‘That’s the main one, yes, but I want you to check out all of them,’ he said. ‘Obviously I’ll pay you a consultancy fee.’ And he named a sum that was more than double what the media said she earned each year from the television programme. ‘I’m happy to draw up a contract so everything is official.’
She stared at the photograph. ‘I can’t authenticate a painting from a photograph. I need to examine the actual painting, and I need to see a proper paper trail for the provenance—or as much of it as you have.’
‘Then come to Florence and see the paintings for yourself,’ he said.
She looked torn. So she was considering it; he just needed another sweetener to tip the balance. As Leo’s executor, he had the power to make decisions.
‘It wouldn’t just be authenticating them,’ he said. ‘The family would give you exclusive access to the painting for your studies, before the gallery opens.’ Which, if his grandfather was right and the paintings were genuine, could make a huge difference to her thesis.
‘What do you know about that painting?’ she asked.
‘Just that he bought it in the nineteen-sixties, somewhere in England. The paperwork is probably in his files.’ Honesty compelled him to add, ‘But he hates filing. His paperwork is a total mess and I wouldn’t even know where to start sorting it out.’
‘I’m about to get really busy with the new series,’ she said. ‘Maybe if I start with the unsigned one and, if the initial investigations check out, we might be able to use it as part of the show—but I’d still need to get my producer’s agreement for that. And then, after the summer, I could consider working on the rest.’
After the summer would be too late. ‘I need you to work on them now, Miss Thackeray,’ Angelo said, keeping his tone cool and calm but very definite.
‘Why?’
The thing he’d been trying to make himself come to terms with for the last month. The thing that broke what was left of his heart into tiny, tiny shards. ‘Because my grandfather is dying. He has lung cancer. He was in remission, but his last check-up at the hospital showed that it’s back and they can’t operate. All they can offer him now is palliative care.’
She looked horrified, and he realised he’d been too harsh. But there wasn’t a nice way to say that someone you loved was dying. There just wasn’t. The only way he could cope was to use cold, hard facts. ‘Because I’m the lawyer in the family, he’s asked me to be his executor. His will says he wants his collection authenticated and shown off in a gallery—but I want that unsigned painting examined now and the proof found that it really is what he thinks it is, so he can die happy, knowing he was right all along. I love my grandfather, Miss Thackeray, and I want to make him happy.’ Give him something to distract him in his last few weeks, something else to focus on rather than the disease that was eating away at every breath.
‘Until I’ve examined the paintings myself and inspected the backs,’ she said, ‘I can’t promise anything. And I’d need to get my producer’s agreement about using that unsigned painting on the show.’
‘Why do you want to see the backs of the paintings?’ he asked, not understanding.
‘There are often markings and labels which can help trace its provenance. But I should warn you that there have been lots of scandals over the years in the art world. Copies, forgeries, and even forgeries of forgeries.’
‘So you’re saying my grandfather’s paintings could be fakes.’ Which meant that he was risking making his grandfather’s final weeks miserable, taking all hope away. He didn’t want to do that. But he didn’t want his grandfather to die full of regrets, either.
‘Or good reproductions, or maybe copies. If we can find paperwork for the provenance, that will help.’ She looked at him. ‘Why did you ask me to help?’
‘Because my grandfather and my sister like your show,’ he said. ‘Nonno says you understand art. That you love it.’
‘I do,’ she agreed.
‘And your biography on the Hidden Treasure website says that your studies are in the exact area of my grandfather’s collection. Nineteenth-century Italian painters—the Macchiaioli, to be precise.’
* * *
Had he looked her up on only the Hidden Treasure website? Or had he seen the other stuff that would come up on an Internet search of her name?
As if the thought showed on her face, he said gently, ‘And I saw your interview. Sorry, that’s not meant to be unkind. Just that it was the next thing on the search results.’
‘I know.’ But it also meant that he knew everything that Eric had done. What a fool she’d been. ‘And you still want me to look at the paintings?’
‘Yes, I do.’ He looked straight at her. ‘Speaking out like that takes courage. I admire what you did. And I admire the way that you’ve moved on, done something good with your life.’
She wasn’t quite there yet, but she was trying. ‘I wanted to help other people in my situation. The interview seemed like the best way.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly, ‘that you went through something so horrible.’
‘It’s past,’ she said. ‘And I’ve moved on.’ That wasn’t completely true. She’d completed her MA and started her PhD, forged a new career. She’d proved to herself that she wasn’t the pathetic mess Eric had wanted her to believe she was. But she hadn’t dated anyone since Eric. She couldn’t trust herself not to get it so badly wrong as she had last time.
And this wasn’t about relationships. Yes, so far, Angelo Beresford seemed like a nice guy. He’d been sensitive about her past. And he was attractive—he would’ve made a perfect artist’s model. But for all she knew he could be in a committed relationship. Even if he wasn’t, it didn’t meant that anything could happen between them. She didn’t trust herself—either to find the right person for her, or to make it work. This was going to be strictly business.
‘All right. I’ll come to Florence and see the paintings.’
‘Good. Tomorrow?’ he asked.
She stared at him. ‘Tomorrow?’
‘I know it sounds like a rush.’ Though he didn’t sound in the slightest bit apologetic.
‘It is a rush,’ she corrected.
‘Time’s the one thing I don’t have,’ he said.
She thought of her own grandfather and how much she missed him since his death; she would have done anything to help him in his last days. Anything to make him smile instead of looking so lost and desolate, the light in his eyes gone. Clearly Angelo Beresford wanted to do the same for his grandfather. Who was she to deny that? ‘All right,’ she said.
‘May I have your mobile number?’ Angelo asked. ‘I’ll get my secretary to book the flight and contact you with the details.’ He took a business card from his desk and scribbled something on the back. ‘My private mobile, email and address, and my office details on the front,’ he said, handing the card to her. ‘If you do think the paintings are worth working on, what happens next?’
Now she was on safer ground. Work, not emotions. ‘I’d photograph them, front and back,’ she said. ‘Then I’d set up a computer file for each one and work through the provenance.’
‘How long would that take?’
‘Photographing, maybe half an hour for each one. Less if I have someone to help me take them down from the walls and put them on an easel. The paperwork really depends—I can do some things online, but I’ll also need to look at any