‘I understand this particular piece has only been offered privately and in a limited way,’ Selina replied. ‘My client saw it on show in—’ a pause while she presumably consulted a note ‘—Middledip village hall. The photo I’ve been sent is of a modest canvas, a multimedia, expressionist representation of two small boys, one touching the other’s face. Apparently, the ticket said POA and gave your phone number.’

‘Oh!’ So much for her assumption that she’d never sell a canvas through the Middledip Christmas Fair. ‘I wonder why the prospective buyer didn’t just ring me her or himself.’

Selina didn’t comment on that. ‘Is the piece still for sale?’

‘It is.’ Laurel put on her business hat, reciting the canvas’s exact dimensions and the relevant paints and techniques. ‘The price is twelve hundred pounds, unframed but packed and delivered in the UK. But that’s without commission. What’s your commission rate, usually? Because I haven’t even tried this in my Etsy shop so I don’t feel much appetite for sharing proceeds.’

‘Right.’ Selina sounded noncommittal.

Laurel anticipated that Selina would now return to her client, or pretend to, and come back to say she could get her client to pay more but yes, there was a commission, still reducing Laurel’s bottom line. Laurel would counter that she’d try it online for a couple of months and come back to Selina if it didn’t sell. Selina would hint that the client would have found another picture to buy by then. Laurel, secure in the knowledge of her bank balance and her worth as an artist, would still decline. Selina might offer to reduce her commission, as her client had apparently sourced the painting. Laurel would refuse again, unless that gave her the sum she wanted. The buyer could always call Laurel direct and make the deal.

‘Shall I leave that with you?’ Laurel asked politely.

‘Get back to you as soon as,’ Selina agreed breezily.

The call reminded Laurel that she’d left the canvas in the village hall, along with her mum’s watercolours, and she’d need to go between seven and nine this evening to reclaim them. As organiser of the art wall, Grady would be there.

Her heart warmed, despite the grim knowledge that what they had might come to nothing. ‘Probably’, in fact, rather than ‘might’. If only Mac Cassidy would just vanish … Maybe when Santa delivered Christmas presents to the village on Saturday he’d take Mac with him to the North Pole.

She was grinning at this thought when Selina Sullivan called back. ‘OK,’ she said, in the same brisk no-nonsense manner. ‘But can I pick it up and have a look at what else you’ve got while I’m at it?’