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What the fuck is this?
My head is suddenly swimming again, my resolve wavering. I need to know what happens now. I find the courage to face Becker to ask him what is happening between us, only he’s no longer standing in front of me. He’s already disappearing through the door that leads to The Haven. Great. So what now? I’ve hurt his feelings. I should be pleased he’s even got any to hurt.
I go after him, determined set things straight with him, but that fortitude is quickly shot down in flames when I enter the kitchen and find Mrs Potts and Mr H sharing a pot of tea, both looking at Becker’s back. He’s currently roughly pulling open cupboard door after cupboard door and slamming them on moody grunts.
‘Where are the apples?’ he barks, throwing his arms into the air in a strop.
‘Fridge,’ Mrs Potts answers, her teacup poised at her lips. ‘Where they always are, Becker boy.’
He ignores her sarcasm and stomps over to the fridge, yanking it open and grabbing what he’s looking for. He’s sunk his teeth in before he has shut the door and is ripping the flesh of the fruit away when he swings around and takes in his spectators. He can’t talk. His mouth is full, so he throws a what? look at them.
Mrs Potts and his grandad slowly drag their stares to me, looking for enlightenment. I’m not going to give it to them. Not intentionally. I can’t, however, help the involuntary blush that springs over my cheeks.
Guilty. As. Charged.
A wash of worry falls over Mr H’s old face, and he rises to his feet with too much effort. But he doesn’t question what’s going on between Becker and me like I suspected he would. ‘The sculpture, did you intercept the sale?’
‘Yes.’ Becker nods on a scowl, agitated by the question.
I frown across the kitchen at him, bemused by both his grandad’s question and Becker’s answer. Intercepted the sale? Like stopped it? Becker looks to me guiltily, wrapping his lips around his apple again.
‘Oh, thank Aphrodite.’ Mr H collapses to his chair, relieved. ‘I bet it caused quite a stir.’
‘It did,’ Becker says, now refusing to look at me. Yes, it caused quite a stir, but something tells me that they aren’t on the same page.
‘And have we any idea who crafted the fake?’
‘No,’ Becker grunts through his chews, still refusing to look at his grandfather.
‘Well, I for one am raging with curiosity.’ He laughs. ‘I don’t know what planet that authenticator was on. I mean, it was a damn good forgery, but even I could see it was a fake. Now the museum has the map, we can move on and put this poisonous rivalry with the Wilsons to bed. We’ve done our part. We’ve done what’s right.’ He nods, satisfied, a huge smile on his old face.
I just about manage to conceal my gasp, but I don’t refrain from shooting Becker an alarmed look. He catches it. I know he does, even though he’s pretending he didn’t. I’ve just grasped what’s amiss here. Everything just slotted into perfect place.
Oh my God.
Mr H has no idea that his grandson bribed the expert. He thinks Becker has declared the fake and handed over the map – the map I found. The map everyone thinks I don’t know about. That map I know is still in the secret compartment I found in the library. I’d put my life on it. The rivalry with the Wilsons, the one Mr H seems to think is over, isn’t done in Becker’s eyes. Mr H and Mrs Potts don’t know about the stunt Becker’s pulled. He’s deceived them, too. And pulled me into the middle. Why? He was supposed to prevent the museum from buying the fake sculpture, but he wasn’t supposed to trick Brent into buying it. But this is a rivalry that goes back generations. And what happened today was payback for his father being ripped off. Retribution.
Oh Jesus.
I start laughing. I actually laugh. It comes from nowhere, surprising me as much as everyone else in the room, who all shoot me frowns. I shut up and clear my throat, smiling awkwardly. I’m going to give Becker away soon. I’ve started toying with my gloves, and I’m a nanosecond away from starting to whistle while looking around the kitchen casually, Becker’s words that he said outside Countryscape bombarding my mind.
Mrs Potts looks doubtful. ‘And the fake?’ she asks.
‘What about it?’ He flips a quick look across to me. My eyes widen pleadingly, and I silently scream at him for putting me in this situation. Does he want backup or something?
‘Where is it?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know.’ Becker shrugs. He’s doing a terrible job of lying. Shockingly bad, and I somehow find comfort in that. It worried me that he could so easily fool hundreds of people at that auction house. His ability to deceive is alarming. That he’s struggling to maintain his mask with his grandad and Mrs Potts is actually soothing me.
