bit her tongue. It would be nice if, just once, her best friend could be as sweet and flowery as her cakes. Anyway, Ronnie dyed her hair crimson. Who was she to describe anyone else as ‘red’? ‘It’s Wednesday. We’ve been swimming.’
‘Huh.’ Ronnie raised a thin eyebrow. The pencil line was dark brown, almost black. Becky sometimes wondered if she’d considered using red to match her hair. ‘A load of hassle if you ask me. But I suppose it knackered him out,’ Ronnie said, pointing at Dylan who had started to snore. ‘And you won’t have to share your cake.’
‘Only you would begrudge a toddler some of your cake.’
‘Don’t you believe it.’ Ronnie grinned. ‘Not having to share cake is the only excuse my mother will accept for me not having popped out a grandsprog yet.’
‘How is your mum? And Mike? And his mother?’
‘Ugh.’ Ronnie shook her head. ‘Don’t get me started.’
Ronnie had recently moved in with her boyfriend, Mike, and their relationship was going through a number of inevitable adjustments. They had been together for three years and Ronnie had yet to see eye-to-eye with Mike’s mother. He now refused to take sides in their disagreements, a policy of strict neutrality adopted after he had made the mistake of defending his mother’s point of view, and Ronnie retaliated by dumping him.
‘Anyway,’ said Ronnie. ‘You’ll be more interested to hear I have the gossip you were after.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Rachel Stone: forty-five, single, never married, no kids. There are some rumours she’s been involved with the new gallery owner. Apparently he’s fit as you like, but I can’t find anyone to confirm that. Yet.’
‘And she’s definitely Stone as in—’
‘Only child of Barbara Stone. Does that make things worse or better?’
Becky sighed. ‘Probably a bit of both.’
The Stone family had been in the art trade for over a hundred and fifty years and owned four establishments on two continents. They had the means to open many more, but the clan’s current matriarch, Barbara Stone, had declared four galleries to be enough. Any more would have meant skirting perilously close to the vulgar status of a chain.
The family were entrenched in the higher levels of Compton society. When not supervising the business, Barbara Stone busied herself running the region’s art society. Her presidential duties included managing the organisation of the society’s New Year charity ball, which was held in the grandeur of the nearby stately home: Compton Hall. It was notoriously difficult to get a ticket for the annual event because Barbara and her minions could not be swayed by wealth alone. If anyone who could afford a one-thousand-pound ticket were able to buy one, they would be up to their antique pearl necklaces in hoi polloi.
Becky swallowed her bite of cake and asked, ‘How long has Rachel been managing the Coulson?’
‘She moved there about six months ago. She’d been working her way up through the family business at the Berlin, New York and London branches. Apparently she thought she was ready to come back to South Compton and step into the top job at Stone HQ but her mother had other ideas. So she defected to the Coulson where the owner lets her do what she likes.’
Becky ate her cake while listening to Ronnie and marvelling at the talents of her favourite gossiphound. What was her secret? It had to be cake. All that sugar was more powerful than truth serum.
‘Thanks, Ron. Let me know if you hear anything else that could be useful.’
‘OK, boss.’ Ronnie gave a mock salute, sunlight reflecting off the silver rings which adorned every one of her fingers. ‘Why do you want to know about this woman anyway?’
Damn. That was the problem with a gossiphound: you couldn’t restrict her nose to the areas you wanted her to investigate.
‘I told you already. If I get the green light for the new project then she could be important.’
‘Ah,’ said Ronnie in a tone Becky didn’t like at all. It dripped intrigue and lechery. Hell, it was a verbal wink. ‘The artist fancies her, does he? No wonder you wanted to know if she’s attached.’
Damn and blast. ‘Ron, you know I’m not supposed to talk to you about this stuff.’
‘Oh come on. Who am I going to tell? Besides, you’re not working for him yet. Client confidentiality doesn’t kick in until he’s hired you and that sort of thing is public domain anyway.’
‘It’s not a secret. I’m just not sure about it yet. He played it down,