Victoria notices and points at my necklace. ‘That’s pretty. Looks vintage.’
I shift in my seat as all eyes turn towards me. ‘My gran gave it to me for my eighteenth.’ I finger the smooth pendant, still warm from my skin. ‘Because it’s amber.’
‘I get it.’ Victoria holds out a hand. ‘Let’s have a look.’
‘Vic considers herself something of an expert because she did a three-month internship at Sotheby’s after she graduated,’ Barney explains. ‘An internship, mind, not an actual job.’
‘Excuse me? They offered me a position, if you remember. Said I had a talent for authenticating provenance.’ She looks around the room, pleased to have everyone’s attention. ‘It was just after Sotheby’s in New York sold Picasso’sBoy with a Pipefor over a hundred million dollars. There was no way I could justify a career helping the super-rich amass more of our finest art treasures for their private collections when there were homeless people sleeping on the streets. My conscience wouldn’tallow it. That’s when I decided I was better suited to the charity sector.’
‘Christ, can you quit with the moralising, Vic. You’re starting to sound like Willow,’ Simone grumbles.
Victoria ignores her and takes my necklace, holding it up to the light. ‘An amber drop, tear-shaped. See here? That little inclusion looks like a mosquito. Quite a good one, actually. Amber is fossilised tree resin, tens of millions of years old. The best pieces trapped insects inside as the resin hardened. They’re like tiny time capsules. Collectors love them.’
‘Does that mean it’s worth something?’ Barney asks.
‘Not much. A hundred pounds? Maybe one-fifty on a good day? Antique Baltic amber can fetch quite a bit more, but this is 1930s and they’re ten a penny. Sorry,’ she says to me.
‘It’s OK. I’d never sell it anyway.’
Victoria passes the necklace round the table and everyone studies the tiny mosquito preserved forever in the cognac-coloured resin. I find I’m sitting on my hands to stop myself from reaching out and grabbing it back. Their scrutiny feels personal, as if it’s me they’re inspecting and finding wanting. Finally, Felix, who is sitting to my right, drops the necklace into my hand and smiles wolfishly.
‘Beautiful,’ he declares, with a sidelong glance at his wife. ‘Give me vintage over antique any day of the week.’
My fingers are greasy from the olives and I struggle with the clasp. Dominic jumps up from his seat.
‘Let me.’
I hold my ponytail out of the way and dip my head. Dom’s fingers brush against my skin, warm and reassuring. ‘There you go,’ he says, dropping a kiss on my neck.
I look up, smiling, to catch a look of unbridled fury on Simone’s face. I grab my phone, desperate to escape the claustrophobic atmosphere. ‘Where’s the little girls’ room?’
‘Do you mean the loo?’ The anger has gone from Simone’s expression, and again I wonder if I imagined it. It’s been such a long day. We left Dom’s apartment just after five this morning and it’s now almost nine at night. I’m bushed. It’s no wonder my mind’s playing tricks on me.
‘Along the hallway, third door on the left,’ she says.
The corridor is long and cool, with magnesium-white walls and a marble floor that echoes under my sandals. Half a dozen busts of Greek gods and goddesses on plinths line both sides, their blank eyes following me as I pass. Zeus, with his flowing beard and wild curls. Patrician-faced Apollo. Athena, her marble features calm beneath a dented helmet. Without thinking, I reach out and run a hand down her cheek, marvelling at the detail the sculptor has coaxed from a slab of cold, uncompromising stone.
I turn left into the bathroom, which is also completely over the top, with floor-to-ceiling polished black marble tiles and floating twin sinks with brushed chrome taps. The ghostly silver veins running through the marble look like lightning forks in an inky night sky. I check I’ve locked the door properly, then open my phone. There’s a WhatsApp from Nessa. Seeing her name gives me a jolt of homesickness and for a moment I’d give anything to be back in London, gossiping about our workmates while cocooned in the familiar shabbiness of our local, The Royal Oak.
Not gonna ask how Greece is cos it’ll just make me sick with jealousy lol xx
So why are you texting? Anyway, you don’t need to worry. It’s horrible here. All blue skies and sandy beaches. Total purgatory. You’d hate it.
I add a laughing emoji, a palm tree and three kisses.
That’s all right then. Rainy London sounds soooo much nicer. Had the result of the investigation yet? Xxshe types back.
I pause, picturing the email that dropped into my inbox this morning, then count to five and reply.
Nope, not yet xxx
Bummer. Let me know when you do, OK? You know I’ve got your back, whichever way it goes. Love ya xx
I close my eyes and roll my shoulders. I’ve been on tenterhooks for two weeks. Now the email is right there in my inbox, and I can’t bring myself to open it.
I tell Nessa I love her too, wash my hands and pat them dry on a fluffy white towel embroidered withVilla Paradisoin the same font as the mosaic sign on the wall outside, then tramp back down the hallway to the kitchen. I’m almost there when I catch the angry buzz of voices, and it reminds me so strongly of the sibilant hiss of Mum and Gran’s whispered argument the night of my fifth birthday – the night their already fractured relationship finally broke down irrevocably – that I stop in my tracks.
‘This is no way to bring up a child, Jennifer. Amber needs you. If Social Services gets even a whiff that you’re back on the booze they’ll take her into care. Surely even you can see that?’
