‘Oh yes?’
‘I had a date.’
‘Tell me more. Anyone I might know? Anyone interesting?’
‘Very interesting. Alex Scott from the V and A.’
‘Result!’ laughed Abby, aware of the museum’s resident heart-throb. ‘Tell me more.’
‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Lauren with a wave of the hand. ‘Let’s see if he calls back first.’
They turned in through the gates of the RCI building and waved their passes at Mr Smith, the geriatric security guard, who was sitting more or less upright next to the reception desk. Abby often wondered why they bothered, considering he only had to remember a few female faces and was hardly likely to jump up and accost them, but it had become something of a habit.
‘So how’s the exhibition shaping up?’ asked Lauren as they prepared to go their separate ways.
‘Getting there, I suppose, but Stephen’s vision of what constitutes an iconic image and mine rarely seem to meet.’
Lauren snorted.
‘Not surprised; I’ve seen how the man dresses. Taste is clearly not one of his gifts. Well, if you need any help, just give me a shout. I’m not exactly being run off my feet at the moment.’
‘You can send me a long, juicy email about your date with Alex Scott then,’ grinned Abby.
She reluctantly left Lauren and descended the old stone steps into the basement, taking a deep breath before she stepped through into the archive.
‘Morning, Abigail,’ said Stephen, raising his eyebrows at the clock above the door. ‘Two minutes past.’
It was another of the little rituals they lived by. Abby worked late almost every evening, often coming in at weekends if a member required something specific from the archive at short notice, and yet Stephen insisted on pointing out every time she was even a second late.
‘So. It was a very enlightening meeting with Christine yesterday,’ he said when Abby had sat down at her desk. A smug smile spread across his face. Abby tried not to think about her boss’s sexuality – until recently, she hadn’t even been sure if he was interested in women or men. That was until Christine Vey’s arrival at the RCI. Now, just the mention of her name seemed to send Stephen into raptures.
‘So,’ he repeated, putting on his glasses. ‘The good news is that Christine has invited several members of the press to the launch night of the exhibition, and quite a few of them have accepted.’
‘Fantastic,’ said Abby, thrilled that her efforts might get some recognition in a national newspaper.
‘It gets better,’ he said, raising a hand. ‘The Chronicle are sending along one of their top journalists to do a review. And if they think the images are strong enough, they’ll run a four-page feature in the Saturday edition.’
/> ‘It had better be good then,’ said Abby, feeling excited and nervous.
‘Indeed. In fact I’d better have a look at your shortlist later today so we can make a final selection of images. If the press are coming, the exhibition has to be electric. It has to sing, my dear Abigail.’
His words reminded her of something.
‘On that subject,’ she said, hunting around her desk, ‘I wanted to pick your brains about an image.’
‘Pick away,’ said Stephen sagely.
She pulled out an envelope and passed the photograph inside to her boss.
‘I found this in the collection last night,’ she said, leaning forward. ‘Peru, 1961. The Blake Expedition . . . Does that mean anything to you?’
‘Dominic Blake,’ said Stephen, nodding. ‘He was mapping a remote section of the Amazon rainforest, or at least that was the stated aim of the expedition. There were rumours, of course . . .’
‘Rumours?’
‘Oh, that he was really looking for Paititi, the lost city supposedly stuffed with jewels.’ He gave the photograph a cursory glance, then flipped it back to Abby. ‘Pure nonsense, of course, just like El Dorado, one of those old wives’ tales that quickly become legends because people want to believe them.’
‘So he never found it?’