suits hangs neatly in various shades of grey. Underneath are several pairs of shoes. I pick one up. It’s leather. Despite myself, I can’t resist taking a peek at the sole: ‘Made in Italy.’ I feel a flash of excitement. Which of course is ridiculous, I tell myself quickly. As if I care where his shoes are made.
Quickly putting it back, I sneak glances into both bathrooms – large, white and marble, they’re empty apart from an electric toothbrush and a couple of disposable contact-lens cases – and end up in the designer kitchen.
I glance around it nervously. My lack of culinary skills is something of a running joke in my family. Kate calls my style of cooking ‘one, two, three, ping’ in reference to the sound of the microwave when it’s finished. Which is a little harsh (I once made Rice Krispie cakes and they were delicious). I admit I do find kitchens a bit scary. I mean, they’re filled with endless equipment, and utensils, and ingredients, that I have no clue what to do with.
Take this one, for example. It’s terrifying. Stainless-steel countertops, state-of-the-art gadgets, an intimidating cooker with a million different dials and knobs. It’s called Wolf. How scary is that? And then there’s that hulking great big fridge. What on earth do you need a fridge that size for? I tare mze with take a look inside. There’s nothing on the shelves apart from a few bottles of sparkling water, a bag of organic oranges, a tub of 0 per cent fat Greek yoghurt and some quinoa.
Quinoa? What’s that? I read the packet. ‘An ancient grain, filled with goodness and nutrition.’
Crikey, whoever lives here is seriously healthy. Where’s the chocolate? The takeaway leftovers? The Diet Coke?
Er, in your fridge, Lucy.
Feeling a stab of guilt, I hastily close the door. I’ll buy some ancient grains next time I go shopping, I tell myself firmly. Still, chocolate isn’t unhealthy. I once read an article in a magazine about how it’s filled with iron and . . . I draw a blank. Well, anyway, it’s ages since I read the article.
Exiting the kitchen, I wander back towards the living room to resume my position on the sofa. Boredom gnaws at me. I haven’t found anything very interesting and the novelty of the penthouse is beginning to wear off. Plus I’m pretty tired. It’s been a long day. I’d quite like to go home now, get in the bath and curl up on the sofa with tonight’s episode of Oprah and the man who thinks he’s a grizzly bear that Robyn’s recorded. I laughed when Robyn told me about it, but now it’s beginning to seem quite appealing.
Letting out a yawn, I’m padding back down the hallway when I notice a bookcase. I didn’t see it before, but like everything else in the flat, it’s still empty. Next to it are a couple of half-opened cardboard boxes. No doubt filled with books, I muse, kneeling down and lifting up the cardboard flap to take a look.
Not that there’s anything much to see. Like I thought, just piles of books. Absently I leaf through a couple of political autobiographies, several travel guides, a couple of dog-eared John Grishams, a book on Renaissance painters . . . I pause, my interest piqued. It’s quite a heavy hardback, and tugging it out, I lie it on my lap and start flicking through the pages. Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Botticelli . . .
My eyes flick over each painting. It’s like looking over photographs of old friends. On some I think the brushwork is amazing; others it’s the light; some I find a little too sentimental, or too religious.
As I turn the page, my heart skips a beat.
Portrait of a Musician by Titian.
I stare at the face looking out at me, my mind leaping back to the very first time I saw this painting. I was nineteen years old and wandering around the Gallerie dell’AccademiÀ€ dell’Acc kemia in Venice with a guidebook and the obligatory pair of earphones that didn’t work when I’d stumbled across it, tucked away in a darkened corner.
It had been love at first sight.
With long, dark, messy hair swept away from his face, a beard, brooding eyes, soulful expression, strong forehead and unwavering gaze, he was one of the most handsome men I’d ever laid eyes on.
And a musician too! Which was just so typical of me. I’ve always had a thing about musicians. Show me a man with facial hair