Chapter Five
‘I can’t believe you actually had a date last night!’ Freja exclaimed, sitting on the side of the sink in her underwear as they brushed their teeth. ‘You wasted no time!’
‘That was down to his scheduling, not mine.’
‘Was it good? Did you go back to his?’ Freja asked.
‘That really would be wasting no time!’ Darcy protested, spraying toothpaste in her indignation. Her brain rattled a little as she talked; she had undone her restraint on the champagne at the National by having some espresso martinis, which were never a good idea. ‘We had drinks at Br?nnum.’
‘Oh, fancy!’ Toothpaste foamed in Freja’s mouth as she spoke, and she twisted to spit into the basin.
‘Yeah. We had a nice time.’
‘...Nice? Nice? ’ Freja patted the towel against her mouth. ‘Oh no. That is not good. I know you Brits. Damnation by faint praise...You hated the guy.’
‘No I didn’t!’ Darcy rolled her eyes.
‘Was he funny?’
‘He certainly thought so.’
‘Attentive?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Fuckable?’
‘Sure.’
‘So then, what’s the problem?’
It was Darcy’s turn to spit and she stood up, running the tap. ‘...I was on a date with the wrong guy,’ she said finally.
‘How’d you manage that?’ Freja frowned, looking confused.
‘By accident, that’s how. I met one of my other matches at the drinks reception and the eye contact was off the charts, Frey,’ she groaned. ‘The chemistry was unreal! I’d have gone straight back to his last night, no hesitations, I’m telling you.’
Freja was looking appalled by the developments. ‘So then why didn’t you?’ she cried, splaying her hands in dismay.
‘Because Erik the Property Developer has all the emotional intelligence of a slug! Instead of seeing me standing on the steps with another guy and deciding to hold onto his dignity and slink into the night, he began madly calling my name and waving at me!’ She shrugged. ‘Max the Lawyer didn’t even give me the chance to make a choice. He just said goodbye and buggered off.’
Freja reached for her moisturizer. ‘Do you think he was pissed off?’
‘Maybe mildly.’ Darcy shrugged. ‘His sure thing disappeared in smoke before his eyes.’
‘So then message him,’ Freja urged her. ‘Make another date with him – a proper one.’ She began applying the cream in long, upward strokes on her neck.
‘Ugh...I doubt he’d be bothered,’ Darcy muttered. ‘I think he was calling another girl before he’d even got in the car.’
Freja’s hands paused and she winced. ‘Oh, really?’
Darcy nodded, reaching for some of Freja’s moisturizer too. ‘I get the impression he’s got a whole...routine, down. You know, hookup back-ups.’
‘Oh. Well, maybe it was a blessing in disguise, then,’ Freja said disapprovingly. ‘Man-whore is my type, not yours.’
‘Ordinarily I’d agree.’ Darcy rubbed the cream vigorously into her cheeks. ‘But I’ve never experienced anything like that before. All bets were off with him. Usual rules didn’t apply.’
‘Is this some Freaky Friday shit?’ Freja asked her with an incredulous look. ‘Did we swap bodies in the night? How come I’ve been sleeping with the same guy for nearly a month now and you’re ready to hook up with...?’
‘Max the Lawyer.’
‘Yes. Him.’
‘I know,’ Darcy shrugged. ‘Mental. The universe is messing with us.’ She looked sheepishly at her flatmate in the mirror. ‘I googled him when I got in, you know. Max the Lawyer, I mean.’
‘Yeah?’
‘He looks pretty well connected. I did an image search and he came up at a lot of grand, society-type events.’
‘Not that surprising if he’s on Raya. The whole point is it’s for that strata.’ Freja squirted some highlighter into her palm.
‘Yeah. He seems to know a lot of beautiful women. Model types. I’m not sure PhD students quite cut the mustard.’
‘ You are the catch, babe, not him,’ Freja said loyally. ‘Remember that. If he wants to surround himself with vapid skeletons, let him. You deserve way more than some pretty fuckboy.’
‘I know that. But I thought the whole point of this was to provide me with some meaningless diversion over the Christmas holidays.’
‘He won’t be here over Christmas. His sort never are. He’ll be skiing in Gstaad or lying on a Harbour Island beach.’ Freja turned to look at her as she applied the highlighter to her cheeks. ‘Thing is, Darce, I know we’re calling this a post-Lars revenge spree, but fundamentally, you’re a relationship girl. You catch feelings – a guy like that would be bad news for you.’
Darcy let her words settle, knowing her friend was right. She hadn’t been able to go through with going back to Erik’s last night, in spite of the fact she was tipsy and he was clearly keen. Max had been on her mind during every conversation. However much she wanted to see herself as a weapon of seduction, the evidence suggested otherwise.
‘Do you want my advice?’
‘I sense I’m going to get it anyway,’ Darcy said with a wry smile as she pulled on a fleecy hairband to hold her hair back.
‘Forget him. If he was calling another woman as he was walking away from you, he’s a serious player and he’s only going to hurt you. Remove the temptation now, before things can develop, and just move on. You’ve had enough turmoil lately. Keep things simple. We’re not looking for either love or drama; just a little festive fun, so you’re not completely alone while you get your thesis done.’
Darcy stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked pale and slightly panda-eyed, traces of last night’s mascara remaining in spite of the fact she’d applied her micellar water three times. But last night, by Max’s side, his hand on her back as they walked, she’d felt beautiful, seductive; powerful, even. When was the last time she’d felt that? Had she ever felt that, in fact? Everything in her world had felt fundamentally different beside him.
‘You said Erik the Property Developer’s fuckable, right? And attentive and funny. That’s all you need. Nothing more, nothing less. Go with that package. Emotional slug can’t hurt you.’
Freja stuck her face in Darcy’s eyeline, forcing her to look away from her reflection – and deep thoughts – and make eye contact. Take notice.
‘Go on another date with Erik.’
‘No, he’s...Erik’s...’ Darcy wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s just not right between us. He’s too...flashy for me. He spent half an hour telling me about his watch collection.’
‘Hm.’ Freja made a disapproving sound. ‘Well, what about the third one?’
‘Aksel the Vet? He seems...sweet, I guess,’ she sighed, soaking a cotton wool ball with more eye make-up remover. The conversation with him was dull but ongoing, with a few faint flickers of life.
‘Yeah? Show me him again, I’ve forgotten which one he is.’
Darcy brought up his profile on her phone, watching as Freja flicked through the carousel of images.
‘Oh yes, the one with the gorgeous eyes,’ Freja said encouragingly, ever her hype woman.
‘Yeah, soulful. And he saves animals, so he’s a good human too.’
‘Total winner.’ Freja looked at her. ‘...Show me this Max, then.’
Darcy hesitated. ‘You didn’t like him. He’s the arrogant-looking one.’
‘I don’t remember,’ Freja shrugged. ‘Show me.’
Darcy brought up his profile, her breath catching as she saw again the haughty stare that had felt so mesmerizing in 3D.
‘Oh yeah,’ Freja breathed. ‘He looks...he looks...’ She swallowed. ‘Yeah. No one should be that hot. Total fuckboy...No. I’m telling you, Darce, he’ll wreck you. Block him.’
‘But—’
‘No buts.’ Freja made the sign of a phone with her hands. ‘Mr Booty-Call?...Unmatch with him now. Let me see you do it.’
Darcy hesitated, then did as she was told. He hadn’t messaged her last night or this morning. There had been no ‘nice to meet you’. No ‘let’s have a drink sometime’. There’d been no hello and now there’d be no goodbye. All she had was the memory of walking by his side, his arm looped lightly around her – territorial, protective, proprietary. For a few minutes, she had felt like she was his, and it had been...intoxicating.
She closed her eyes, trying to banish the thoughts.
‘I really think you should give Erik another chance,’ Freja said, pumping hair serum into her palms and smoothing it over her split ends.
‘I told you, the spark wasn’t there. At least, not for me.’
‘Yeah, because you didn’t give him a chance. You were distracted by the man-whore.’
‘Can you please not call him that?’
‘I think we definitely should call him that,’ Freja said with a pointed look. ‘Keep you focused.’
Darcy tried to focus now, but she was profoundly distracted. She’d had a restless sleep, falling into confusing dreams and waking with sudden starts. ‘I think perhaps you’re the one who’s strayed from the path. I take it you’re going to be seeing Tristan again tonight?’ she murmured, trying to change the subject.
Freja met her gaze with a sly look in the mirror. ‘I mean, there’s no overwhelming reason not to.’
Darcy gave a tut as she began applying some foundation. She needed to look distinctly more alive than she felt. It was eight in the morning and Viggo had already been working for an hour. ‘You don’t think a firebreak would give you time to control these flames a little?’
‘Honestly? It would only fan them,’ Freja said, sounding incredulous. ‘I don’t know what the hell’s happened to me but I’m obsessed with him, Darce.’ She shrugged. ‘At this point, I reckon it’s just better that I get it out of my system. But don’t worry, I have a plan.’
‘Oh yeah? And what’s that then?’
‘I’m going to overdose on him. Mainline him. I reckon another week, two max, and I’ll start getting bored.’
‘Well, it’s a new tactic, certainly.’ Darcy applied some cream blush to her cheeks and lips and a quick slick of mascara to her lashes. ‘Mm...Better.’
‘What are you up to today?’
‘ I am heading to the Madsen Collection archives,’ Darcy said with a note of satisfaction. ‘It’s a day in the vaults for me with a septuagenarian.’
‘You really are on a roll!’ Freja called after her as Darcy headed for her bedroom to get dressed.
‘Aren’t I just,’ she called back, as her phone buzzed and Erik wished her a good morning.
‘My worst meal has to be the moo ping I bought from a street seller in Krabi. Tasted great – as it went down. Ended up on a drip in hospital with severe dehydration from throwing up so much. Haven’t been able to look at a pork skewer since.’
Darcy smiled. Aksel the Vet was beginning to warm up.
‘Yeah, I had food poisoning once too, although not so glamorous as yours. My culprit was an opened jar of Dolmio pasta sauce when I was at uni. It was no joke. Haven’t eaten ready-made pasta sauce since.’
‘Ah. So a happy ending then.’
He was a food snob? Interesting.
‘Do you like cooking?’
‘Love it. De-stresses me. I love Asian especially. You?’
‘I like Italian best. The cheeses, herbs. I’m obsessed with the smell of fresh basil.’
‘There’s a great Italian on N?rrebrogade called Cicchetti.’
She stared at the comment hopefully. Was it supposed to be the opening line for asking her on a date? She waited a moment for the question to come through, but nothing did.
She groaned. Had anyone checked him for a pulse recently?
‘Okay great, thanks for the tip. I’ll check it out some time.’
The Madsen Collection was housed in a large single-storey white villa and set on the shore of the lake in the ?rstedsparken. Single-storey in height, it boasted two wings that spread from a central oval folly. The gallery sat elegantly in the landscape with large opaque windows in the walls and skylights in the roof. It was partially eclipsed from the street by what were currently bare-fingered trees, ducks sitting on the steps in the weak winter light.
Darcy wheeled her bike along the path – cycling was prohibited in the park – and slotted it into one of the racks along the back. Her fingers were clumsy with cold. The clouds had come in as part of the northern winter’s relentless march, and the grey sky was woolly and slung low like schoolboys’ socks.
According to the timings on the door, the gallery would not open to the public for another twenty minutes, but as Darcy peered in, she saw the place was already buzzing with tour guides and cashiers getting ready for the day ahead.
‘Hi,’ she said, approaching a woman behind a desk who was installing a fresh roll of receipt paper into her till. ‘I’m Darcy Cotterell, here to see Viggo Rask?’
‘Ah yes, he said you would be coming,’ the lady replied, reaching for a laminated barcoded pass on a lanyard and handing it to her. ‘Through the door over there, down the stairs. He’s expecting you.’
‘Thank you.’ Darcy headed for the door in the opposite corner, pressing her card to the scanner pad and hearing a beep. Immediately beyond, a narrow staircase spiralled down to the basement archives and as she went down, she saw Viggo working at an old wooden desk at the back of the oval-shaped room. Several reading tables were set end to end in the space in front of him and covered with papers and folios. He looked up as her footsteps carried through the silence.
‘Darcy.’ He put down his pen, seeming pleased to see her.
‘Morning, Viggo,’ she smiled. ‘Apologies – I did intend to set my alarm for six in the hopes of joining you here bright and early, but...’ She gave a grimace, knowing he wouldn’t have any interest in hearing about her failed date and pointlessly late night.
‘If it’s any consolation, it’s never bright down here – which makes the early starts a little more bearable.’ He rose and she saw he was wearing a white coat, similar to those worn by the Academy conservators. ‘Welcome to my world,’ he said, holding out his arms.
He gestured to the long, dimly lit spaces that ran either side of where they stood, beneath the length of the two galleries above. In contrast to the cool grey northern light upstairs, down here had a warm, soft-amber glow. Old-fashioned reading lamps were set in the walls every few metres, with a long perpendicular run of antique oak shelving stacks set down the centre of each wing. At the end of every fourth stack was a small reading table with its own lamp and chair. Darcy thought all it needed was a dog, a rug and a fireplace – although it was comfortably warm down there; the temperature no doubt strictly controlled – and she would never have cause to leave. The smell of old papers and old books was her favourite scent, but she could glean wood polish and coffee too, and...apple pie?
‘I call this my oval office.’
‘It’s heavenly down here,’ she smiled.
‘Some find it a little claustrophobic.’
‘Not me. It’s perfect.’
He smiled too, looking pleased by her response; they were birds of a feather, clearly. ‘I’ve just boiled the kettle. Would you like a cup of coffee?’
‘Thank you.’
She watched as he turned to a small table set beside a sink, copper pipes exposed against the old brick wall. He heaped some instant – but organic – coffee onto a spoon and poured the boiled water into two large mugs, one with a chip in the rim. He handed her the unchipped one. ‘Come. I’ll give you the tour.’
They headed into what he called the east wing first. ‘As you can probably tell, the temperature is climate controlled at seventy degrees for humidity stability purposes. This side houses all Madsen Collection artists with surnames from A to K – so, Anna Ancher all the way through to P. S. Kr?yer. You’ll see there’s a reference volume on this desk here –’ he pointed to a tall red leather book – ‘which lists the artists alphabetically, and then chronological search references in the stacks. Obviously, some have more material than others. Kr?yer, for instance, has his own stack entirely, whereas Carl Bille has only a single box file.’
‘Ah, so you don’t only hold Johan Trier?’
‘Not at all. The Foundation was begun with the intention of becoming the permanent home of Trier’s work – as far as possible, when some pieces, of course, remain in private collections or public institutions – but our remit has expanded over the years to include his contemporaries as well. We specialize in Danish artists from 1920 onwards.’
‘Hm,’ Darcy mused, biting her lip thoughtfully. ‘So then you may not have the material I need. I specifically want to look at Trier’s source material pre-1922. I’m hoping the search period will be 1920–22, but it could end up being before that.’
‘Not to worry on that score. Trier is our exception. You probably know our founders, the Madsen family, were his patrons?’
‘Yes.’
‘So we hold more comprehensive records on him than any other institution in the world. We cover his whole working life until his death in 1974. If we don’t have it, then it probably doesn’t exist.’
‘Phew. That’s a relief.’
‘Everyone else is a side dish. Trier’s the main event here.’
‘Good to know,’ Darcy nodded, her eyes scanning the space and noticing an absence of something. ‘Um...I’m not seeing any computers anywhere...’
‘There’s only one, at the end there, just around the corner,’ Viggo said, pointing to the furthest stack. She headed towards it. ‘I’m in the process of scanning and putting everything online, but it’s slow going.’
‘Can’t they bring anyone in to help you?’
‘They could,’ Viggo smiled. ‘But since my wife died eight years ago, this place has become my world, and I like having a reason to get up in the mornings. If I were to do a nine to five, with no pressure on me, I think I’d be dead within the month.’
‘I’m sorry about your wife,’ Darcy said. ‘I’m glad your work offers some distraction.’ She looked around the corner and saw the size of the tower of files on the small desk. She smiled back at him. ‘Especially when you have so much of it! I guess you like moving mountains.’
‘I do. Even though the old system works perfectly well. Everything has been logged by hand, and there’s a brief description of each artefact in the reference volume and its position in the stacks – so you don’t need to search through thirty boxes, for instance, to find one specific photograph. Look for it in here –’ he tapped the red leather ledger – ‘and it will tell you where to find it.’
‘Analogue. I like it. That must have been a mammoth task for whoever had to compile it originally.’
‘My predecessor, Harald Morgensen,’ Viggo nodded. ‘And yes, it was. When Frederik Madsen established the Foundation, Harald was tasked with archiving the family’s entire collection of art and artefacts. People think primarily of Johan Trier and the Modern Breakthrough masterpieces, but the Madsens were avid collectors of sculpture and furniture too.’
He pointed towards the shelves lining the walls behind her, opposite the stacks. They were laden with bowls and vases, some woodcut panels. Below them was a glass-shelved floor-standing cabinet filled with clay busts. Many appeared to be heads of fishermen in their sou’westers but one was bare-headed too, cropped curls caught in relief; their expressions were somehow captured and held behind blank eyes.
‘These are wonderful,’ Darcy murmured, crouching in front of the cabinet for a better look. ‘Who are they by?’ She could just make out some initials at the base of the neck on one piece: A.S.
‘We believe the initials stand for Anna Saalbach.’
‘Anna Saalbach,’ she echoed, interested. ‘Now, I’ve never heard of her.’ She could have sworn she saw a fleeting moment of surprise pass over Viggo’s face, quickly wiped away. It was like a rubber band pinging on her skin; she prided herself on her encyclopaedic knowledge of almost all the major – and many, many minor – female Danish artists working in this period.
‘A-Anna?’ He cleared his throat, pressing his hand to his lips for a moment. ‘No. Well, few have. The Madsens bought the entire collection. As I understand it, they’ve never been in any public exhibitions.’
Darcy looked over at him, puzzled. ‘So then, why is her work not on display upstairs?’
‘There’s no public appetite for it. She’s, uh, an unknown, clays are out of fashion, and there are so many other artists to exhibit. The Madsens were voracious collectors. We try to rotate the stock, but there’s still a lack of space. And Saalbach didn’t exactly embrace diversity in, uh, her content,’ he added, with a pointed look towards the row of fishermen’s heads.
‘True,’ Darcy agreed. There were some smaller pieces in the cabinet as well, but they were mainly gardener’s tools – a wheelbarrow, a spade, trowel...unremarkable, everyday items that would be lying around a garden. Hardly revolutionary. The heads too, although beautifully formed, were variations on a theme, she realized as she peered closer.
‘They’ve all got the same face,’ she remarked.
Viggo nodded. ‘Perhaps there was only one fisherman willing to sit for her?’
‘Or it was a very small fishing village.’
He chuckled, starting to walk back up the gallery and crossing through the central chamber into the west wing. Darcy followed him. ‘As you can see, the set-up is mirrored in here. Artists M through Z in the stacks, and at the end there...’ He pointed towards a caged-off area at the very end of the room. ‘Surplus stock.’
Darcy walked towards it and peered in at canvases stored on wheeled racks across the width of the space. Each rack was a floor-to-ceiling metal grid with the paintings clipped on, still in their frames. Even from here, she could recognize a Marie Sandholt, which, as far as she was aware, hadn’t been on public display since an exhibition in the 1970s.
‘We have over a hundred and eighty paintings in there. Mainly minor pieces and those earmarked for conservation work.’
Darcy looked at the locked gate into the caged area. It was the old-fashioned key type – no fancy digital access pad to navigate. She was pretty sure there’d be a TikTok tutorial out there showing how she could pick the lock with a hairpin in under a minute.
Viggo smiled, as if reading her mind. ‘Don’t worry, the security upstairs is state of the art. Anyone wanting to get down here would have to first navigate the infrared laser system; plus there’s a night security team with dogs that patrols seven till seven. And besides, for anyone planning to rob us, there’s nothing of interest or value down here. It’s all upstairs.’
‘Reassuring to know, if I’m working late!’ Darcy turned back to him as she sipped her coffee. Like everything else down here, it was old school but good. She looked at Viggo. ‘I’m so excited to be here. I feel like I’m in Aladdin’s cave.’
‘Well, consider me your genie. Your wish is my command. Whatever you need, I can find it for you...Is there anything specific you want to start with?’
‘To begin with, I just need all things Johan Trier, pre-1922. Whatever you’ve got, I need to see.’
Viggo nodded. ‘He’s got one and a half stacks to himself,’ he said, walking over to the middle of the racks and placing a hand on one. ‘He starts here: T(ii). Then he goes all the way to the end and comes halfway back on the other side of T(iii).’
Darcy peered at the thick storage boxes filed on their ends, floor to ceiling, all the way along. ‘Okay.’
‘The stacks are grouped alphabetically but sub-referenced A(i), A(ii), and so on. Each stack is divided into vertical blocks or cells, the shelf level is counted from the top, and then the files are numbered boxes on those shelves.’
‘Okay.’ Darcy’s eyes scanned the system as he talked. So far, so self-explanatory.
‘So, Trier was born in 1895 but the earliest letters and diaries we hold on him date to 1915, I believe.’ Darcy watched as he crossed to the table and checked the red leather reference volume. He flicked through the pages with practised ease before running his finger down the ledger. ‘Yes...Stack T(ii), block five, level three. Box nine.’
She walked into the T(ii) stack, following his instructions: block five, level three down from the top. Box...?
‘Box nine, that’s the one,’ Viggo said, coming to stand by her. He was holding the red leather book and a small pad of Post-its. ‘Peel off the top one and set it on the box so you’ve got a quick reference for your start point.’
Darcy set the Post-it on box nine as Viggo looked back at the red book again.
‘And 1922 ends...Stack T(iii), block eleven, level five, box two.’
She found the spot, following the same method, and placed a Post-it on box two.
‘There, that’s your preliminary search area,’ he smiled. ‘It looks so easy, doesn’t it?’
‘I wish,’ she grinned, knowing each box file might contain ten diaries, a hundred letters, a thousand photographs or slides. This could take weeks, if not months. Or she could get lucky and find something in the very first box. But somehow, she doubted it.
‘How friendly are the night guards?’ she asked archly, looking at him.
‘Not so friendly that you can stay here past seven,’ he laughed. ‘I’ll be at my desk if you need me. There’s a bell on each table to save you from shouting.’
A bell. She smiled, watching him go. Yes, this was definitely old school.
‘You unmatched me?’
Darcy looked up with a start. She’d been so engrossed in her work and become so accustomed to the soft shuffle of Viggo’s footsteps in the background – bringing over cups of coffee every few hours – that she hadn’t clocked this more strident approach to the table.
Max was leaning against the end of the next stack, watching her. He was wearing a navy suit but no tie, the top button of his pale blue shirt undone. Suddenly she felt vastly underdressed in her boyfriend jeans, yellow Sambas and navy jumper, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. Last night’s glamour was a distant memory. If she’d thought for one second she was going to see him again, today, here...She’d have put the damned dress back on. If she’d thought she would ever see him again, she’d have been a lot happier all day.
‘I didn’t think you’d even notice,’ she said, finding her voice and wishing he didn’t look so good. ‘You’re not exactly chatty online – and you left at some speed last night.’
She watched his reaction to her words. He betrayed nothing on a macro level but she caught the minute tightening of his lips and the slight narrowing of his eyes. ‘Third-wheeling isn’t my idea of a good time.’
She wondered what was.
‘Good date?’ he asked.
‘Yes, fine.’
‘Just fine?’
She shrugged. ‘Yours?’
She tried not to think about what he’d done with his date that she hadn’t done with hers. He made no pretence at romance on his Raya bio. Any woman in his contacts would know exactly what she was signing up for with him, and Darcy suspected there were many others only too happy to play along.
She saw another micro-narrowing of his eyes as he realized she had overheard him on the phone as he walked away, but he ignored the question by asking another of his own. ‘Boyfriend?’
‘Now why would I be on a dating app if he was my boyfriend?’ She held his gaze for several long moments, wondering what it was about him that drew out this side to her. He made her combative, spiky. Provocative. She sensed he operated within strictly controlled boundaries and for some reason, she wanted to push them. Test him.
She looked away, feeling the intensity colour up between them again and unable to hold his gaze. She felt sure he could read her every thought, that he could see just how much she wanted him. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’
Had he come to ask her for another drink? The prospect of it made her entire body thrill. Erik had been texting all day, pushing for dinner again tonight before he left for Dubai, but she knew she’d have more fun standing in a puddle with Max than fine dining with him.
‘I work here, remember? I thought I’d look in and make sure you were finding everything to your satisfaction.’
Oh.
‘So far, so comprehensive,’ she replied, sitting back in the chair. She’d been here for six hours and only got through one and a half boxes. Fifty-six to go. ‘Viggo’s been fantastic.’
‘He’s the best there is. The National’s been trying to steal him from us for the past ten years. Luckily for us, he’s loyal.’
‘Right.’ Were they really talking shop? She locked eyes with him again, feeling that primal rush once more. Whatever this was between them, it was undeniable – wasn’t it? Did he feel it too? Had she been on his mind all day, the way he’d been on hers, or was she completely delusional? Every time she lifted her head, every time she came back from 1918 to 2024, she had replayed their meeting in her mind, remembered the feeling of his hand upon her back. She had missed him, even though she barely knew him.
She saw something stir behind his eyes.
‘So look,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘Seeing as we’re going to be...running into each other here for the foreseeable future, I don’t think it would be wise to take things any further between us. On a personal level, I mean.’
She stared at him, feeling stunned by the fierce disappointment spreading through her chest at his words. For several seconds, it felt too difficult to speak. She felt sure her cheeks were burning, betraying the feelings she was struggling to keep hidden. ‘That’s what you came down here to tell me?’
‘Yes.’
‘...Even though I had already unmatched you?’
He fell still and for the first time, he looked on the back foot. ‘I just don’t want there to be any misapprehensions. We had made private contact before we actually met, but clearly this is a professional relationship now, and we should...’ His gaze fell to her lips. ‘Act accordingly.’
She hesitated. It was like watching him go down those steps all over again, walking away from her. ‘...That’s perfectly fine,’ she said, as flatly as she could. ‘I really hadn’t thought I would ever see you again anyway. There are no expectations on my part.’
He nodded. ‘Right...Good.’
For a moment, he just carried on staring at her as if he wanted to say something further – or perhaps he was waiting for more from her – but then he straightened up. ‘Well, good luck with it all. You’re in excellent hands with Rask.’
‘Yes. Thanks.’
‘Bye, then.’
‘...Bye, Max.’
Strike one. Her first prospect had been shot down in flames.
She watched him go, unable to explain the sense of panic it drew up in her to watch him leave. Again. It felt as if the air was being sucked out of the room.
‘That’s strange,’ Viggo said, coming and standing by her as their unexpected visitor disappeared up the stairs. ‘He’s never once come down here before.’
‘No?’
‘No. The executive offices are downtown.’ The old archivist looked at her with a concerned expression. ‘Is everything all right? He does have a bit of a reputation.’
‘Reputation?’
‘For being bullish. He’s not pressuring you, is he? Obviously everyone’s under a lot of pressure with this new discovery in the headlines.’
The comment perplexed her. ‘Well, yes – but at the Academy, surely? It isn’t a Madsen Foundation issue.’
Viggo smiled. ‘Anything to do with Johan Trier is a Madsen Foundation issue. We see him as ours. And Max Lorensen certainly does.’
Darcy was quiet for a moment. ‘I don’t understand. He told me he’s a corporate lawyer.’
‘Yes, he is. He’s a big cheese at the parent company, Madsen Holdings – but he’s also the chair of trustees at the Madsen Foundation. He masterminds the gallery’s expansion ambitions and oversees brand partnerships, sponsorships, acquisitions...’
‘That sounds like a big job for someone so young.’
‘Thirty-two. Not that young. And, like I said, bullish. He knows how to throw a punch, as they say – so don’t let him bully you.’
‘No, I won’t,’ she said quietly.
They hadn’t even had a date, but he’d gone out of his way to dump her anyway. Did that count?