Page 79 of A Fresh Start at Bramble Cottage
“The auctioneer, Clive Loughton, was very nice. He was very interested to hear about Aunt Molly. Apparently she and Juan were part of an artists’ colony in a small town several miles up the coast from Barcelona. He painted several portraits of her, and so did some of the others. Some of them were nudes!”
“Wow!” Debbie’s eyes danced. “She really did live an incredible life.”
“She certainly did. I’d like to write her biography one day.”
“What did he say about your portrait?”
“He was pretty confident that it’s genuine, but he’s going to get in a second expert to definitely authenticate it — and the sketches. If that goes okay, he’ll put them all in the next available auction of contemporary art.”
“Two million pounds!” Debbie breathed, awed. “What will you do with the money?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if it will make that much — it’s an auction, so it’s anybody’s guess. It depends on how much interest there still is in him — he’s been dead for over forty years. People could have forgotten about him.”
“But artists often make more money after they’re dead,” Debbie pointed out. “Like pop stars. You could go on a world cruise.”
Vicky laughed, shaking her head. “Oh no — I don’t think I’m the world cruise type.”
“You’ll think of something. It’s so exciting... Oh, hi, Tom — your usual?”
“Yes, please.”
Vicky felt a shiver of heat run over her skin at the sound of that familiar voice — it was like standing too close to a high-voltage electrode. She took a sip of her coffee to avoid looking up at him.
“Vicky’s just been telling me about her trip to London.”
“Oh?” The polite interest was shaved down to the thinnest veneer over ice-cold steel.
“She took an old painting that Molly left to be valued.” Debbie babbled on innocently. “And they said it could be worth two million pounds!”
Vicky caught the sardonic glance he slanted down at her. “Congratulations.”
“Did he say whether the charcoal sketches would fetch anything?” Debbie asked.
“He thought maybe a few thousand each.”
“Alice at the pub has one too, and she’d like to sell it.” Debbie had bagged up two pasties and handed them over to Tom. “Though I suppose if there are a lot of them, you wouldn’t get so much for each one.”
“Not necessarily.” Tom tapped his card on the reader. “Being sold as a group might make them worth more.”
Debbie’s eyes were bright. “Do you think so?”
“It’s possible. Thanks for these, Debs — cheerio. Goodbye, Vicky.”
“Mmm.” That was as much as she could manage to say. You could have cut the hostility with one of Debbie’s cake slices.
“Bye, Tom.” As the door closed behind him, Debbie leaned over the counter to speak softly to Vicky. “Have you had a row with him?”
“What?” She tried to laugh. “Of course not.”
“Because he looks at you that way — you know, the way men do when they’re interested. And you like him, don’t you?”
“Oh, he’s good-looking, I grant you that.” She tried for a note of casual dismissal, but she knew the wobble in her voice gave her away. “But he’s really not my type. Though I don’t suppose that’ll bother him — I expect he’s got half the women between here and Bristol after him.”
“Well, yes . . . at least, he used to. But since last year . . .”
“What?” She didn’t want to ask, but she couldn’t help herself.
Debbie hesitated — she looked as if she was wishing she hadn’t mentioned anything. “He was engaged — to an actress. Nyree Donovan. She was really gorgeous — red hair, and a fabulous figure. She’s been on the telly a couple of times.”
