Be Careful What You Wish For (The Clifton Chronicles 4)

He pushed open the door to the gallery and stepped inside. For a moment he just stood there, gazing around the spacious room, its walls covered with the most magnificent oils, some of which he recognized—Constable, Munnings and a Stubbs. Suddenly, from nowhere, she appeared, looking even more beautiful than she had when he’d first seen her that evening at the Slade, when Jessica had carried off all the prizes on graduation day.

As she walked toward him, his throat went dry. How do you address a goddess? She was wearing a yellow dress, simple but elegant, and her hair was a shade of natural blonde that anyone other than a Swedish woman would pay a fortune to reproduce, and many tried. Today it was pinned up, formal and professional, not falling on her bare shoulders as it had done the last time he’d seen her. He wanted to tell her that he hadn’t come to see the pictures, just to meet her. What a feeble pick-up line, and it wasn’t even true.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

The first surprise was that she was an American, so obviously she was not Mr. Agnew’s daughter as he had originally assumed.

“Yes,” he said. “I was wondering if you had any pictures by an artist called Jessica Clifton?”

She looked surprised, but smiled and said, “Yes, we do. Would you like to follow me?”

To the ends of the earth. An even more pathetic line, which he was glad he hadn’t delivered. Some men think that a woman can be just as beautiful when you walk behind them. He didn’t care either way as he followed her downstairs to another large room that displayed equally mesmerizing paintings. Thanks to Jessica, he recognized a Manet, a Tissot and her favorite artist, Berthe Morisot. She wouldn’t have been able to stop chattering.

The goddess unlocked a door he hadn’t noticed that led into a smaller side room. He joined her to find that the room was filled with row upon row of sliding racks. She selected one and pulled it out to reveal one side that was devoted to Jessica’s oils. He stared at all nine of her award-winning works from the graduation show, as well as a dozen drawings and watercolors he’d never seen before, but which were equally seductive. For a moment he felt elation, and then his legs gave way. He grabbed the rack to steady himself.

“Are you all right?” she asked, her professional voice replaced by a gentler, softer tone.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Why don’t you sit down?” she suggested, taking a chair and placing it beside him. As he sat, she took his arm as if he was an old man, and all he wanted to do was to hold on to her. Why is it that men fall so quickly, so helplessly, while women are far more cautious and sensible, he wondered. “Let me get you some water,” she said, and before he could reply, she’d left him.

He looked at Jessica’s pictures once again, trying to decide if he had a favorite, and wondered, if he did, if he would be able to afford it. Then she reappeared, carrying a glass of water, accompanied by an older man, whom he remembered from their evening at the Slade.

“Good morning, Mr. Agnew,” said Sebastian, as he rose from his chair. The gallery owner looked surprised, clearly unable to place the young man. “We met at the Slade, sir, when you came to the graduation ceremony.”

Agnew still looked puzzled until he said, “Ah, yes, now I remember. You’re Jessica’s brother.”

Sebastian felt a complete fool as he sat back down and once again buried his head in his hands. She walked across and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Jessica was one of the loveliest people I’ve ever met,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“And I’m sorry to be making such a fool of myself. I only wanted to find out if you had any of her pictures for sale.”

“Everything in this gallery is for sale,” said Agnew, trying to lighten the mood.

“How much are they?”

“All of them?”

“All of them.”

“I haven’t actually priced them yet, as we had hoped Jessica would become one of the gallery’s regular artists, but sadly … I know what they cost me, fifty-eight pounds.”

“And what are they worth?”

“Whatever someone will pay for them,” replied Agnew.

“I would give every penny I have to own them.”

Mr. Agnew looked hopeful. “And how much is every penny, Mr. Clifton?”

“I checked my bank balance this morning because I knew I was coming to see you.” They both stared at him. “I’ve got forty-six pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence in my current account, but because I work at the bank, I’m not allowed an overdraft.”

“Then forty-six pounds, twelve shillings

and sixpence it is, Mr. Clifton.”

If there was one person who looked even more surprised than Sebastian, it was the gallery assistant, who’d never known Mr. Agnew to sell a picture for less than he’d paid for it.