‘I’m just a little preoccupied,’ she explains, hopping from one white patent stiletto to the other. ‘I have things on my mind.’
‘Oh, of course.’ I nod, suddenly understanding. She’s probably spent a sleepless weekend fretting about the gallery, worrying if my trip to the Vineyard was a success. ‘You mean Artsy.’
Her reaction is not what I’m expecting. Instead of nodding compliantly, she looks shocked. ‘What about him?’ she demands defensively.
‘Well, I imagine you want to know all about what happened at our meeting. In the Vineyard,’ I prompt. Gosh, she is acting really weird. Even weirder than normal.
‘Ah, yes, yes, of course.’ She nods vigorously. ‘Your trip to the Vineyard.’ The way she says it, it’s almost as if she’d totally forgotten about it and was thinking about something else entirely. ‘I’m all ears.’ Putting her arm round my waist, she leads me across the gallery and over to the reception desk.
Basically moving me as far away from the office as she can get me, I can’t help noticing. I glance at her sharply. What on earth’s going on? Why is she acting so bizarrely?
‘Go ahead. Tell me everything,’ she says in a stagey voice, plonking me on to a stool.
‘Well, he was really nice, not what I was expecting,’ I begin, my mind spooling backwards, ‘but then I’m not sure what I was expecting.’
‘Mmm.’
‘You know, when I first arrived, he had me digging his vegetable patch.’ I smile at the memory. It seems so surreal now I’m back here in New York. ‘Then he showed me his recent artwork, which really was quite . . .’ I look at Magda. She’s not even listening. Instead she’s fiddling with her hair and looking around shiftily.
‘Mrs Zuckerman?’ I say in a firm voice.
It grabs her attention. ‘Er, yes, Loozy?’ She attempts an innocent expression, which quite frankly couldn’t look more guilty.
‘You seem preoccupied,’ I say questioningly.
‘I do?’ Her eyes are rabbit-in-the-headlights wide and she hesitates before saying, ‘One moment. I forgot something,’ and scuttling back across the gallery and disappearing into the office.
I stare after her, perplexed. And more than a little bit peeved. Sod it, she’s not even interested. I flew all the way to Martha’s Vineyard to meet Artsy; I even shared a bed with Nate because of him, well, sort of, and all because Magda made out it was this huge big deal, that it was the only way we could save the gallery. Now I’m back here and she can’t even be bothered to—
‘Surprise!’
I snap back to see Magda re-emerging from the office doorway, then stepping to one side to reveal a tall figure wearing lederhosen, a white frilly shirt and a large-brimmed hat. His face is partly in shadow, but there’s only one person I know who’d wear clothes like that.
‘Artsy?’ I gasp, taken aback. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Exhibiting!’ whoops Magda, before he can open his mouth to answer. ‘Isn’t that right?’
It’s a statement, not a question, and I gape at Artsy. A bolt of relief, delight and God knows what else zips right through and threatens to erupt like a great big firework. Is it true? My eyes search his out under the brim of his hat. Is it?
‘I do believe that’s correct,’ he replies with mock formality, then glancing at me, winks.
The firework erupts silently inside me. Fizzing and showering me with a million pieces of glitter.
I did it. He said yes. We’re saved.
I want to punch the air, high-five Artsy, pick up Magda and swing her round, tickle Valentino’s tummy, but instead I force myself into professional mode.
‘That’s great news,’ I reply evenly, trying to silence my inner voice, which is shrieking excitedly in my head. ‘The gallery will be very honoured, and I’m sure you’ll find a very happy home here at Number Thirty-Eight.’
Magda shoots me a look of grateful appreciation. Something tells me she’s been whooping, ‘Wonderful, wonderful,’ ever since he broke the news to her.
‘I’m sure I will.’ He nods lazily, chewing gum. ‘Especially now I’ve met Mrs Zuckerman personally.’
‘Please, call me Magda.’ She blushes and giggles coyly like a schoolgirl.
A schoolgirl with a crush, I realise, glancing across at her.
‘I’m sorry, it was all my idea.’ Artsy turns to me.
‘Sorry?’ I look at him in confusion.
‘The surprise,’ he explains. ‘I thought it might be kinda fun. I’m afraid I can a bit of a practical joker.’
‘But you’re not joking now,’ I check hastily.
He grins and strokes his beard, which he’s shaved into a point and plaited with tiny