that I’ve pretty much dropped Becker in it by confirming Brent’s suspicions about the fake sculpture isn’t featuring in my tatty mind right now.
Dangerous fury roots itself deep and starts a tormenting swirl in my gut. I should unleash it. But instead I do the safest thing for all of us. I turn and walk out.
‘Whoa!’ Becker has me prisoner in his arms before I make it five paces.
‘You’re an idiot!’ I spit, losing my reason and flipping out in his arms, having a vain wriggle.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he breathes, carting me back into the smoking room. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ I’m plonked on my feet before he strides over to Alexa, calm as can be, snatches up her clothes, and then takes her arm. ‘Out.’
‘You can’t tell me what to do,’ she protests, stumbling alongside him. ‘Thirty-five million!’
Becker more or less tosses her out the door, followed by her clothes, and slams it shut behind her. ‘Fucking hassle,’ he grunts, striding over to the huge fireplace as he rifles through his pocket. He takes something out and faffs for a few moments, before bringing something to his lips. I catch his profile . . .
With a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
What?
He smokes? Once again, I’m rendered incapable of speech. I can only watch as he lights up and pulls the longest drag, his head tilting back, lengthening his stubbled throat. Then the smoke comes billowing out along with a groan of pleasure. ‘Fuck, that’s good.’
‘You smoke?’ I ask, and my question knocks him out of his euphoria and has him looking down at the white stick sitting lightly between his fingers. ‘Not for years.’ He frowns on a cute pout.
‘Then why now?’
‘Stress,’ he declares, taking another pull.
I rush over and snatch it from his fingers, stubbing it out in a nearby ashtray. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’
He collapses into a chair and rests his head back. He really does look stressed. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he says to the ceiling, reaching under his glasses and rubbing at his eyes.
I march over and put myself in front of him. ‘What the hell was that all about?’ I point to the door, where I expect Alexa is pulling on her clothes beyond.
‘A hassle. That’s what. I needed somewhere quiet to make a call. She followed me.’
I laugh sardonically. I’m pissed off with him, but I’m also realistic. His hassle isn’t nearly as big as mine. ‘I’ve had a bit of a hassle myself.’
He raises a worried eyebrow. ‘Like what?’
‘Like Brent.’
‘Wilson,’ Becker growls. ‘He’s here?’
‘Yes, he’s here.’
‘What did he want?’ His lip twitches, threatening to break into a snarl.
I’m suddenly too scared to tell Becker, for then I have to tell him that Brent got what he wanted. Namely, confirmation of Alexa’s claim. But it takes two seconds flat to weigh up my options . . . because I really only have one. Tell. ‘He knows the sculpture is a fake.’
Becker’s eyes bug. ‘How?’
‘I don’t know.’ Because I told him! ‘He mentioned something about Alexa telling him.’
‘Again, how?’
‘Do I look like a fucking psychic?’
He ignores my sarcasm and falls into thought, looking past me. He has plenty to think about, that’s for sure.
‘It was definitely him who broke into my apartment.’
‘He told you?’ He looks surprised. No . . . he looks angry.
We’re interrupted when the door swings open and Alexa presents herself, now fully dressed. ‘You’ve just lost thirty-five million,’ she taunts, landing me with a cold look.
Becker’s up from his chair like lightning, marching towards her, and Alexa steps back, wary. He gets right up in her face. ‘You been telling Wilson stories, Alexa?’
‘Don’t try to deny it.’ She raises her chin. If it wasn’t for the minuscule slice of doubt in her tone, she’d appear totally composed and confident. Her body language is screaming supremacy, but that quiver in her voice floors her false façade. ‘I heard you,’ she goes on, looking between us. ‘After the auction in the entrance hall.’
Flashbacks of the occasion she’s referring to blitz my mind – the moment when Becker, looking confusingly happy after losing in the bidding war, told me Brent had bought a fake. She was there? Listening? Oh dear God! But I’m mindful that although she knows the sculpture is fake, she doesn’t know who sculpted it. And she mustn’t. Becker having secret knowledge of a suspected forgery and not voicing it would be seriously frowned upon in the antiquing and art world. She knows that, and it’s why she’s here.