She chuckles and returns to her pad. ‘Organisation skills?’
‘Brilliant.’
She waves her chubby hand through the air again, laughing. ‘That’ll make him happy.’
‘Him?’
‘The boss, dear. Keep up.’ She’s out of her chair and walking across the room, my eyes following her path before glancing up at the glass wall that’s guarding the room. Prickles are pitter-pattering across my skin. It’s the oddest sensation. ‘Confidence in handling comes through years of experience,’ she continues, pulling my attention back to her. ‘But you have a nice steady hand, so you’re off to a good start.’
‘I worked in my father’s antique shop for years,’ I say, avoiding the fact that my dad’s treasure could never compare to what I’m surrounded by now. I also avoid the pang of guilt that stabs me. It might not have been treasure on this scale, but it was still treasure to my dad.
‘How lovely.’ Mrs Potts chuckles, slipping some white gloves on before opening a cabinet and picking up an intricately patterned Ming vase. She then proceeds to juggle it between her hands like it’s a ball. I straighten my back, nervous at the sight of such a rare piece being handled so cavalierly. She places it down and twirls it to the right, smiling at it fondly for a few moments while I look on. ‘Now then.’ She marches over to me and hands me another pair of gloves. ‘Pick it up, dear.’ She nods towards the Ming vase.
I accept the gloves and approach the vase nervously, concerned the pressure will throw my confidence. I get the feeling that the care of these treasures is more important than any knowledge I might have in the antique department. So, I pull up my big girl knickers, put on the gloves, and take hold of the vase with both hands.
I turn to present the treasure to Mrs Potts. ‘It’s stunning.’
She smiles brightly. ‘Of course it is. It was made for the Qianlong Emperor.’ She inclines her head, like I should know that.
I didn’t, but I know who the Qianlong Emperor is. ‘Oh my God.’ I’m holding something close to three hundred years old.
‘It’s worth one point two million.’
‘What?’ My hands instantly start to shake, and Mrs Potts flies to me at a speed that defies her round body and her age.
‘I’ll take that.’ She swipes it from my hands, leaving me to grab a nearby heavily carved Elizabethan sideboard to steady myself.
‘One point two million?’ I blurt, watching her tucking it away safely in the cabinet. Holy shit, I’ve underestimated how far removed this is from my father’s business. I think the most he ever achieved for a piece that he spent two months lovingly restoring was a grand. A thousand pounds for nine weeks’ work. But 1.2 million? Yes, my knowledge is broad, but the value of pieces hasn’t been something I’ve much cared for, just the history. The responsibility and pressure of dealing with them, handling them, is something I’ve grossly underestimated.
‘Yes, dear.’ She turns disapproving eyes on to me. ‘Maybe your handling skills aren’t so great, after all.’
I sag internally, aware I may have just cocked up my interview. ‘I’m sorry.’
An impish grin appears, surprising me, and her already rosy cheeks gain more colour, clashing with her violet curls. ‘We can work on your fumbling fingers, dear.’
‘We can?’
‘Certainly.’ She indicates the white gloves, so I quickly take them off and hand them over. She drops them on to the nearby table and is off again. ‘This way, dear.’
I’m in pursuit, but I’m far more cautious as I dip and weave through the maze of antiques. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To meet Mr H.’ She swipes a card before she pushes through a huge wooden door, the creaking echoing loudly around me. Mr H. The boss? Difficult Mr H. ‘Just down here, dear.’
Following Mrs Potts’s steps, we pass door after door, the corridor walls lined with paintings that blow my mind. I spot a Dalí, a Raphael, a Rembrandt. ‘Fuck,’ I whisper, eyes wide. And then a stone staircase curving to the right grabs my attention. My head turns as we pass, my gaze rooted on the point where the stairs disappear around the corner into darkness.
‘That’s out of bounds,’ Mrs Potts says, snapping my attention back to her. ‘Never venture that way.’
I want to ask why. There are so many things I want to ask, but she’s quickly pointing out more. ‘At the very end of this corridor is Mr H’s private suite.’