing within in her between sadness and sheer joy.
‘You okay?’ Sebastian asked and she realised that he’d been sitting there for some time.
‘Yes. A nearly perfect day,’ she proclaimed.
‘Nearly?’ Sebastian countered, full of mock outrage.
She couldn’t help but think back to the start of the day. To his trip to the yacht and his explanation. I’m very good at spotting fakes.
‘What would your perfect day look like?’ he asked, bringing her out of her thoughts.
‘A private viewing of the Allegory of Fame by Artemisia Gentileschi,’ she replied without hesitation.
‘Really? Why that artist and painting?’
‘The artist is my namesake.’
‘Your full name is Artemisia?’ he asked, the shock in his voice almost amusing.
‘Yup. Try that on for size at primary school,’ she said, the sting of childhood taunts still sharp years on. Even more so after her father’s arrest.
‘You don’t like it?’
‘Hardly. I consider it his worst act of parental cruelty.’
‘Above getting arrested?’
‘Absolutely. It was about him. His favourite artist. His arrogance and obsession with the greats.’
Sebastian looked out at the sea, a slight frown on his brow.
‘You said your father named you after his favourite artist because of his arrogance?’ he asked, and she nodded. ‘Could it have been that he saw something in you, even as a baby, that reminded him of Artemisia?’
It was not something that Sia had considered before.
‘You know her story?’ Sebastian asked. ‘What she overcame to become one of the most accomplished Baroque painters of the seventeenth century?’
‘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,’