Page 42 of All I Want for Christmas

‘Oh yes. Depending on my mood, I was either the girl on Fragonard’s swing, or Millais’s Ophelia...I was a very dramatic teenager.’

He grinned, taking a sip of his coffee. ‘Did you always know you wanted to be in the art world?’

‘Pretty much. Paintings have always spoken to me, somehow.’ She looked down quickly. ‘Sorry, I know that sounds pretentious. I just don’t know how else to describe it.’

‘I get it.’

‘You do?’

‘I’ve always had an affinity, I suppose. I grew up surrounded by beautiful things.’

‘So then what made you choose law?’

He looked back at her, his eyes roaming over her face as if studying her. ‘Expectations.’

‘Your parents’ expectations?’

He shrugged, clearly not wanting to be drawn, but as she looked around the impressive home, it was clear their instincts had been correct. As Erik had said, there wasn’t the same kind of money to be made working in the art world as in commercial property development – or law.

‘So who’s your personal favourite?’ he asked, watching as she ate. He had put a croissant on his own plate but didn’t seem terribly hungry and she began to feel self-conscious, as if she had come into his house and was just taking from him.

‘Artist?’

He nodded.

‘Well...Max Liebermann is right up there, actually. But I’d probably say Joaquín Sorolla.’

‘Oh...I’ve got a Sorolla.’ He glanced towards the ceiling.

She stopped chewing. ‘Here? You’ve got a Sorollahere?’

He gave a hesitant smile. ‘You’re not going to rob me, are you?’

She sat back in her chair, staring at him. ‘You just left me, a perfect stranger, alone in your house all day yesterday with a Sorolla hanging on your wall?’

‘Well, I might have thought twice if I’d realized you were such a fan.’ He cocked a half-grin as her bewilderment persisted. ‘Don’t worry, I have good security. Why do you think the insurers are happy to go along with this?’

She shook her head, tearing off the tip of her croissant. ‘I just don’t understand how you could do that.’

‘Clearly.’

‘What’s the title of it? Would I know it?’

‘It’s calledBacante.’

‘NotBacante en Reposo? You mean the one with the girl on the bed?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one.’ He looked impressed.

Her eyes shone with excitement as she stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘His brushwork in that...’

‘I know.’

‘And his colours: the pink, the reds, that flash of white.’

‘I know.’

She couldn’t believe he had that actual painting in his house. Right here. She hesitated, wanting to ask where it was in the house but not wanting to ask, either. The line between professional and personal, polite and personal, was constantly shifting.

---