‘But what if I can’t do it? It’s been years since I’ve even picked up a brush—’

‘Art is instinct. You either can or you can’t and if you could once, then you can again.’

‘But where would I begin? I don’t know where to buy cotton earbuds in this city, much less find an art class.’

Charlotte smiled. ‘Leave it with me. I know a few people in this field. I could make some calls for you.’

‘Yeah?’ Lucy looked at her, the expression on her face bemused. ‘Honestly, how do you know all these things, all these people?’

‘Life,’ Charlotte said lightly.

‘Helluva life,’ Lucy said drily.

A crowd of Japanese tourists, all wearing matching navy caps, were standing with a guide before what at first glance was the Mona Lisa.

‘Eh? I thought she was in the Louvre?’ Lucy mused, wandering over distractedly. Charlotte already knew it was the anonymous copy by one of Da Vinci’s own pupils which had been painted at the same time as the master version, but she stood by patiently as Lucy stopped walking to listen in on the talk. She checked her messages on her phone: another two missed calls from Stephen and one from Rosie asking her to call back when she could. Seeing Lucy was engrossed, she rang the office.

‘Hello, Charlotte Fairfax’s office.’

‘Rosie, it’s me,’ she said in a low voice, turning and beginning to pace lightly in small figures of eight.

‘Oh, Charlotte, hi.’ Her PA’s voice inflected with relief. ‘There’s been a couple of calls. Dr Ferrante rang back from Carlos III University; he’s available and very interested.’

‘That’s great. Send him the preliminary Mendoza family profiles so that he can get started and arrange lunch for as soon as possible – tomorrow ideally. I want him to meet Mateo and hopefully settle his nerves. Warn him we’ve got a very jumpy client right now.’

‘Okay, I’ll pass that on. And Hugh Farrer’s office called, requesting an update. Specifically . . .’

But Charlotte didn’t hear what she said next. Her eyes had fastened onto a small still life further along the gallery. There was no crowd loitering in front of this one, everyone instead making their way to the headline pieces, but her feet took her there soundlessly and she stood before it, her hand falling slightly, taking the phone away from her ear.

She didn’t need to read the placard beside it to know it was by Chardin and titled Basket with Strawberries. Her eyes took in the familiar image: a low round basket piled high with a pyramid of strawberries, two white flowers laid before it, a glass of water to one side and to the other, some cherries and a peach. She absorbed the moody background light, the richly textured wooden tabletop, the succulent gloss and rich, ripe colours of the fruit. She knew it so well it was like looking at an old family photograph, memories of a long-ago time stirring within her. She felt deeply buried emotions begin to vibrate and hum in the pit of her stomach, a sudden longing of piercing intensity smashing through the smooth crystalline shroud that had become her protection.