Priceless (18 page)

Creating authentic pigments was expensive and time-consuming, but Serena knew that there was no point cutting corners. Modern techniques made short work of analyzing the tiniest slivers of paint for elements that were out of place or out of time. The legitimate ingredients to be found in a genuine Renaissance work were well documented. Discrepancies in the makeup of pigments were the first thing an investigator would look for.

But the work wasn’t over when Serena got the paints right, or even after she’d applied them using the right techniques. She had to make them look suitably aged. Working on a piece of board from the correct period would go a long way to achieving that aim, as anything added over the top of the original paint would eventually crack along the same fissures. There were ways of hurrying the process of craquelure along. The painting could be baked in a low oven for days at a time. Another book recommended the addition of human urine to the paints. Serena wasn’t sure how that would work, but she gave the technique a try all the same.

Eventually, Serena had in her possession the equipment and knowledge she felt she needed to start the real work. Her subject was a simple one. A small Madonna. Probably not unlike the one that had originally graced the panel. In fact, she worked out a way to incorporate some of the folds of fabric that could still be seen on the board.

•          •          •

By November, Julian was getting anxious to know what Serena would produce. He’d been seeing Annabel twice a week for three months by the time Serena told him she was ready to start the painting. The cocker spaniel routine was definitely starting to wear thin. It was nearing Christmas and, assuming that Julian was her bona fide boyfriend, Annabel was starting to make demands. She wanted him to accompany her to her museum’s Christmas party. That, Julian would do, since it might be a good way to make an even more useful contact at the museum. But Annabel also wanted him to spend Christmas with her and her family in Dorset. That would not do at all.

“I’ve told you before,” said Serena when he begged her to hurry with her work. “We can’t rush this. Why are you in such a hurry?”

Julian couldn’t tell Serena the truth: that he had been sleeping with some random girl to get access to her archives and had somehow gotten himself into a position where the girl in question thought they were going to get engaged, and he knew he needed to press eject. Instead he said, “My museum contact is looking for a new job, that’s all.”

“In museums, presumably.”

“Actually, he’s thinking of going into insurance,” Julian lied. “More money.”

Serena didn’t question it.

“So,” she said later, “I’ve talked to Katie, and she’s told me that she would really, really like it if you joined us for Christmas dinner. And,” she said with a wry smile, “here is her Christmas list. Will you come?”

Julian nodded. “Of course.” What else could he say? He would have to sort the logistics out afterward. Perhaps if he spent Christmas eve with Annabel in Dorset he
could drive on down to Trebarwen first thing Christmas morning. How long would it take? Three hours?

“And what do you want for Christmas?” Julian asked Serena when he had finished reading Katie’s list.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” said Serena. She stepped up to him and straddled his lap. As she leaned forward to kiss him, her shirt fell open, revealing a sexy red bra that lifted her breasts and presented them to him like a pair of freshly baked donuts. Julian felt a distinct stirring in his trousers.

“Would you like to have your present now?” he asked.

Serena looked up at the ceiling. Katie’s room was right above them. She cocked her head as though to listen for a sign that Katie might still be awake.

“Come on, then.” She took Julian by the hand.

Julian’s plan for the holidays went without a hitch. He spent Christmas Eve with Annabel, telling Serena that he was visiting an elderly aunt in Weymouth. He left Annabel first thing after breakfast on Christmas morning, telling her he had to spent the day with an ancient aunt down in Cornwall. She was on her last legs. This might be her final Christmas.

“I’ll come with you,” Annabel told him, but Julian put her off, saying that his old aunt Serena suffered from advanced dementia and rarely recognized her own favorite nephew. The presence of a complete stranger might send her into a serious decline.

“And she could be violent,” Julian added. “It’s best that you go to your parents. I’ll miss you terribly, but …”

Annabel accepted his excuses and the delicate silk scarf he had picked up from Hermès on his way over to her flat. Annabel wrapped the scarf around her neck like the Home Counties girl that she was.

“I will keep this next to my skin until you are with me again,” she assured him.

Serena and Katie accepted Julian’s excuse for his absence on Christmas eve, which was that he had to spend it with his ancient auntie Annabel. They gave him a warm welcome when he showed up on the doorstep in time for Christmas lunch, arms laden with presents. Serena tied her gift of a Hermès scarf around her head, like Carmen Miranda. Christmas in the Macdonald household was a far happier affair than it had been the previous year. Katie was delighted with the gifts that Julian brought for her. She’d decided, with all the pragmatism of childhood, that getting twice the amount of presents more than made up for her father’s absence.

“I’ve got something for you too,” said Serena. “But you’ll have to come upstairs to see it.”

Julian opened his eyes wide. Serena was usually pretty careful about not making double entendres in front of her daughter.

“To my studio,” Serena elaborated.

And there it was, on an easel. Serena’s first Renaissance masterpiece. A sad-eyed Madonna holding a world-weary baby Jesus on her lap. The child’s expression was exquisite. The infant Jesus seemed to hold in his eyes a complete and painful knowledge of all that would befall him before he could sit at God’s right hand.

For a moment, Julian could say nothing. He stared at the painting as though Serena had just unveiled a Polaroid picture of the actual nativity. Eventually, smiling and shaking his head at the wonder of it, he stepped closer and peered beyond the fabulous composition to the technique.

“I wouldn’t get too close,” Serena warned him. “I had to pee on it to get that authentic patina.”

Julian took an automatic step back.

“I’m joking,” Serena lied.

“It’s incredible,” Julian told her. “The painting is beautiful. But the aging is amazing. How did you get it to look so real?”

Serena swallowed her disappointment that Julian was more interested in the technique than in her artistic flair, but she told him all the same. “I just put it in the Aga for seven days. And it’s not quite done yet. But I had to take it out of the oven to put the turkey in.”

“You are a genius,” Julian told her. Then he kissed her and kissed her, then paused and listened for noise from downstairs.

“It sounds like Katie is watching
The Wizard of Oz,”
said Serena.

Julian responded with a sly smile, then he put his hand up her skirt.

“Have you been a good boy this year?” Serena asked.

“Oh yes,” said Julian. “I’ve been very good indeed.”

“In that case, perhaps you can have one more present.”

Serena quietly closed the studio door.

CHAPTER 23

C
arrie’s first year at Ehrenpreis London had been a great one. When she flew to New York to meet with her bosses,
she found for the first time ever she was excited about her upcoming appraisal. There was no doubt about it. Her results were far more impressive than she had hoped for—or, she suspected, than old Frank Ehrenpreis and the rest of the board had expected.

So, it was with delight that she joined Ehrenpreis for dinner at his very own home. Frank Ehrenpreis lived alone in a vast apartment overlooking Central Park that contained as much fine art as many small European museums. Carrie could not hide her admiration when she was shown the tiny Raphael in the library.

“When I go,” he said, “I want you to put this under the hammer.”

“You could just leave it to me,” Carrie flirted. Frank squeezed her arm, but they both knew it was harmless. Since the death of his wife seven years earlier, Frank hadn’t so much as looked at another woman.

Business over, Carrie took a couple of days holiday to extend her stay in New York. There were a few things she needed to do. Now that she was sure she was going to be in London for a few years, she needed to move everything out of her apartment so that it could be rented out.

It was strange to be back. Though the concierge of the building had promised to keep an eye on the place and her cleaner had continued to stop by once a week to keep things tidy, the place felt musty and unloved. Once she had packed up the boxes that needed to go into storage, Carrie opened the windows and looked out on the familiar view. As she did so, she had a flashback to a Friday night, more than twelve months earlier, when she’d stood at that window with Jed, his arms around her waist, as they’d watched a summer thunderstorm breaking over the Hudson River. She couldn’t help but remember what happened next too. How Jed’s kissing the back of her neck had led to a bout of deliciously slow lovemaking
with all the windows open and the lightning playing outside. Closing her eyes for a moment, Carrie could see Jed’s back, slick with sweat, reflected in the mirrored door of her wardrobe. She felt her arms wrapped around his neck, her thighs clamped tight around his waist. Carrie shook the thought off and went back to her packing.

But later that afternoon, as she walked back to her hotel, Carrie saw him. Right there on Fifth Avenue.

“Jed.”

As soon as the word came out of her mouth, Carrie regretted having drawn attention to herself. There was no reason on earth why Jed should be pleased to see her. They hadn’t spoken in more than six months. But he turned toward her voice with a smile, and the smile remained even when he realized who was calling him.

They joined each other in the middle of the pavement and exchanged an awkward kiss with his hands holding the tops of her arms as if to keep her at a distance.

“I didn’t know you were in town,” he said. Carrie wondered if there was a tone of accusation in his voice.

“I would have let you know, but I wasn’t sure how much time I was going to have here,” she explained. “I just came in for some meetings. I’m going back tomorrow.”

Jed’s eyes betrayed disappointment.

“And I’m sure you’re busy tonight?” he said.

“Actually,” said Carrie, “I’m not. But …”

“No buts. Let’s go out to dinner. I’ll collect you. Where are you staying?”

“The Trump Tower,” she said. “I had the rest of my apartment packed up.”

“So, you’re doing well in London. Obviously. Planning to stay for a while.”

She nodded, not sure why she felt so bad about it. It wasn’t as if she and Jed were still trying to make it work.

“Well.” He plastered on a smile. “Good for you. I can’t wait to hear all about it. I’ll pick you up at seven. Trump Tower?”

She nodded.

“Nice. I’ll see you then.”

He continued on his way, and Carrie watched him go as though he were a figure from a dream.

Carrie dressed carefully that evening. She didn’t want Jed to get the wrong idea. Not only that. Where was he likely to take her? She hadn’t dared ask. The answer wasn’t likely to be a good one. It wasn’t as if Jed had gotten himself a job on Wall Street since she’d left. That afternoon he had looked as he always had. Like a male model with new-age tendencies. Baggy jeans, tight vintage T-shirt, open-toed shoes, even though it was only April. They would almost certainly be going for a pizza in the village.

But Carrie didn’t have “pizza in the village” clothes in her suitcase. She’d come expecting to divide her evenings between fine dining with her bosses and ordering room service while she went over emails. She had the kind of dresses that could get you in anywhere, or she had pajamas. Carrie put on a DVF wrap, the least dressy thing she had brought with her. If she wore it with her hair down and knee-high boots rather than patent court shoes, she’d probably pass for casual.

At seven on the dot, Jed called up for her. She kept him waiting a little longer while she took a call from a client in Singapore, who was planning to fly into London for Ehrenpreis’s next furniture sale. When she got to the lobby, she apologized profusely, fully expecting Jed to comment on her tardiness. But he simply smiled and told her she looked great.

He looked wonderful too. He was wearing a suit with
the grace and elegance that had helped him to a pretty good career on the catwalk.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“It’s a surprise.”

It certainly was. No pizza in the village that night. Jed took Carrie to one of the hottest addresses in town: the newly refurbished Montrachet restaurant at the top of the Gloria Hotel.

“How did you get a reservation?”

“I know the maître d’,” said Jed. “He used to be a model. We worked together on a spread
for Men’s Health
.”