around the corner before Brent sees me, plastering my back to a wall. What the hell is he doing here? I look left and right, weighing up my options. I have only one. Hold my bladder. I can’t see him. Don’t want to see him.
I hurry back to reception and find a chair, my eyes watchful as I perch on the edge, my mind racing. What’s he doing here? My stomach rolling, I pull up my emails, checking the transfer details with Becker’s bank. ‘Oh no,’ I nearly die, and all thoughts of Brent Wilson disappear when I see I’ve entered a digit wrong. ‘Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ I break out in a sweat, scrambling through my contacts for the number of Becker’s personal banker.
‘Miss Cole?’
I look up, finding a man before me. ‘I’m sorry, can you just give me a minute?’ I ask as the phone rings. ‘I’ve just realised I entered the bank account details wrong for the transfer. I’m assuming that’s what the problem is with the O’Keeffe?’ Someone picks up, and I hold a finger up for Frank to wait. ‘Hi, yes, it’s Eleanor Cole, the Hunt Corporation. I believe there’s an issue with a payment to Sotheby’s.’
‘Yes, we’ve been trying to call Mr Hunt.’
‘You can speak to me.’ Please speak to me. ‘I have clearance from Mr Hunt. My name’s Eleanor Cole.’
‘Okay, we’ll need to go through a few security questions. Can you type into your keypad the third digit of the account password?’
‘Absolutely.’ I stand and pace up and down as I follow his instructions and then answer all the questions fired at me, my eyes batting back and forth to the huge clock hanging on the foyer wall.
‘Thank you for clearing security,’ he eventually says. ‘The account number provided doesn’t exist.’
‘That’s my fault. I entered a digit incorrectly.’ Bloody hell. Becker will kill me. ‘Can we rectify that now? I’m at Sotheby’s.’
‘Of course. Do you have access to online banking?’
‘I have the app.’
‘Excellent. If you enter the details again, I’ll make sure it goes through without delay.’
I put him on loudspeaker and click the app, but the damn thing won’t load. I could kick myself. I put my hand over the phone. ‘I don’t suppose you have a spare computer I could use?’ I ask Frank, who’s waiting patiently nearby.
He smiles kindly. ‘This way, Miss Cole.’
I go back to my phone. ‘I’ll call you back in five minutes once I’m at a computer.’
‘Okay, Miss Cole.’
I hang up and follow Frank as he leads me into a private office. ‘I’m so sorry about this,’ I say, a little embarrassed. It’s the first payment I’ve made for Becker and I’ve fucked it all up. Idiot!
‘Don’t worry. The painting is all packaged and loaded onto the van ready for delivery. I knew there would be a simple explanation. We’ve dealt with the Hunts for many years.’ Frank motions to a chair, and I take a seat as he backs out of the room. ‘Just call me if you require any assistance.’
‘Thank you, Frank.’ I go straight to the computer and pull up Becker’s private bank as I call them back. ‘Hi, yes, I’m—’ I’m cut dead in my tracks when he door swings open and Becker appears.
‘What’s the problem?’
Damn. He must have found a parking space. I cringe as I tap in his login details. There goes my hope of fixing the problem before Becker knows I’ve fucked up. ‘No problem,’ I sing, returning my attention to my phone as Becker rounds the desk and joins me. He looks at the screen. Frowns. Gives me the eye. I can only shrug, and he sighs, catching the gist of the problem.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he breathes. ‘People will think—’ He stops talking abruptly when a security guard flies past the glass door, and both our eyes follow, both our foreheads wrinkling. ‘What’s going on?’ Becker asks, walking to the door and looking out. I join him, hearing the commotion. Frank hurries past, and Becker stops him. ‘Frank, is there a problem?’
‘No,’ he squeaks, carrying on his way. ‘Good to see you, Mr Hunt.’
I look at Becker, getting a funny feeling.
‘I have a funny feeling,’ he says, reading my mind. He follows Frank, and I quickly grab my bag and follow Becker, but as I’ve nearly caught up with him, I remember something. Shit! I backtrack, dashing back to the office and deleting the digits from the login screen before catching up with Becker. The commotion has heightened, and