Chapter Eighteen
The buzz in the auction room was electric. Every seat was occupied and the bidding for the previous lots had been lively, with prices for all the paintings exceeding expectations.
Vicky was sitting at the end of the front row with Tom, unconsciously gripping his hand as the auctioneer announced the next lot — the five charcoal sketches Juan-Jorge had made of his neighbours in Sturcombe.
They were to be sold as a single lot. The porters in their white coats and gloves paraded solemnly across the front of the room to prop them on the display easels, and their images flashed up on the two big screens beside the auctioneer’s head.
Bez’s blog, with the story of the portraits and Juan-Jorge’s final years in a quiet seaside village in South Devon, and Molly’s amazing life, had gone viral. It had caught the interest of the media — the news of the sale had even made some of the national papers. Which was amazing for an artist who wasn’t well known in the UK.
“This is it,” she whispered to Tom as the bidding started. “I hope they get a decent amount.”
The bids were clocking up on the screen beside the images of the sketches, showing the running tally in half a dozen currencies. Along each side of the auditorium, the raised walkways were lined with assistants taking phone bids and internet bids.
The auctioneer had started the bidding at ten thousand pounds. Vicky had been staggered when Mr Loughton had suggested that sum, but he had been proved right — the numbers were mounting rapidly by the thousands. Forty thousand... Forty-five...
“How on earth does he keep up with it?” She was swivelling her head, trying to see who was bidding. “Just don’t sneeze or we could find ourselves buying them back!”
Tom laughed. “It doesn’t work like that. You don’t even have a bidding paddle.”
“Is it the same as how livestock auctions work?”
“Pretty much. Though livestock auctions are smellier.”
She bit back a bubble of laughter. This was like some crazy dream — she felt as if she was drunk. The bidding had passed fifty-five thousand, but at last it was slowing.
“To you, sir. Fifty-eight thousand? Thank you.”
A woman in a smart scarlet blazer sitting in the second row raised her numbered paddle — Vicky had noticed that she had just watched until the bidding passed forty-five thousand before joining in.
The auctioneer pointed at her. “Fifty-nine thousand — it’s with you.” He glanced back at the previous bidder. “Do you want to raise, sir? I’ll take five hundred.”
The man hesitated briefly, then shook his head.
“Very well. Are there any more bids? Then once . . . twice . . .”
The gavel came down with a sharp clack, and Vicky let go her breath.
“Oh, wow! That’s going to be... heavens, nearly ten thousand pounds each after commission. Debbie’s mum’s going to be able to buy a very big freezer!”
The room relaxed, with a general buzz of conversation, rustling of papers, a few people leaving their seats, more crowding into the back. The porters came in to remove the sketches from their easels and convey them through to the back room.
Slowly the noise subsided into a silence filled with anticipation. The porters returned, carrying Molly’s portrait as if it was a goblet of pure gold. They set it up on the easel, and its image appeared on the screens to a collective, “Oooh,” around the room.
“I can’t believe this,” Vicky whispered. “I never thought it could be worth much.” She laughed edgily. “Goes to show how much I know about art.”
Tom squeezed her hand. “Well, you’re about to find out how much it’s worth.”
“I know. I’m going to have to close my eyes — I can’t watch.”
He laughed softly. “That’s no good. You’ll still be able to hear.”
The auctioneer raised his hands for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m pleased to present our final lot of the day. This was the last piece that Juan-Jorge Conejero painted before his death — a portrait of his lover, Meline Marston. Unknown for over forty years, it has a full provenance and has been fully authenticated by three experts. I have online bids and can start the bidding at three million pounds.”
Vicky drew in a sharp breath. “That’s more than the reserve!” she whispered to Tom.
The elegant room, with its pale-grey walls and crystal chandeliers swinging from the high ceiling, seemed to be swaying like a ship at sea. The bids were racking up even faster than for the sketches. Paddles were being raised all round the room, the heat and the electric tension were soaring. The numbers the auctioneer was calling sounded like a jumble in her ears...
She flinched when the gavel came down.
There was a collective release of breath, a round of applause, a few cheers. Tom whistled softly.
“How much?” she whispered.
“Seven million, three hundred and fifty thousand.”
He had to repeat the figure slowly before she could take it in. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to breathe slowly. Seven million...
People had gathered round to congratulate her.
“That was a very good sale.”
“A record for a Conejero.”
“The Pradera will be delighted to have got it for their collection.”
“Yes... yes, thank you.” She was gripping Tom’s hand tightly, her heart thumping, her mouth dry. Seven million...
The room was emptying slowly as people drifted away. A newspaper photographer wanted a picture of her beside the portrait, the reporter with him wanted to ask questions. She obliged in a blur, not even sure what she was saying.
There was champagne to be sipped with Mr Loughton and the representative from the Pradera, and several other bigwigs of the art world, then paperwork to be attended to. But at last they were able to step out into the early evening bustle of London’s trendy heartland.
“Dinner?” Tom suggested.
“I don’t think I could eat a thing.”
“Let’s see if you can be tempted.”
* * *
The restaurant was just round the corner from the auction house. Leafy fig trees in copper pots, their branches laced with golden fairy lights, were dotted between circular tables with scarlet tablecloths — the impression was of intimacy, though they were surrounded by other diners.
The head waiter showed them to a corner table and presented the leather-bound menus. Vicky barely noticed what she was ordering — she didn’t even realise that Tom had ordered champagne until the waiter filled her glass.
“Oh . . . !”
Tom’s eyes lit with amusement. “It’s a champagne moment, don’t you think?” He raised his glass in a toast. “To Juan-Jorge — and Molly.”
“To Molly.” She took a sip, letting the bubbles sparkle on her tongue. “I’m still in shock. That woman, the one in the red jacket — she was from the Pradera, wasn’t she?”
“That’s right. I spoke to her briefly while you were doing the interview. You’ll be invited over to see the portrait once it’s on exhibition there.”
“They bought the sketches too, didn’t they? Won’t everyone be gobsmacked when they find out how much they’ve made!”
He smiled. “I suspect there’s going to be a very big party.”
Vicky nodded — yes, a party. A housewarming and a celebration of Aunt Molly’s legacy.
The waiter had brought their starter — a cool salmon mousse. Vicky found that her appetite had returned — she had been too excited to eat any lunch and she was starving. The main course — tender lamb cutlets with julienne vegetables — was just as delicious.
“So what happens now?” Tom asked as the waiter came to clear their plates.
“Dessert?”
He laughed. “I thought you weren’t hungry.”
“I thought I wasn’t. But they’ve got tiramisu — my favourite.”
“I’ll just have coffee,” he told the waiter. He picked up the champagne bottle and refilled their glasses. “What I meant was, are you really going to stay in Sturcombe?”
She glanced across the table at him. Did he really think she would want to go back to London? “Of course.”
The warm gleam in his eyes suggested that he had liked her response. “So what are you going to do with your money? I heard you tell Debbie you didn’t fancy a world cruise.”
She laughed at that. “No, I don’t — I can’t think of anything I’d dislike more. But all that money... even after I’ve paid the commission to the auction house and the inheritance tax, I’ll have plenty to live on — I’ll be able to concentrate on writing my novel.”
“That’ll be good.”
He sounded sincere. Not like Jeremy, who had dismissed her dream of being a writer as childish nonsense.
“I almost deleted it at one point,” she confessed. “But when I went back to it... the break seemed to have worked. It all started to flow; new ideas kept popping into my head. I don’t know if it’ll be any good, or if it’ll ever get published. But I’ve dreamed about it for a long time. And... I have another idea.”
“Oh?”
“I thought I might buy some houses in Sturcombe, and let them just to local people at affordable rents. When I thought the painting might make a couple of million I was thinking of just one or two, but now I could buy maybe half a dozen. And then I could put the income from the rents to buying more. What do you think?”
He smiled with instant approval. “I think it’s a great idea.”
She laughed again. “I know I said I didn’t want to be an estate agent, but this would be different. I wouldn’t be working for Charlotte Thorington, for a start! It would be mine. And it would be about helping people have a home, not making some greedy landlord rich.” She picked up her champagne glass and raised it in another toast. “Sturcombe Properties.”
“Sturcombe Properties.” Tom smiled as he clinked his glass against hers. “And I have something else we might drink to.”
He put his hand in his pocket and took out a small box, which he laid on the table in front of her. A jeweller’s box. Dark blue velvet, inscribed in gold — Digby’s. She lifted her gaze to his.
“Open it,” he urged softly.
Her hand was shaking as she lifted the lid. A glint of emeralds, rich green, reflecting the fairy lights above her head in pinpricks of fire.
“Aunt Molly’s ring . . .”
“Your ring.”
“But . . . how did you get it?”
“I went into Digby’s to get a new strap for my watch, the day after you went in to sell Molly’s jewellery. We were chatting while old Cyril was fitting the strap, and he showed it to me, told me how you’d loved it. He’d decided to keep it back in case you changed your mind about selling it.”
“Oh . . . what a lovely man!”
“He is. I asked if he’d sell it to me, and he said only if I gave it to you. I think he must be psychic.”
Vicky felt her heart pounding. She didn’t want to jump to conclusions about his intentions, but... there was usually only one reason why a man would give a woman a ring like this.
“But... you didn’t even like me then,” she protested, laughing unsteadily.
“Didn’t I?” He smiled, a slow, enigmatic smile that left her even more confused.
“Well, I . . .”
He took the ring from the box and picked up her left hand. “I needed to know that you really are going to stay, that it’s what you really want, for yourself, without any pressure from me. I love you, Vicky Marston. Will you marry me?”
And breathe . . . “I . . . don’t think I’d make a very good farmer’s wife.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “You’ll make this farmer an excellent wife. It’s you I want, just as you are.”
She looked at the ring, and his hand holding hers. He was waiting for an answer. It had been a day for dreams to come true, but this... to marry him...
But... could he really be in love with her? Could skinny and not-quite blonde really replace that gorgeous redhead? Would she always be second best, even though she wore his ring?
Or should she take the chance, trust her dreams... ?
“Yes.” The answer came before her mind had consciously framed it. All the breath seemed to have left her lungs as he slid the ring onto her third finger. “Oh, yes.”
* * *
“Great party, Vicky.”
“Thank you.” She smiled at Brenda. How things had turned around since the first time they’d met! She’d been a stranger then. Now she had a whole crowd of new friends, all of them here tonight for a combined housewarming party and engagement party and celebration of the sale of Juan-Jorge’s portraits.
The French windows in the sitting room stood open and many people had drifted out into the back garden to enjoy the warm evening. Tom was out there chatting to Arthur Crocombe’s son, Simon; her stepfather and Jack Cullen were discussing wines, and Debbie and Bill were dancing on the lawn to the music pouring out from her stereo.
She had even spotted Bez in the shadows round the corner of the cottage, heavily snogging Wayne, Tom’s apprentice at the farm.
She felt a small glow of satisfaction as she wandered around the room picking up a few empty glasses. The ring on her finger sparkled with green fire every time it caught the light.
She had taken the chance, chased her dreams — whatever the outcome, it had to be worth the risk.
Carrying the glasses through to the kitchen she found her mother at the sink, washing up. “Hey, there’s no need to do that, Mum,” she protested. “They can all go in the dishwasher later.”
“Oh, these few bits won’t take a minute.” She set the glasses down on the draining board in a neat row and wiped her hands on a towel. “You’ve made this very nice.” She glanced approvingly around the kitchen. “Very practical.”
“Thanks.” Vicky managed not to roll her eyes — ‘practical’ was second only to ‘sensible’ in her mother’s lexicon.
“So you’re really going to stay here now?”
“Of course. I love it.”
“Well, you do seem to have made lots of friends.” Her mother still sounded slightly puzzled by it all.
“Yes.” Vicky smiled reassuringly. “They’re really nice people.”
“And your Tom seems to have grown into a very nice young man. Though it’s a shame about Jeremy.”
Vicky laughed dryly. “Not really.”
Her mother sighed. “Well, I suppose you know your own mind.”
Vicky smiled to herself. She had been anticipating the word ‘sensible’ but she suspected that her mother didn’t think she was being sensible at all.
She hadn’t told her mother the whole story of what had happened — she didn’t want to create a problem in the family.
It had been a relief that Jayde hadn’t accompanied their parents on this visit. She had spoken to her only once since that fateful weekend.
She wouldn’t have spoken to her at all, but she had rung on someone else’s phone and Vicky had answered it because she hadn’t recognised the number.
Jayde had been full of indignant self-justification. “You were going to break up with him anyway, so why are you so pissed off?”
“Jayde, you were sleeping with him while I was still engaged to him.”
“Well, I—”
“While I was still engaged to him!”
“So that’s it? I suppose you’re never going to speak to me again, even though we’re sisters?”
“Ah, you remembered that now?” Vicky sighed. “Of course I’m going to speak to you again, but it’s not like borrowing a pair of shoes without asking. He was my fiancé — sisters don’t do that to each other.”
“Even though . . . ?”
“Even though. Goodbye, Jayde. I’ll call you... sometime.”
“Goodbye.”
At least by the end of the call Jayde had had the grace to sound a little contrite. Though they hadn’t been close for a long time Vicky had always been fond of her sister. She hoped that somehow they could rebuild that bond, for her mother and stepfather’s sake.
And she had felt better for saying what had needed to be said.
Her mother picked up a plate of pizza fingers. “I’ll just take these through.”
Vicky began to load some more mini sausage rolls onto a plate, but turned as Lisa came into the kitchen. “Hi — just came to get some more wine.”
“Here.” Vicky gestured towards the row of bottles on the worktop. “There’s plenty.”
Lisa selected a bottle of red and one of white. “It’s a really good party. Everyone’s saying that.”
“It’s certainly a lot more fun than the ones we used to have with Jeremy’s friends.” Now she did roll her eyes. “All terribly sophisticated, dahling, with everyone standing around sipping wine and claiming they could detect a hint of dried cherries, sandalwood and tar.”
Lisa laughed. “Sounds like you had a lucky escape.”
“I certainly did.”
Lisa leaned her hip against the worktop. “I never met him, and I might be biased — being related by marriage and all — but I’d say Tom’s a much better catch.”
Vicky glanced down at her ring. “He is.” Her mouth quirked into a crooked smile. “I can’t believe Nyree Donovan tossed him back in the pool, even for a part in a big TV series.”
Lisa returned her a look of quizzical surprise. “That’s not quite how it was.”
“Oh?”
“I thought you’d come in here to get more wine?” They both turned as Tom appeared in the doorway. “People are dying of thirst out there.”
“Just going.” Lisa’s eyes danced, and impulsively she wrapped her arms around Vicky in a warm hug. “Ask him about it!”
He smiled that heart-bumping smile as he strolled across the kitchen to Vicky. “Great party.”
“So people keep telling me.”
He glanced at the glasses on the draining board. “Have you been washing up?”
“No — that was my mum.”
“Being sensible?”
“And practical.”
“Ask me about what?”
Damn — she was hoping he hadn’t heard that. But if she was ever going to resolve all the questions lurking in her mind she had to ask him. “We were talking about Nyree.”
“Nyree?”
“Your ex-fiancée.”
He laughed without humour. “Yes, I know who she is.” His gaze flickered away from hers, then returned. “She’s an actress — she was down here filming for a television series.” His voice was cool, almost detached. “She’s beautiful — absolutely stunning. Hit me like a ton of bricks — and she seemed to feel the same. We were engaged inside of a month.”
He reached out to filch one of the sausage rolls.
“At first it was... She seemed to be really enthusiastic about living down here. She was talking about starting up her own theatre company, having people come down for holidays and theatre workshops, as well as performances. It was going to be a really big thing.”
Vicky could feel a knot of tension coiling in her stomach.
“But... I don’t know. It was like she was just playing a role, starring in her own miniseries. It wasn’t long before the novelty began to wear off. She began to grumble about being buried down here in the wilds of Devon, missing all the parties and premieres. She started trying to persuade me to move up to London with her.”
Vicky’s eyes widened in surprise. “But surely she should have known you’d never do that. You’d never leave the farm.”
“Quite.” His mouth thinned. “For a while I did consider selling the organics business, splitting my time between here and London. But it was never going to work — Dad’s not getting any younger, and he couldn’t manage the farm without me. Besides, Nyree wouldn’t be satisfied with that sort of arrangement. She was used to getting her own way, and when she found out it wasn’t going to happen, she... wasn’t very happy.”
Vicky didn’t need the translation — ‘wasn’t very happy’ was probably a very big understatement.
“Then she got an offer of a part in some big TV series in America. I’m not going to lie — by then it was nothing but a relief.”
She put her hand up to his cheek. “So you didn’t mind her going?”
He smiled crookedly. “She left scars. She didn’t break my heart, but she made me... wary. Wary of getting involved again — wary of outsiders.”
“Like me.”
“That was what I thought at first. That’s why I was a bit off with you.”
“A bit?”
He laughed. “Okay — more than a bit. I was trying not to be attracted to you — which was difficult, as I was attracted to you. But then I realised that in teaching me a hard lesson about when to be wary, she’d taught me something even more important — how to recognise the right one when she came along.” He slid his arms around her and drew her close. “Which I did.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “By the way, have I told you this evening that I love you?”
“I think you might have mentioned it once or twice. Um... remind me. Have I told you that I love you?”
“You did say something along those lines, but I don’t mind hearing it again.” He took both her hands, lacing his fingers in hers. “Come and dance with me.”
Her heart was already dancing. The right one ... Not second best.
Instead of leading her out through the sitting room to the back garden, he drew her out to the front. Here it was quiet, private. A soft breeze was blowing in from the sea, rustling through the leaves of the trees and stirring the lingering fragrance of jasmine and roses from the flowerbeds. A million stars glittered in the inky sky — the moon was a thin silver crescent like the imprint of a thumbnail.
The grass was soft and springy beneath their feet as he drew her into his arms, and they danced slowly to the music that was spilling out through the open windows. His mouth came down to claim hers in a long, sweet, tender kiss.
Love is the stars and the summer breeze
Love is the silence in a kiss
At last she could let herself believe that he really was in love with her. And as she lifted her arms to wrap them around his neck, her hands came together and her fingers brushed against the ring on her finger. Aunt Molly’s ring — entwined hearts.
Molly had had the courage to love, and to follow her dreams. Maybe her own dreams hadn’t been quite as dramatic, but she had found out how important it was to follow them.
And ‘sensible’ be damned!
THE END