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‘Nice to see you and Becker seem to have sorted your differences out,’ Brent says softly, and with zero sincerity.
I look out the corner of my eye, finding him watching me too closely. He’s fishing, trying to wring me for information. That’s been his game since day one, as well as riling my boss. The Hunt Corporation is notoriously cloak-and-dagger. The whole antiquing world respects the famous family run business. And I bet they’re all curious about the private dealings.
‘Silly misunderstanding,’ I tell him with a sickly smile.
‘I bet,’ Brent muses.
I pull my shoulders in. My personal space is being invaded, and it’s beginning to piss me off. What information do they think they can extract from me? How much Becker is prepared to pay for the sculpture? I don’t know, and I wouldn’t tell if they tortured me for the information.
‘So, what’s it like working for the Hunts?’ Peter asks.
‘Interesting,’ I answer quickly and dismissively. Brent laughs, and I turn a disdainful look on to him. ‘Is something funny?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘Not at all.’
‘Boy, would I love a peek in the famous Grand Hall,’ Peter says. ‘Is it as magnificent as they say?’
‘No comment.’ I work myself up further and further, sidestepping a few more seemingly harmless questions and answering some with short, one-word answers, until I’ve had enough. I will not sit here accepting their obvious attempts to wring me for information. If neither man moves, I’ll climb over the seats. I’m not being held hostage. I stand abruptly. Maybe I’m being too cagey, giving them something to be curious about. ‘Excus— oh.’
My feet leave the ground, and I’m hauled up over the chairs, landing on my feet with less style and grace than I’d like. Blowing my hair from my face, I find Becker throwing daggers at Brent and Peter.
‘Excuse us,’ he says, perfectly civilly, but there’s threat lacing his tone. He takes my hand and pulls me to the back row. ‘Sit,’ he orders firmly, tugging me down to the seat as he lowers to his own. He doesn’t release my hand and though it’s a monumentally stupid thing to do, I don’t wriggle free of his firm hold. ‘You did good.’
‘What?’ I ask on a hushed whisper, seeing the room is now filled to capacity in the time I’ve been interrogated. Then it hits me. ‘You planted me there?’ I ask, horrified. ‘To test me?’
He keeps his attention ahead. ‘Let’s not be all dramatic. You passed. Congratulations.’
His disregard for the difficulty of my situation astounds me. ‘You’re a wanker,’ I mutter, yanking my hand from his. The boundary line just got buried.
‘Ground rules,’ he says quietly and calmly, ignoring my spiteful insult.
‘You can shove your ground rules where the sun doesn’t shine.’
‘Shhhh . . .’
I scoff and go to stand, now needing the ladies’ to splash my cheeks and cool down my growing rage, but I’m pulled firmly down to my chair. I make a rubbish job of wrestling out of his hold inconspicuously.
‘Stay where you are,’ he warns, cool as a cucumber. ‘You’ll want to see this.’
My curiosity is piqued immediately, and I hate myself for it. ‘What?’
‘Just behave and pay attention.’
I obey, looking around for what might be the subject of my supposed interest. I see nothing, except a sea of people and a suited man upfront, taking position behind the rostrum and tapping the mic. ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,’ he says. ‘Welcome to Countryscape.’
A flurry of low mumbles emanates from the crowd and a few people applaud the speaker’s arrival. Not Becker. His face remains straight, revealing no indication of his mood. I can’t believe he set me up like that. A test. That I passed the test is irrelevant, and I’m going to ignore the pang of pride I feel because of that. He’s immoral, and as soon as we’re out of here, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.
The auctioneer launches into a detailed speech. It goes on and on, with no one seemingly paying attention as he rambles about the history of Countryscape. I expect they’ve heard it all before, as have I, but I still settle in for the introduction and listen attentively while he talks through the history of the building – about how it became such a prolific, worldwide-famous auction house, a meeting point for some of the best-known art historians in the world. Built in 1752 by the Masons – a family held in high esteem in the aristocratic world, and famous collectors of antiques – Countryscape is famous for housing and exhibiting some of the most famous historical finds in recent history.
Situated in the countryside with no neighbours for a ten-mile radius, it boasts a church, a gatehouse, a lake, and a woodland. The current Masons live in a smaller dwelling on the grounds and kindly opened up Countryscape in 1945 to the elite art and antiquing world. It’s still very fascinating, however old the story is to me.
