Her mind was whirring. Why was it here? How could it be here? This couldn’t be right—

‘Charlotte?’

The voice sounded far away and it was a moment before she remembered Rosie on the other end of the line. ‘I’ll have to call you back,’ she mumbled, hanging up before she’d even finished the sentence.

‘Charlotte?’ She looked up at the echo of her name again, bewildered and disoriented as Lucy came over, her curious expression changing to one of concern. ‘Hey, are you okay? What’s wrong?’

Charlotte pulled herself back from the past, forcing a smile that felt more like a rictus. ‘Nothing. Just . . . work stuff.’

Lucy looked across at the painting that had elicited such a strong reaction from her. ‘Wow, that’s gorgeous. Do you like it?’

Charlotte nodded dumbly, daring herself to look back at it again – but the memories snapped at her from it like crocodile jaws. Beauty in the small things.

She stepped back abruptly, drawing herself taller and forcing a smile. ‘Lucy, I’m so sorry but I’m afraid I have to go. Something’s come up and I need to get back to the office.’

Lucy’s face fell. ‘But the Fortuny exhibits . . .’

‘I know. I feel terrible. Can we regroup?’ she asked, hearing the urgency in her own voice. She just had to get out of here.

Lucy shrugged helplessly, disappointment beginning to swim in her eyes. ‘There’s nothing in my diary,’ she said flatly. ‘Whenever you want.’

‘Great. So then I’ll call you when I’m back at my desk and we’ll get another time in.’ She was walking quickly backwards now, Lucy growing ever smaller in her frame of vision.

‘Okay.’

‘I’m really sorry,’ she called, beginning to turn away and hide her face; the mask was falling off again and she was nearly exposed. She couldn’t afford for anyone to see what was really there: absolutely nothing at all.

She walked without thinking, travelled without seeing, her feet pounding the street and the hot air drying her eyes. She felt scorched inside, desiccated, as the facts and the questions rebounded within her, chasing one after the other. Seeing the painting again, seeing it there. How could it be hanging on those walls? And how long had it been there: one week? Eight months? Four years? And what did that mean?

But in her gut, she already knew.

Her hands pulled into fists, her breath coming fast as she wove down the street. Her phone rang and she reached for it almost in relief. To have something to distract her . . .

‘Hey,’ she said, forcing brightness into her voice as she saw Stephen’s name.

‘Where have you been? I’ve been trying you all day.’ He sounded irked.

‘Sorry, frantic day.’

She could hear his frown. He hated not being able to reach her. ‘Where are you?’

‘Between meetings,’ she panted lightly. ‘I was just with a client at the Prado and now I’m . . .’ Where was she? She looked around, getting her bearings and remembering herself. She was across from the Puerta del Sol, not far from the cafe where Marina Quincy worked. She had planned on coming over here after leaving Lucy. ‘I’m just en route to see another.’