James’s buttoned-up raincoat swamped his emaciated frame and if I hadn’t seen him a short while ago I mightn’t have recognised him. The suave self-assurance had gone and his thinning grey hair was oiled into place.

‘Well done. You were marvellous.’ The voice was the same and a faint twinkle in his eyes gave recall to the man I remembered.

He waited a second before asking, ‘Can you spare half an hour for a drink? I’d like to run something past you.’ The last thing I wanted was to revisit old ground and behind me I could hear the bustle and merriment following on from the evening’s success.

‘I’m sorry, James, but I can’t get away. It’s been a big night.’

James looked uneasy, and for a moment, I feared he might still harbour hopes of a future together.

‘I was keen to see you again but that’s not why I’m here.’ A prick of fear made me tense. ‘I had a strange caller at the gallery yesterday. Someone who said he was your boyfriend. He seemed genuinely interested in some of our paintings. I’m after a little inside information.’

Mitch was my first thought. Why had he gone to the gallery? It wasn’t his style. He had never checked up on me in the past. Surely he wouldn’t have visited without telling me. It wouldn’t have been Oliver. James wouldn’t have let him in.

‘What was his name?’ I leant heavily onto the back of a chair.

‘Beck. Arthur Beck.’

64

Rebecca

The incongruousness of James’s description, which portrayed Arthur as a suave sophisticated connoisseur of modernist art, made me wonder if we were talking about the same person. There surely couldn’t be more than one Arthur Beck.

I managed to slip away from the post-auction celebrations with a lame excuse about nervous fatigue, coupled with a threatening migraine. If Marion was disappointed in her new gavel-wielding prodigy, she kept it under wraps and smiled when she saw James in the aisle.

James and I ended up in a small bistro next door to West House with a bottle of wine between us; it was a poignant moment of déjà vu. However, this time I was after information. If James harboured any intention of milking the situation for his own benefit, I put him right. I kept my coat on and sat on the opposite side of the table, accepting a very small glass of wine. I let him speak.

‘The guy said that you were dating and living together in Muswell Hill. He seemed genuinely interested in the paintings, spouting knowledgeable facts in relation to various artists.’

‘Did he say anything about coming back? Or seeing you again?’