‘Has he asked you? Bet he hasn’t.’
‘Get out, Marshall!’
Finally, with threats and as much force as she could use without physically attacking him, she’d managed to get her brother-in-law out of the flat and chained the door in his face. He’d ranted and pleaded a while on the doorstep, then skulked back across the street to his turbocharged Bentley.
In the weeks since, Brooke had been feeling increasingly powerless and confused, angry, even guilty. On the pretext of wanting to spend more time together, she’d arranged to meet Phoebe several times in town for coffee, never at the house or at her own place. It made her feel better to be there for her sister, protecting and supporting her in her time of need; yet at the same time she was more and more miserable for hiding the truth.
Meanwhile, Marshall’s barrage went on. She was terrified even to check her emails and texts in case it would be him, and she avoided the phone almost all of the time. Once or twice it had been Ben calling her, wondering how she was and why she hadn’t been in touch. Her excuses had been thin, unconvincing at best. She’d kept conversation to a minimum, afraid that she might let something slip. Briefly, during one of her sleepless nights, she’d considered telling him the truth about what was going on with Marshall. But that had been an idea she’d very quickly dismissed.
Ben would be on the first flight to London to beat the crap out of him.
It wasn’t that Marshall didn’t have it coming – it was the ugly mess that would ensue. She could see it all. Assault charges. Police. Explanations. Ben in trouble. Phoebe devastated.
No chance.
And now, standing here on this beautiful warm sunny day surrounded by the flowers in her garden, Brooke felt completely walled in.
What am I going to do?
Once inside the elegant old house, Ben saw he’d entered a private art exhibition. The entrance foyer was filled with stands of posters, pamphlets and guides, and framed prints around the walls gave a taste of what lay inside. He felt very out of place in his jeans and denim shirt. Scanning the crowd he counted roughly thirty-five guests. Apart from one or two elderly couples, most of the people were in their mid-to-late thirties or older, many sporting a carefully-cultivated arty look. With the exception of one or two bohemian scruffs, everyone was very well dressed, and being Italians there was an unspoken war going on as to who could look the most chic. Probably the winner out of the whole bunch was the square-jawed guy in the Valentino blazer who’d clearly been dividing his time between working on his tan and studying old Robert Redford movies. Mr Dashing. Ben smiled to himself and shook his head.
After Gianni, the youngest person in the room was a sullen teenage girl with long curly blond hair, who was doing everything possible to distance herself from her parents and make it clear that she’d rather be anywhere but here.
‘Donatella Strada,’ the boy’s mother said warmly, keeping a tight hold of her son with her left hand while extending her right.
‘Ben Hope.’ He took her hand. It was slender and felt delicate in his. Donatella was small and petite, almost elfin. He liked the sharp look of intelligence in her eyes. She didn’t have that air of pretension that he could sense in many of the others.
‘You are English? But your Italian is excellent.’
‘Half Irish,’ he said. ‘I’ve travelled a bit, that’s all.’
‘Well, Signor Hope, I must thank you again. Are you living nearby?’
‘Just passing through,’ he said. ‘What is this place?’
‘The Academia Giordani,’ she said. ‘One of the most established and respected schools of fine art in the region. They’re celebrating the opening of the brand new exhibition wing, which has just been finished.’
‘The modern bit. I saw it from the road.’
She smiled. ‘Modern monstrosity, you wanted to say.’
‘No, modern is fine. So is old. I like all kinds of architecture.’
‘What about art, Signor Hope? Is it something you appreciate?’
‘Some. What little I know about it. Not sure I go for sheep in formaldehyde, or unmade beds and dirty underwear – or does that make me a philistine?’
Donatella seemed to approve of his taste. ‘Not in my book. You’ll be pleased to know there is nothing like that here. No gimmicks, no publicity stunts or con tricks. Just pure art. The owners have put together a wonderful collection of works from across the centuries, on loan from galleries all over the world.’
‘Hence the high security,’ Ben said. He’d already noticed the glassy eyes of the CCTV system watching from well-concealed vantage points around the room.
‘Oh, yes. Smile, you’re on camera. A state-of-the-art system, apparently. Not surprising that the galleries would insist on it, when you have hundreds of millions of euros hanging on your walls.’
‘So, do I take it you’re part of the art scene around here?’ Ben asked as he followed her through the crowd towards where the staff were checking invites and ushering guests through an arch leading to a glass walkway. He guessed it connected the old part of the building to the new wing.
‘My husband Fabio is. He’s one of the region’s top art and antiquities restorers. I just dabble in it, which is nice for me because I get to go to all the exhibitions with him.’
‘Is he here today?’
‘He’s supposed to be,’ she said. ‘But he phoned earlier to say he might not be able to get here. His company are helping to restore an old church outside Rome, and they ran into some kind of delay. He’ll be very disappointed if he can’t make it. And he’ll be sorry he didn’t get to thank you personally for what you did.’
‘I didn’t do that much,’ Ben said.
Donatella showed her ticket, explained to the woman at the desk that Ben was her guest, and they were ushered through the arched entrance to the glass corridor. At the end of it, they stepped into a bright, airy, ultramodern space that was the pristine new exhibition wing of the Academia Giordani. The floor was gleaming white stone, laid out with strips of red carpet that wove around the displays. The paintings were encased behind non-reflective glass, arranged by artist and period. A number of guests had already started doing the rounds of the exhibition, talking in low voices and pointing this way and that. As more people filtered inside behind Ben and Donatella, the murmur of soft conversation gradually filled the sunlit room. Some seemed impressed by the new building, though one or two faces showed disapproval.
‘It’s hideous,’ a stringy, white-haired woman in a blue dress was muttering to her husband. He was about ninety and walked with a stick. ‘Maybe not quite as offensive as the Louvre pyramid,’ she went on, ‘but hideous just the same.’
‘I find the concept has a very … organic quality, don’t you?’ one of the bohemians commented loudly to the woman he was with. ‘I mean, it’s so … what’s the word?’ He was padding about the gallery in open sandals, which together with his unkempt hair and beard probably attracted more offended glances from the other Italians than the design of the building. The Redford clone ignored him altogether.
‘So what do you think, Signor Hope?’ Donatella asked.
‘Like I said, I really don’t know that much about art,’ Ben said. But he knew enough to understand now why galleries across the world had been jittery about lending their pieces for this exhibition. The canvases around the walls bore enough famous signatures to pop any art lover’s cork. Picasso, Chagal, Monet. ‘And Da Vinci,’