He gave her his crooked grin. ‘Years of practice. Sorry. Here, let me.’
He hobbled towards her, wincing as he did so.
‘You should be in your wheelchair,’ she said in concern, ‘not walking around like this. It’s all right to hop from the chair to the loo, or even from the bed to the loo, but you really shouldn’t be wandering around unnecessarily.’
‘Are you going to nag me all the time?’ he asked her mildly, and she smiled.
‘Only if you make me,’ she told him. ‘Wait here while I get your chair.’
She hurried down to his bedroom, grabbed the chair and pushed it swiftly back into the hall. He sat down with a little grunt, and she propped his leg up on the sliding board and pushed him into the sitting room.
He reached up and tapped the keypad, and soft lights came out of nowhere and lit the room. Like the kitchen, it was vaulted, with windows on all sides to take advantage of the setting, but, unlike the warm and sunny-coloured kitchen, everything in there was very neutral and calm.
Like the hall, there was artwork everywhere, but not just paintings and drawings. In here, in addition to the pictures, there were bronzes on shelves, strangely tortured bits of twisted iron standing at one end, a plinth with a marble bust on it in the far corner—security here must be an absolute nightmare unless they were all copies, which she somehow doubted.
She said nothing, and neither did he, just watched her for her reaction and waited.
He was going to have a long wait. She felt rendered speechless, totally overawed by the astonishing investment that must have gone into this room, at the size and scale and scope of his collection, not to mention the beauty of each individual piece. Or most of them, anyway.
‘Well?’
Fran shrugged, a helpless lift of her shoulders. ‘What can I say? I know nothing about art, but I’m not stupid. How much do you pay a year in insurance?’
He gave a low chuckle. ‘You don’t want to know. Anyway, that’s beside the point. What you think of them?’
‘The pictures? They’re lovely, all of them, and I love the bronze sculptures and the marble bust. I’m not sure about the twisted iron.’
His mouth kicked up in a smile. ‘Nor am I. They’re by a college student I’ve been sponsoring. I said I’d display them for her.’ He pointed to the shelves in the alcove beside the fireplace. ‘That’s probably my favourite, the girl sitting on the edge of the shelf with her leg hanging down. She’s a limited edition, and I was lucky to get her. She’s by an artist-cum-farmer from Devon, a guy called Tom Greenshields. Unfortunately he’s dead now, but he had an amazing talent—so tactile. Touch her, see what I mean.’
Fran did, running her fingers down the cool bronze, over the fine slope of the figure’s shoulders and the gentle swell of her hips. She had one knee drawn up and her chin rested on it, and she was beautiful. Even her toes seemed real and solid and in proportion. Fran sighed softly under her breath. How wonderful, to have such talent, and how lucky to be in a position to collect such beautiful works of art.
‘You’re a very lucky man,’ she murmured, and dropped her hand to her side.
‘I know. I’ve worked hard but I’ve had some good breaks, although I must say the last few don’t quite qualify.’
His grin was self-deprecating, and infectious. She stopped feeling jealous of him and decided to content herself with enjoying his lovely surroundings while she could. That in itself was a privilege.
‘Come on, let’s take you back into the kitchen and check the casserole,’ she said, with a return to her usual briskness. Without waiting for Josh to comment, she turned him round and wheeled him up to the light switch, watched as he tapped it and the lights faded away, and then took him through into the kitchen.
‘I hope that’s going to taste as good as it smells,’ Josh said, sniffing appreciatively.
‘I shouldn’t think there’s the slightest chance,’ Fran said with a laugh. ‘I had to make do with only about half the ingredients. Still, it won’t kill us.’
He tipped his head round and grinned up at her. ‘I don’t suppose there’s the slightest chance of a glass of wine, is there?’
She shook her head. ‘Sorry, I didn’t buy any.’
His grin widened. ‘If that’s the only objection, I can easily overcome it. There’s a cellar downstairs full of bottles of wine.’
‘You probably shouldn’t have more than one,’ she said thoughtfully.
‘Is that glass or bottle?’ His eyes twinkled mischievously and she stifled a smile.
‘Glass.’
‘You’re such a killjoy,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘Still, one’s better than nothing. You’d better go down and choose one.’
She threw up her hands in horror. ‘Not a chance! I know even less about wine than I do about art.’
‘Well, I can’t go down there like this, so it’s you or nobody, blossom. You could always take it back and bring up another one if it’s not a good choice.’
And that was that. He pointed to the door at the end of the kitchen, and she wheeled him over, set the brakes and went down the stairs to the lower floor.
‘Turn right,’ he instructed, ‘and open that door. Now, red or white?’
She went back to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at him. ‘Pass. It’s got chicken, carrots, potatoes, onions, ketchup and soy sauce. You tell me.’
He muttered something that she didn’t hear, and grinned. ‘Try the red—on the right as you go in, about three or four along and the same up from the bottom. It should be a burgundy.’
She pulled a bottle out and peered at the dusty label.
‘Côte du Rhone,’ she called up to him.
‘That’ll do,’ he replied, and she closed the door behind her and went back upstairs, handing it to him.
‘OK?’
‘Should be fine. Perhaps I ought to educate you while you’re here,’ he said with a conniving grin, but it didn’t fool her.
‘Nice try. Right, let’s get you away from the top of the stairs before you fall down and break your neck.’
He sighed, cradling the wine on his lap as she turned him away from the top of the stairs and closed the door, then he handed it to her. ‘You’d better open it,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’d be much use with one hand.’
She smiled cheekily. ‘I don’t know, what with not being able to get down the stairs to your wine cellar and not being able to take the cork out of the bottle, you’re a bit stuffed really without my goodwill, aren’t you?’
‘Just don’t shake it around,’ he advised, eyeing the wine like an anxious parent. ‘I know it’s pretty much plonk, but it’s quite decent plonk and it deserves to be treated better than lemonade.’
She rolled her eyes, but set the bottle down carefully, found the corkscrew and opened it.
‘Well, you managed that all right for somebody who doesn’t know anything about wine,’ he said, watching her with the corkscrew.
Fran laughed. ‘Just because I don’t know anything about wine doesn’t mean I can’t open the bottle. What now?’
‘Now you leave it to breathe, until we’re ready to eat. Let me smell the cork.’
She put the bottle down and turned and studied