She sat next to him, equally enveloped by the sofa, but experienced enough to just occupy the edge, and showed him a printout of the detailed inventory of forty-seven pieces of work, all listed by title, works by John Everett Millen, that had been housed in a warehouse in San Bernadino.

Ever felt his breath stop, and his heartbeat became irregular, then faster for the briefest of time.

Tachycardic.

These were the works that had cost his father his life. Their titles, their names documented in black and white. Ever was transfixed.

‘Did you want to purchase?’

Broke the silence.

He did not know what to say. Could she hear his heart thumping?

‘Their value is, I mean are, what are they selling for?’

‘I have no idea – they have been on our inventory for so long, with only one inquiry…’

The last word she pronounced in an American accent. Starting with the liquid you write with.

‘…that I would have to consult with our marketing director, or it may even be a question for Mr Lorken himself. But twenty-seven of the original forty-seven have in fact been sold… eight years ago. To the one purchaser, prices not indicated here, but I may be able access them as a guide, for my eyes only, so to speak, to assess valuation relevant to the remaining pieces.’

The first thought from Ever was the ARR – the Artist’s Resale Right – why was his father not informed? It would have been a percentage on a decreasing scale as the paintings achieved a higher price, so the financial reward might not have been life-saving, but apart from the income generated, it would have given him a confidence that people actually wanted his work. That was the major factor. Being wanted. This was a shit thing to hear.

A fucking bitch shit, fucking thing to goddam fucking hear.

It wasn’t Miss England’s fault but, by God, he looked at her in a different light.

At this moment he would have liked to have punished her in a way he would not have the courage to voice, but he enjoyed the private thought.

‘Can I take your details, if that is your interest, and we can get back to you? Or perhaps you would like to view? We can have them transported to our private gallery here, but I would need some bank references, some validation, as we can only cover the expense if we’re confident that it’s a serioius request.’

My God, Ever thought, in the quietest part of his brain that wasn’t affected by his heartbeat.

First thought.

What happened to the fucking money, bitch. Cunt, was the first word that came to mind, but he was mildly embarrassed at the strength of that and it received an instant dismissal.