He looks past me to the closed door that I’m currently propped against, then to me with worried eyes.
‘Damn door.’ Mrs Potts’s irate tone drifts into the room, blanketing the heavy breathing that was saturating the erotic space a moment ago.
My eyes bulge with panic and my hand slaps over my mouth.
‘Shit,’ Becker says, backing away, his hands urgently tucking in his shirt. I fly forwards once again, except this time I don’t have Becker to bounce off, but he reaches for me, just catching me before I stumble to my knees. ‘She’s a burly old bird,’ he grumbles, steadying me quickly before moving away and leaving me to fend for myself.
I spin around, not knowing what to do, certain my face is red and my clothes all out of place. It’s a dead giveaway, but before I have time to contemplate my best move, the door swings open with brute force, revealing a rankled Mrs Potts. ‘The door’s sticking again,’ she barks, grabbing it and swinging it back and forth a few times.
I take her momentary focus on the door as an opportunity to dash to the nearest bookshelf, grabbing the first book I can lay my hands on.
‘I’ll have someone look at it,’ Becker says, and I look up to see him fighting a smile as he watches me flick through the pages aimlessly.
I give him a pained look and a roll of my eyes. He looks perfectly composed, while I’m battling to rein in my overwhelming panic. I’m fidgeting, and that only becomes worse when I feel Mrs Potts looking at me. ‘What happened to you?’ she asks.
I want to die on the spot. Immune? ‘Nothing,’ I squeak, placing the book back and taking hold of the shelf, leaning against it casually. It’s not casual at all. I must look as guilty as I feel. I let go and ruffle my hair. Becker looks like he could fall about laughing at any moment, but he soon puts a lid on it when Mrs Potts flicks her suspicious eyes his way.
‘What?’ he asks, cocky as ever. He’s loving this. The daring maverick.
‘You tell me.’
‘What would you like me to tell you?’
‘Don’t give me your lip, Becker boy.’ She waves a threatening finger in his face, taking a peek at me again, no doubt seeking further evidence. I shy away, unwittingly giving her that evidence.
‘Nothing to tell,’ Becker says, unconvincingly.
She scoffs and wanders over to him, all casual, looking him up and down. Under any other circumstances, Becker cautiously backing away from the little old lady would be comical. I’m too worried to laugh, though. Mrs Potts has warned me, and I know she’s warned Becker, too. She doesn’t approve. She knows the consequences, as do I.
Becker only stops when the backs of his legs meet a couch, and Mrs Potts eyes come to rest on the collar of his shirt. She slowly reaches up and takes the corner lightly between her fingers, musing thoughtfully. I frown, but then get all kinds of worried when she turns and slowly makes her way to me. Like Becker, I back up until I’m cornered against the bookcase. She purses her lips and narrows her eyes. ‘Nice shade of lipstick you have on today, dear.’
My fingers reach for my mouth, and my eyes cast over her shoulder to see Becker quickly look at his collar before he brushes at something. A smear. From my lipstick. Then he looks to me, his mouth dropped open. His coolness has been superseded by Mrs Potts’s super-coolness. Now he looks guilty, too.
Caught.
She hums, and I force an innocent, sweet smile, for what reason I don’t know. I’m kidding no one. My appearance, my behaviour, the evidence, it’s all labelled me guilty as charged. No interrogation required. ‘You have the Countryscape auction this afternoon.’ Mrs Potts is speaking to Becker but looking at me. ‘You mustn’t be late or you’ll miss the lot.’
My discomfort is suddenly transformed into excitement. Countryscape? I’ve heard of it. Or read about it. A private auction house in a sprawling mansion. It has showcased some of history’s most famous pieces. To say it’s super-exclusive is an understatement. Only the richest and most credible pass those doors. By endorsement. Fucking hell.
‘I’m expecting a call from Doc—’ Becker stops mid-sentence and flicks me a dirty look. Dr Vass. His therapist. I’m insanely curious. Has he discussed me with his therapist? ‘I have a conference call,’ he says.