Chapter Seven
‘So no breakthroughs?’ Freja panted, dodging a Labrador carrying a large stick that spanned almost the entire path. They were on their usual Saturday morning run in Kastellet, and the promise of breakfast at the end of it was the only thing keeping Darcy going.
‘Nope. Nada. Zilch. It’s painful. I’ve spent the past three days going through Trier’s diaries and letters and it’s one thing having to read solidly in Danish but oh my God, his handwriting! How can someone so proficient with a brush be so hopeless with a pen?’
Freja chuckled. ‘I wonder how he’d have been with a pipette.’
‘My money’s on useless! The man was chaotic. Clearly drank too much, was homeless half the time, sleeping on beaches and getting kicked out of boarding houses.’
‘He sounds like that ex of mine – remember Jasper, the musician? Nose ring; tried to snort cocoa powder?’
‘Fun times,’ Darcy said wryly. ‘But painters were actually the rock stars of their time, you know. They could get away with shit no one else could. Creativity freed them from the usual social constraints.’
‘Oh! Were they cheating bastards then too?’
Darcy grinned. ‘Undoubtedly – although in Trier’s case, no affairs of the heart that I’ve come across yet. No love letters, no dates – clandestine or otherwise – detailed in his diaries. He used prostitutes, though. He actually lists them as an expense.’
‘Ha!’ Freja snorted, bemused. ‘Why am I not surprised?’
They both jumped a large puddle, landing in sync, their footsteps in perfect unison. Darcy was grateful for the opportunity to be outside, moving. All week she had been crouched over a desk, thumbing through myriad preparatory sketches, receipts, maps and expenses for Trier’s travels in Europe. He had left Denmark for Paris in 1919, enrolling with some of the fine art academies there and working primarily on life drawing studies, before moving down through France to Italy. By March of 1920, he had been staying in Florence, painting the silk weavers and goldsmiths and working mainly in charcoal and pencil, with only occasional forays into using oil.
Darcy’s gut told her this timeframe was still too early for the portrait. At twenty-five years old, the artist was immature and still very much finding himself as he travelled. It wasn’t so much that his hand was underdeveloped – technically, he was already brilliant and had begun the portraiture that would soon attract the attention of his future benefactor Bertram Madsen; but his eye and mind were naive, and although he might have been able to reproduce the woman’s likeness, she doubted he’d have been able to capture her essence at this point. The finer details were still obscured beneath the thick board layers, of course, but there was something knowing in the woman’s posture, the way she held herself; Darcy sensed it, woman to woman. The portrait was accomplished and sure – and Johan Trier in early 1920 was not.
‘So do you think she could be one then, the woman in the portrait?’
‘A prostitute? No, I don’t think so. He made his name painting society ladies.’
‘You mean like John Singer Sargent?’ Freja looked pleased with herself for knowing the name.
Darcy grinned. ‘Exactly like him. He focused on their fashions and hairstyles as much as their faces and figures. He painted them into glamazons. Queens.’
‘So then maybe he glamorized her. Perhaps he painted her after a “session” when the post-coital glow was still strong.’
‘No glow would have lasted that long,’ Darcy chuckled. ‘Portraits require multiple sittings.’
‘Couldn’t he have done it in one sitting? As a one-off?’
‘It’s possible, but unlikely. The brushwork looks heavily layered, suggesting multiple revisits – spooled out to allow for drying times,’ she explained. ‘And of course, sittings require scheduling, but there’s no reference to anything like that in his diaries for 1919, or what I’ve read of 1920 so far.’
Freja was quiet for a moment. ‘What if he “bought” her time but instead of shagging her, he painted her? That’s why he claimed it as an expense.’
Darcy considered for a moment. ‘I guess that could be plausible.’ She groaned. ‘God, I hope not. How would I ever trace an Italian prostitute a hundred years later?’
‘Hm. I don’t envy you that one. Maybe you should have gone to detective school.’
They split apart, running either side of a young family pushing a buggy, a toddler standing on a board at the back. The track was stylistically designed in the shape of a Tudor rose and was always crowded at weekends, runners vying with dog walkers and families for space on the path. The ground dropped away steeply either side of them, a moat to their right and the red-brick army barracks in the centre to their left. Freja had joked about breaking in many times.
‘Thing is,’ Darcy panted as they fell back in step again, ‘he wasn’t really painting society portraits in 1920. Not yet. He didn’t have the contacts by then, and at that particular point, travelling around Europe, he was doing lots of vignettes of peasants and workers. He had no interest in the artifice of formal portraiture but wanted to depict the working man—’
‘Exactly. And she’s a working girl!’
‘Except I just don’t think she was. Her clothes are...modest. Demure. The dress is high necked; she’s wearing jewellery. If he wanted to paint a prostitute, why disguise her as a lady?’
‘Hm.’ Freja mused on the point for a moment. ‘Okay then, say she’s not a prostitute. She is a lady. Could he have done it as a one-off to earn some money while he was travelling?’
‘Yes. But all things considered, 1919 and ’20 is definitely feeling too early for him artistically to have done this painting.’
‘But you still think it has to pre-date Her Children ?’
‘Absolutely. You wouldn’t create something at that level, a national masterpiece, and then turn it around and doodle a portrait on the back.’
‘No. That makes no sense,’ Freja agreed. ‘So then, at least your window is getting smaller. This all means it had to have been painted between mid-1920 and summer 1922.’
‘Yeah – except even with that tight timeframe, there’s so much material to get through. My main problem is going to be getting through it all in the time we’ve got. In three days, I’ve only managed eleven boxes. I have moved all of three feet, with nothing to show for it.’
‘How much is there?’
‘Well, right now that stack is looking a mile long,’ Darcy panted. ‘There are dozens of boxes to go, which is not helped by the fact that I can’t work late.’
‘Why not?’ Freja frowned.
‘I can’t stay in the gallery past seven. Not allowed. That’s when the night patrol team comes in and all the security systems are activated.’
‘Oh damn. Hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Yeah. I got in for seven yesterday morning, which is when Viggo always gets there and opens up. At least I can build in a little more time that way.’
‘And there I was thinking you had got lucky after all.’
‘Ha bloody ha.’ Darcy had regaled her flatmate with all the details of her disaster date the other night with Erik. They both knew perfectly well that luck was not on her side.
‘Well, if your back’s up against the wall, then I reckon you’ve only got one option open to you.’
‘Which is?’
They were approaching the bridge that reconnected to the rest of the park and Darcy felt her reward getting closer. Eight kilometres down, two to go. They had plans to go to the flower market after this and watch the new Mission Impossible this afternoon, before they both went for dinner with Tristan in the evening. Freja had had to plead with Darcy to agree to it. He wanted to ‘bond’ with her, Freja said – which, to Darcy, suggested an alarming leaning towards commitment.
‘You’re going to have to ask for an assistant.’
‘Freja, I’m looking for a nameless face in a photo, a faceless name in a letter – that means trusting someone else not to miss the single clue that will unlock it all.’
‘Ah yes, trust. Your favourite quality.’
Darcy rolled her eyes at the tease. ‘Besides, Viggo’s being amazing. And I do trust him; no one knows the archives better. He’s doing what he can to help but he’s got a full workload too.’
‘Surely he can prioritize helping you while you work on this?’
‘Not really. The retrospective is going to mean an uptick in visitor numbers for the Madsen Collection too so they’re frantically pulling together their new exhibition. They’ve loaned a bunch of Triers to the National so they’ve got a lot of blank walls that need filling.’
‘You know, hearing all this drama makes me glad I chose to pursue a career in the sedate world of genomics.’
They crossed the bridge and exited the park, on to the home straight for their coffees.
‘So, dare I ask how’s it going with our Last Man Standing?’
‘Aksel the Vet?...Oh, it’s going, I guess,’ Darcy panted. ‘We’re currently politely discussing climate change and the increase in tsunamis since the 1990s.’
‘Wow, tsunamis, huh?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Just you be careful. A guy like that – one minute you’re discussing tidal waves and the next, he’ll be sorting your recycling.’ They stopped at a pedestrian crossing, jogging on the spot as they waited for the lights to change. ‘Has he made any suggestions about meeting up yet?’
‘Not yet. I’m beginning to think he just wants someone to talk to. You know – if only they could talk?’
‘Ugh, just cut to the chase and ask him directly if he wants to have a drink. There’s no point in wasting any more time. You don’t need someone to talk to; you’ve got me for that.’
‘Hm, I’m not so sure. There’s been something quite soothing about having a rolling quiet conversation after the Erik and Max disasters. He may not be the most dynamic guy but he’s intelligent, thoughtful, sincere.’
‘He sounds like someone your grandmother would choose for you.’
Darcy chuckled. ‘I’ll take it. I don’t have the bandwidth for drama right now.’
The lights changed and they jogged across the road, turning into the wide residential streets and running just south of the King’s Garden. The wind gusted and Darcy felt a newfound appreciation for the feeling of it on her face, the sound of the traffic, bicycle bells pinging and people calling dogs and children in the parks. All the silence and dim light in the archives sometimes made her feel like a mole.
Up ahead, as the roads grew narrow and more winding, she saw the cafe where her reward beckoned. She wasn’t a natural runner, unlike her flatmate, and every weekend she had to be either cajoled, bribed or bullied into her running shoes. Her occasional stumble to the Academy couldn’t compare to this cross-city trek.
‘Oh, thank God,’ she panted as Freja steadily slowed to a walk, her hands on her hips and her face turned to the sky. It was the signal that Darcy had survived this weekend’s outing.
Her phone buzzed and she pulled it out of her jacket’s zipped pocket as Freja led the charge inside.
‘Oh! What a result!’ Darcy said, reading the message in disbelief as Freja placed their regular orders.
‘What is?’ Freja, leaning on the counter, looked over at her.
‘Viggo’s managed to get permission for me to bring some of the material home so I can work on it there.’
‘Why’s that such a big thing?’
‘Because normally, no one’s allowed to remove anything from the premises. Historic artefacts? Insurance?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Seeing as I can’t work late, Viggo said he’d look into it for me but he thought there’d be no chance. He’s been pleading special dispensation given the circumstances but he was pretty sure the insurers would baulk on the grounds that this research isn’t directly to the benefit of the Madsen Collection.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, the portrait, as it’s conjoined to Her Children , will belong to the nation and hang at the National Gallery – so why should Madsen incur any risk to their assets?’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Yeah. It’s not an unreasonable position. They’re already doing me a favour by giving me unrestricted access to their archives. But this...’ She pressed a hand to her heart in a soothing gesture; it was still racing from their run. ‘Oh God, what a relief. This will make such a difference, being able to put a shift in this weekend. I’ve been so stressed about it. Otto wants an update on Monday; he’s got to report back to Margit Kinberg and as it stands, I have nothing to give him. Fingers crossed I find something – anything – to show him by then.’
She checked the time. Ten forty. Her eyes narrowed as she did some mental calculations. ‘Hm. If I head over there now, I could pretty much do a full day and still be able to meet you guys for dinner later.’
‘You’re going to go straight there? Right now?’ Freja cast a sceptical eye over her.
Darcy rolled her eyes. ‘I assure you Viggo doesn’t give two hoots if I’m a hot sweaty mess. And he says the boxes have just been delivered. I don’t want to keep him waiting in case he wants to go out.’
‘Where is he?’
Darcy checked the address. ‘He lives...Oh, he’s on the same street as the gallery.’ She looked back at Freja. ‘Now that explains his unfeasibly early starts.’
‘I guess.’
Darcy glanced up at her tone, realizing she was torpedoing their day’s plans. ‘You don’t mind, do you? We could see the film tomorrow?’
‘It’s not the film I’m worried about. Work’s got to come first.’ Freja handed her the juice and chia pot as they stepped outside again. ‘But just be there for dinner, okay? No matter what? Tristan wants to meet you properly and it’s important to me that you two get on.’
‘I promise.’ Darcy kissed her on the cheek. ‘And we will.’
‘But change! Dress up! He’s taking us somewhere posh.’
‘Posh. Got it,’ she called over her shoulder, one hand in the air in a wave as she headed back up the street they’d just run down, crossing into King’s Garden again. She sipped her juice and ate the chia pot as she walked, dodging the tourists heading at a brisk clip for Rosenborg Castle and feeling more aligned with the locals idling on park benches, children climbing on the marble spheres dotted around. Groups of undergrads were emerging bleary-eyed from the university accommodation halls after their heavy Friday night.
She turned onto Stockholmsgade and walked in the direction of the gallery, checking the building numbers as she passed, stopping eventually outside a very handsome period townhouse: the red-brick walls were covered with magenta Virginia creeper, the large blocky windows painted a blackish green.
She pressed the buzzer and waited for Viggo’s familiar greeting. In the space of less than a week, in dim light and over strong coffee, they had become new friends, but standing here now, she realized he was still an enigma to her. A house like this, on one of the best roads in the city? She knew he was a widower but had his wife also been an heiress?
She looked back at the park on the other side of the road as she waited, trees denuded of their leaves, the lake twinkling darkly against a dull sky. Traffic had slowed for a troop of blue-jacketed soldiers marching in formation down the centre of the street and proceeding irrespective of the traffic light signals. Trucks, buses, taxis all stopped, waiting patiently, the packs of cyclists bunching up behind them. It was no different to the Royal Household Guards returning to the Hyde Park barracks, she supposed.
She heard the front door click open and whirled round with a smile. ‘Hi—’
The word died on her lips as Max Lorensen looked back at her. For a moment, he looked as surprised as she was – but only for a moment. ‘Darcy...I didn’t expect you so soon.’ He stepped back to allow her in.
Darcy blinked, utterly stunned. Viggo hadn’t mentioned Max would be here. Could he not have given her a heads up? And why was he here anyway? On a Saturday? Were they having a meeting?
‘...Thanks.’ She stepped in, now bitterly regretting her decision not to go home, shower and change before coming here. Her sartorial decline from their first meeting had been brutal: from dazzling black tie the first night to work-sensible, slouchy jeans, and now sweaty running kit.
He was wearing jeans and a grey sweatshirt. No shoes. No socks.
No socks?
He shut the door and openly looked her over with scepticism. ‘Running again, I see. You must be keen.’
‘Not in the least. My flatmate bullies me. She does triathlons.’
‘She sounds impressive.’
‘Oh, she is. She’s a microbiologist. Decodes the origins of human life.’
‘Whereas you discover the identities of long-dead women.’ His gaze was so steady, always so steady upon her.
‘Yeah. It’s not exactly the same, is it?’
He blinked. ‘Both are valid.’
A silence descended as they stood there for a moment; Darcy remembered the crushing disappointment of their last meeting, his casual dismissal of her, and she wondered: if Erik hadn’t been standing at the bottom of those steps that night – if she had gone back to Max’s for a nightcap instead – how different would things be between them now? Would it be better or worse than this strained, enforced professionalism?
She looked away, noticing for the first time the beautiful hallway. It had antique timbered floors, matt black panelled walls and a verdure tapestry hanging down behind a beautiful round walnut table. On top, a huge pale clay pot had been planted with an extravagant abundance of sprigs of yellow forsythia.
‘Follow me. They’re up here,’ he said, leading her towards the staircase and up to the next level.
Darcy trailed behind him, her eye falling to the few but special objets dotted around the place: the Picasso sketch between two doorframes, a small Diego Giacometti bronze of a bird, a worn and faded Heriz carpet that seemed as old as the building. Was Viggo a collector? He had mentioned in passing that he had lived alone since his wife had died and connoisseurship often could fill a void, she knew that. It was her opinion that most collectors had unhappy love lives. The obsession had to go somewhere.
She followed Max into a room on the first floor. It was vast, spanning the entire back of the house, with a run of huge windows looking out over a mature garden. In contrast to the moodiness of the hall, it was painted a thick ivory with a black open-plan kitchen in the middle of the space and a huge dining table, seating fourteen, set beyond by the windows. Where she stood, in the foreground to all that, a soft seating area had been arranged with dark green velvet sofas arranged in a U. On a low table in the middle sat two marbled burgundy boxes she recognized very well...Only two?
She looked around the space again, recognizing a Maria Slavona on one wall, a Max Liebermann on the other.
‘Viggo lives here?’ she asked in disbelief.
‘ Viggo? ’ He gave a small laugh as he crossed the room and headed for the kitchen. ‘What on earth makes you think that?’
‘I...He said he’d managed to arrange for some of the boxes to be released and that I could collect them from this address.’ She glanced again at his bare feet with a sinking feeling.
‘Collect?’ Max glanced over at her as he reached for a bag of coffee beans and tipped them into a grinder. ‘ I arranged the release for you – and I was only able to do it because I gave the insurers my assurance, as a trustee, that the material would be safe in my home, under my supervision. The fact that I live up the street from the gallery reassured them, but you won’t be able to take anything away from here. Their conditions were strict.’
This was his house? ‘You mean I’ll have to work here?’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘Is that a problem?’
‘But this is your home.’
‘Yes.’
‘And it’s the weekend.’
‘Yes.’
She gave an astonished laugh. ‘You don’t want me working here, getting in your way.’
‘Why should you get in my way? Is this place not big enough for the two of us?’
The two of us. Was it just her, or did the words seem charged? ‘You know what I mean. Just because I’ve got to work overtime, doesn’t mean you have to.’
‘ I don’t intend to work.’
‘But—’
‘Darcy, we’re all invested in wanting to get this over the line as quickly as possible. If this will help, then I’m happy to oblige.’
She watched as he pressed some buttons and the coffee machine began to loudly grind the beans.
He stared over at her. ‘How do you like it?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your coffee.’
‘Oh...Strong and black.’
She began to pace slowly, her eyes grazing over the finer details of the room, noticing the Tiffany espresso cups, an Hermes ashtray, a cashmere fringed throw...It was a very grown-up space, completely opposite in style and spirit to hers and Freja’s, which was filled with Ikea sofas, takeaway boxes, mismatched underwear drying on the radiators and glitter eyeshadow perpetually on the bathroom counter. ‘How long have you lived here?’
‘...Ten years, thereabouts.’
‘You bought this when you were twenty-two?’ The question burst from her before she could stop herself and he looked surprised in turn. But who could afford a four-storey townhouse on one of the best roads in Copenhagen at the age of twenty-two?
She remembered the driver outside the museum earlier in the week. Max’s supreme ease with the older, sophisticated crowd. As if it had been just another Tuesday night for him. Something of a drag.
Born to it, then.
She turned away, collecting herself. Had it really only been Tuesday that they had met? His presence somehow loomed large in her consciousness now, a second pulse ticking away deep inside her.
‘Don’t look so impressed. Copenhagen prices don’t compare to London,’ he murmured, pushing buttons and pulling on a lever. She gave him a surprised look of her own. Was that modesty she was witnessing?
‘Have you done much work to it?’ she asked, looking up at the plaster cornicing.
‘Not really. Mainly just a paint job. And the bathrooms.’
Bathrooms, plural. She wondered how many he had. She wanted to ask if he lived all alone here, but that felt too intrusive – personal – and he had made it clear they were to stay away from that. Although she didn’t think standing in his kitchen on a Saturday morning came under the standard definition of ‘professional’.
He came over with the coffee and held it out for her. ‘Strong and black.’
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, distracted by his bare feet in her peripheral vision.
A sound above them, like the creak of a floorboard, made her look up. Was someone else here? She looked back at Max but he had already turned away, heading towards the archive boxes.
‘So, how long do you think it’ll take you to get through these?’
She bit her lip. Three a day was her average – but it was almost lunchtime now. ‘Uh, well, it depends on what’s in there. If it’s some auction catalogues, I can speed up. If it’s slides...’ she shrugged. ‘But I’ll go as fast as I can, I promise.’
‘No, I...’ He turned back to her. ‘I wasn’t suggesting you need to rush. I just meant, will these be enough for you today or will you need more?’
‘Oh. No. This will be...great.’
‘I can arrange for more to be sent over if you need them.’
‘Thanks, but this will do.’ She watched as he took a sip of his coffee, lifting the lid on the nearest box and peering in at the papers. Idly he leafed through the topmost ones. ‘I don’t envy you,’ he said, half over his shoulder.
‘Max, are you really sure I can’t take them back to mine? I’d be so careful, I swear.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s more than my job’s worth. I gave my word.’
She looked away with a sigh. ‘Sure.’
From outside the room there came a sound of more creaks, drawing closer now. Someone was coming down the stairs. Darcy’s eyes slid over to him, asking the question ‘who?’ but he turned away again, focusing on his coffee.
‘Baby, I thought you said—’ A striking brunette stopped in the doorway. She was tall and thin, a model without doubt, wearing leggings and a grey cashmere jumper with micro-Uggs. ‘Oh. Hey.’
‘Hi,’ Darcy gave a stricken smile, holding her hand up in a feeble wave. ‘I’m Darcy.’
‘Angelina.’ But as she said the word, her eyes slid in a question mark towards Max. Darcy’s too. She was sure that wasn’t the name she’d heard him say on the phone, on the steps, the other night.
‘Darcy’s a colleague. She’s working at the gallery for the next few weeks,’ he explained.
‘You’re a curator?’ Angelina asked.
‘PhD student at the Royal Academy, actually, but I’ve been put onto a special project here.’
‘Is this about that painting you were talking about?’ Angelina asked, walking – stalking – over to Max and looping her arms around his shoulders. Standing at five foot eleven, she was barely an inch shorter than him and she sank onto one hip, kissing him lightly on the cheek.
‘Yes.’
‘He’s been so excited,’ she drawled in a sardonic tone, looking back at Darcy, who was standing frozen, clutching her mug. ‘Like a little boy.’
‘I hardly think so,’ Max said, extricating himself from her languid embrace and checking his phone. ‘It’s simply very relevant for the Foundation.’ He looked up and slid his phone into his back pocket, regarding the two women for a moment. Darcy looked down, knowing that even at her best, in black velvet with a blow-dry, she couldn’t come out of any comparison with Angelina favourably.
‘I’m really sorry to interrupt your weekend like this,’ she said, motioning vaguely to the boxes. ‘But if there’s a quiet room where I can go to work, at least I can get out of your way.’
‘That isn’t necessary,’ Max said.
‘I’d feel better if I wasn’t in your way here.’
‘You won’t be. We’re going out now.’
‘Oh.’
‘Socks.’ Angelina slapped her forehead with her hand and pointed to his bare feet. ‘I forgot to bring down your socks. I knew there was something. I have a mind like a sieve.’
Darcy smiled wanly. Now the bare feet made sense. She had interrupted them.
‘Nice to meet you –’
From the way her voice angled up at the end, Darcy knew she had intended to use her name but had forgotten it. ‘Yes. Nice to meet you too, Angelina.’
She didn’t stir as the other woman drifted from the room like a fairy, and the silence that grew in her wake felt heavy with unspoken words.
‘You look concerned,’ Max said, watching as she bit her lip.
‘Aren’t you?’
‘About what?’
‘Are you really comfortable with leaving me alone in your house?’
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘You don’t know me.’
‘Don’t I?’ A beat passed at the question, the sound of the floorboard creaking upstairs reminding them they weren’t alone. A small smile played on his lips. ‘Darcy, relax. I have an instinct I’m not going to come back to graffiti on the walls and the fittings stripped out.’
‘Hilarious. But if you knew me at all, you’d know a comment like that would only make me want to do it.’
‘So you’re contrary?’ He nodded. ‘Worth knowing.’
She sighed. Jousting with him was exhausting; their words were weighted but the silences were heavy too. ‘Do you at least know when you’ll be back? I’ll try to be gone before you return.’
‘No.’
‘A ballpark idea?’
‘Darcy, just do what you need to do. Stay here till midnight if that’s what it takes.’
‘God, no,’ she said quickly. ‘It wouldn’t be anything like that.’
‘It can be, though, if that’s what you need.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I have to be somewhere for eight.’
His eyes narrowed fractionally and she saw his mouth part as if to say something.
‘Socks!’ Angelina said, pushing on the door and throwing a pair towards him.
He caught it with one hand, his gaze not lifting off Darcy. ‘Great.’
‘So, is there anything I should do on my way out? An alarm I should set?’ Darcy asked as he began putting them on, one-legged, perfectly balanced.
‘It’s fine. Don’t worry about anything. Help yourself to coffee, whatever you want. There’s not much food in, but there’s cheese and grapes in the fridge.’
‘No, I –’ She shook her head quickly. As if she’d come over here and eat his food! ‘I’ll be fine. Thanks.’
He nodded, standing on two feet again, his hands on his hips. He looked so different in his jeans and socks. Saturday Max. ‘Well, have a good day. I hope it’s productive.’
‘Me too,’ she agreed, watching him leave. Angelina was holding out a short navy coat for him and a grey scarf, and he shrugged them on carelessly.
She listened to their steps on the stairs, the withdrawal of their voices and finally the click of the front door. Several seconds passed as she stood motionless, trying to understand how the hell it had come to pass that she was alone in Max Lorensen’s townhouse on a Saturday lunchtime. Was this a dream or a nightmare?
She sank onto the sofa with a groan.
It was both.