Their eyes widen as they stare at me, and then, as if remembering their manners, they smile. “Hello, Claire.” Elliot shakes my hand first. “Lovely to meet you.” He’s businesslike and emits a dominant power—quite daunting, actually.
“Hi.”
Christopher smiles and leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “Hi, Claire. I’ve heard a lot about you. So lovely to finally get to meet you.” Christopher is much more relaxed, it seems, and he looks like Tristan. He’s my favorite—I can already tell.
“So . . .” Christopher smiles as he looks between us, making small talk. “What have you two been doing all weekend?”
From my peripheral vision, I can see Elliot looking me up and down as he stands back and sips his champagne. What is he thinking?
God, I just want the earth to swallow me up.
“Oh, you know.” Tristan smiles as he puts his arm around me. “Bit of this and a bit of that.”
Christopher laughs. That’s code for sex.
And he’s right; we’ve been at it like rabbits all weekend. It’s a wonder I can walk.
Tristan holds his champagne glass up toward the painting we are standing in front of. “So this is Harriet Boucher?”
Elliot’s eyes light up as he stares at the huge canvas in front of us. “This is her.” He smiles at it in awe. “Spectacular, isn’t it?”
Tristan scrunches up his nose, unimpressed. “Meh, it’s okay.”
Christopher laughs. “I could take it or leave it, to be honest too.”
Tristan and Christopher begin to chat between themselves.
Elliot’s eyes come to me. “What do you think, Claire?”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” I reply.
He smiles softly as his eyes go back to admiring the painting. “Yes, it is.”
“Tristan says that you love this artist?” I ask, trying to make conversation.
“I do.” He gives me a lopsided smile. “Not love her as such, but I admire her work. She is by far my favorite artist.”
“Why?”
He frowns, puzzled by my question. “I guess . . . hmm.” He thinks for a moment. “Her paintings speak to me. I can’t explain it.”
I smile softly as I stand beside him and stare at the canvas. “How romantic.”
His eyes come to me. “Really?”
“If I were an artist, all I would want in life is for my paintings to speak to someone.”
He smiles and turns his attention back to the painting. “I suppose.”
“So you know her?” I ask.
“No, I’ve never seen her. I go to every auction, but she never attends. She’s elderly, from what I know.”
“And you have a few of her paintings?” I ask.
“I’ve bought five at auctions, although there are thirty in circulation. It is my aim to own all of them at some stage. They never come up for sale.”
“Are they all in storage?”