Chapter Nine
Our last day.’ Olivia stretched her arms luxuriously above her head and gave a yawn. ‘What shall we do?’
‘There’s a few things I’d still like to look at,’ said Christopher, flicking through his Baedeker. ‘Maybe we could take a boat out to Murano?’
Olivia was about to say it sounded like a good idea when the telephone rang, sounding harsh and unfamiliar. They looked at each other, and Christopher reached out a hand to answer it.
‘Christopher Lucas.’
He listened for a moment, frowning, then put his hand over the mouthpiece.
‘There’s someone at reception for you.’
Olivia’s heart lurched. Oh God. Please don’t let it be Marcus, she thought. He was the only person she knew in Venice. What could he want? She hadn’t told him where she was staying, she was certain.
‘A woman,’ Christopher added.
‘Oh,’ said Olivia, relieved. ‘It must be Lucia. I’ll be down in two minutes.’
She dressed quickly and ran down to reception. There, sitting on a velvet sofa, was a young woman. Not Lucia, though. The woman from the plane, who she’d seen at the gallery. She was carrying a canvas bag, and as she stood up she held it out in front of her.
‘Hello?’ said Olivia, confused. What was she doing here?
‘This is going to seem really weird,’ said the woman. ‘But I came by this, and I think, by rights, it’s yours. I’m Rebecca, by the way. We met on the plane. And at the—’
‘At the gallery. I remember,’ said Olivia. ‘What is it?’
She watched as Rebecca pulled a painting out of the bag. She recognised it immediately and felt a wave of anxiety.
‘Did Marcus send you here?’
‘He did not,’ said Rebecca. She gave a smile that was half triumphant, half shy.
‘Sorry, but I don’t understand.’ Olivia frowned.
‘I was sitting next to you in the café yesterday, when you told him about it. I followed him straight to the shop.’ Rebecca was starting to look a little uncertain about what she’d done, tucking her hair behind her ears nervously.
‘We went out for dinner, and I went back to his place . . .’ She trailed off, and gave a shrug, looking a little shame-faced.
Olivia stared at her. ‘Oh my God. You nicked it off him?’
‘Well, yes. But it was wrong of him, to go and buy it, when you’d seen it first.’ She looked indignant.
Olivia shook her head in disbelief. ‘I can’t believe you did this.’
‘I wasn’t stalking you. Honestly. I just didn’t trust him—’
‘No. And nor did I.’
‘Oh.’ Rebecca looked puzzled.
Olivia held the painting up. ‘This isn’t what he thinks it is. It’s worth eighty euros, max.’
‘What?’
‘I set him up.’
Rebecca looked from Olivia to the painting and back. ‘You mean it’s not a sleeper?’
‘No. The shop owner’s nephew paints them.
They’re imitations. It was probably painted last week.
But I knew, if I fed Marcus a line, he wouldn’t be able to help himself.
I got Lucia to slap on a fake price tag.
He owed me money, from a long time ago. It was the only way I was ever going to get it back. ’
‘Oh my God.’ Rebecca started to laugh. ‘You absolute legend. He totally fell for it. He kept telling me how he was going to make a fortune . . .’
Olivia joined in her laughter. ‘He’ll be furious when he realises it’s gone.’
‘He’ll be even more furious when he gets kicked out of his apartment.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I emailed the owner a picture of him, drunk and fast asleep with a cigar ablaze . . .’
‘You’re kidding?’
Rebecca shrugged. ‘He didn’t care that there was no smoking. He didn’t care about the cat. I had to feed it.’
‘Wow.’ Olivia looked impressed. ‘I wonder if between us we’ve taught him a lesson?’
‘Nah,’ said Rebecca. ‘Men like him never learn. He’ll be on to the next person by tomorrow.’
‘You’re probably right.’ Olivia handed the painting back to Rebecca. ‘Why don’t you have this? As a memento. It’s not worth much, but I actually think it’s very good. I’ve got one myself.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course. And listen – we’re going out for dinner tonight. With Lucia. Why don’t you join us? I’d like to treat you, to say thank you for looking out for me.’
‘I’d love that,’ said Rebecca, and was surprised to find that she didn’t feel nervous at the prospect. She felt as if she could be herself, and hold her own. They had one thing in common, after all.