A Trick of the Light by Ali Carter (books for 5 year olds to read themselves TXT) 📗

on the arm of the sofa opposite. ‘I had a call this morning from an art dealer, renowned broker of fine arts in fact.’ Fergus’s smile was now huge. ‘There’s a Landseer exhibition coming up at the Scottish National Gallery.’

‘How exciting. Do they want you to loan some pictures?’

‘Did she tell you that?’

‘Zoe?’

‘Yes.’

‘No, I just assumed it. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ Fergus could not stop smiling. ‘Zoe thinks it’s a bad idea but just this once I’m going against her.’ He giggled.

‘Fair enough. The oil sketches you have really are lovely, I’m not surprised the gallery wants them.’

‘No, no,’ Fergus wafted his hand and shook his head, ‘we have four marvellous pictures. Just you wait. I can’t tell you how exciting this is. My family have done their absolute best to keep hold of their collection. Never would a Muchton sell a painting.’

I smiled. Ewen wouldn’t like hearing him say this. But, you know what, I feel just the same about my own limited collection.

‘Fergus, I really would love it if there’s any chance I might get to see the pictures?’

‘Yes, definitely. Zoe’s anxious about people knowing we own them. Silly really, as it is all out there on public record. But we’ve come to a compromise: they’ll be loaned for the exhibition but none of the students this week will be told. I kind of get her point, one does not want too many people knowing exactly where they are.’

‘It’s so kind of you to tell me.’

‘I had to push for that too.’ He gave a light chuckle. ‘But it seemed to me jolly unfair not to let a professional artist living under our roof see the pictures.’

‘I’m thrilled, thank you so much.’

‘They’re sending over an art valuer very early tomorrow morning to assess the pictures for insurance purposes, and in order not to rouse suspicion I thought you could join him in the south-east wing before breakfast?’

Ah ha, the valuable paintings are in the locked wing.

‘Yes please. That would be brilliant.’

Fergus rubbed his knees and stood up. ‘Marvellous. Now don’t say a word.’

He opened the library door and I skipped upstairs, grateful to find the bath free.

The peaty water consumed me as I rested my head back on the cast-iron lip. I’m so pleased to finally have time alone. A calm moment all by myself. It’s just what I need to reflect on one of my obsessions – piecing together close observations of people so far. I’ve always been interested in human beings and I think I’m pretty good at working people out. I’ve practised the skill all my life. As a little girl in London I’d sit for hours gazing out the window of our front room absorbing the mannerisms of passers-by. The backwards-facing palms of simple folk, the spring in the step of young love, the untucked clothes of characterful children, the trembling onset of Parkinson’s, and Trevor the tramp who always smiled. Trevor was a made-up name, I wasn’t allowed to talk to Trevor. But from a very young age the seed was sown: what fun it is sussing out others.

Being cooped up in a large house this week as part of an intimate group might have its frustrations, not being able to escape for one. But with a hobby like mine, indulging in people’s characters and how they behave, there could hardly be a better playing field. In fact, I’ve already worked out Jane’s lifestyle.

I became curious at dinner last night when she hinted to Fergus she was familiar with country pursuit sums. I assumed she was a Lady of some grand manor herself and started to wonder where she lived.

Her surname threw me at first – Atkinson doesn’t exactly smack of the gentry. But shooting estates these days aren’t solely owned by old families and Jane’s husband could have bought a country pile off his own back. Mr Atkinson might be a successful banker for all I knew, or actually, more likely, a barrister. They live in Gloucestershire don’t you know. Jane’s definitely not got a career under her belt, so unless inheritance bought them an estate, she’s played no part in owning the home. But then, when Felicity told me over lunch that Jane’s husband, Neville, is a farm management consultant, from that moment on I knew Jane had married outside of her class. She’d stepped down from the ranks of those who have assets (this is why she could identify with Fergus) to those who don’t. If her husband Neville had land of his own he’d be running it, not consulting for others.

I enjoy getting under people’s skin – it’s instinctive, not nasty or malicious. An inbuilt reaction to being an artist. I’m simply unable to turn off my antennae.

‘Knock, knock,’ came Lianne’s voice from the other side of the bathroom door. ‘There’s a queue building up out here.’

‘Give me a sec and I’ll be finished.’

‘Cheers, Susie.’

Lianne was bang smack in my face as I opened the door and I very nearly stepped on her flip-flopped feet. She was in little tight PJ shorts and an even tighter t-shirt with a huge heart stretched across her breasts.

‘What ya going to wear tonight?’ she said.

Insensitive to the fact she might genuinely be looking for advice on what to wear to dinner in a house like this, I replied, ‘I hadn’t thought about it.’

‘My mum said clean clothes for dinner might be a way of them telling us to be a bit dressy.’

The truth is, vanity influenced my packing and I came with a whole variety of evening gear. If the scene was trendy, I had stuff for that; smart, I could look sophisticated; party time and I could be sexy; plain clean clothes, I had them too.

‘Well, I’m going to keep my best dress for Wednesday night’s ceilidh, and tonight I’ll wear a wrap-around one.’ I looked down at my dressing gown. ‘Much like this really.’

Lianne laughed. ‘Thanks, that helps a lot.’

A great big deep gurgle came through my bedroom wall as the