Precious Things (15 page)

Looking further down the street, Maggie saw, with a tiny shock of recognition, Michael standing on the pavement some distance away. His back was to her, and he was talking with a slim, dark-haired woman in a tight black dress and heels. Maggie instinctively stopped in her tracks and stepped into the shadow of a shop's doorway. She couldn't hear their conversation. With a swish of her long black ponytail, the woman turned on her heel and strode off in the opposite direction.
Maggie saw Michael look after her, before bounding up the steps of a grand white-columned building.

Feeling a little churned up, Maggie felt her phone buzz in her hand. She looked down to see who it was – a message from Rachel. She'd been out with her lover last night and was ‘just dying' to tell her the details. Maggie made a face at her phone. That would have to wait until later.

A few minutes later, Maggie stood nervously in front of the highly polished front door of Michael's apartment block. She looked down at her shoes against the perfectly tessellated tiles. Her ballet flats looked so pretty against the grey, white and black.
Like raspberry bonbons in a bowl of licorice twists
, she thought to herself. She brushed down her skirt and, suppressing a small quiver of anticipation, pressed the polished brass doorbell next to his apartment number.

Michael opened the heavy black door, his eyes sparkling in welcome as he leaned towards her and kissed her on each cheek. Maggie opened her mouth to say hello, but belatedly realised that he had his mobile phone pressed tightly to his ear. He made an apologetic gesture and waved her inside. She stepped into the cool interior of the marble-floored hall and he shut the door behind her. Still with the phone to his ear, he motioned for her to follow him inside his apartment.

Maggie felt as though she were standing on the edge of a precipice. Being here, during the day . . . it felt strange, somehow. Too intimate. She had a flashback to the time she and Tim were house-sitting a grand apartment, a little like this one, soon after they'd first got together. It was the home of a colleague's of Tim's. They'd called in sick three days in a row and stayed in bed, only moving from it to the enormous old claw-footed bath, and then back again to the bed, ordering in cigarettes and pizza and vodka to make triple-strength cocktails. It was something about the furtive, forbidden thrill of it all, Maggie remembered. They were both so saturated with sex, and drunk on each other.

‘Sorry about that.' Michael's voice broke into Maggie's thoughts. She realised with a start he was still holding open the door, his teeth very white against his tanned face, smiling and beckoning her in. A line from her fairytale game with Pearl flashed unbidden to mind . . .
My, what big teeth you have
. She took a deep breath and stepped forward.

Maggie wasn't really surprised to find out that Michael's apartment was as impeccably turned out as the man himself. But just
how
nice it was took a little longer to register. From the rare taxidermy in glass cases and the antler chandelier set above a carved ebony dining table, to the surrealist art dotting the dark walls (
Are the walls lined with leather? And is that an original Dali? Surely not
, Maggie thought), his apartment was masculine and sophisticated. Books lined the shelves, and a new dark grey modular sofa was offset by fine antique pieces that Maggie knew were hard to come by. A Japanese samurai sword was simply displayed on a side table over a Vivienne Westwood Union Jack rug, and a Mapplethorpe photograph of a black and white calla lily dominated the opposite wall.

Maggie breathed in the scent of leather and musk and that underlying citrus tang, and couldn't remember the last time she'd been in such a stunning home. It was obvious Michael delighted in being a collector.

‘Can I take your coat?' His voice interrupted her thoughts.

‘Thanks,' she said, fumbling a little with the top button, before shrugging it off and passing it to him.

‘Well, you look lovely today,' Michael said, holding the coat over his arm and looking her up and down approvingly.

‘Thank you,' Maggie said, feeling suddenly nicer in Stella's charity store dress.

A current of something passed between them as she met his eyes.

‘Right, then,' Michael said, breaking the moment. ‘Tea? Or can I tempt you with a coffee? Have you eaten yet? I bought some fresh pastries, just in case.'

‘Just tea, please,' she said.

‘Make yourself at home,' he said. ‘I'll put the kettle on.' And he disappeared into the kitchen – a long thin galley which ran off the living room.

Maggie dropped her bag on the couch and moved over to the bookshelves. ‘I love your place,' she called, still in awe of how beautiful it all was.

‘Ah, thanks,' said Michael, putting his head through the kitchen door. ‘I'll tell my interior decorator.'

Oh
, thought Maggie, and couldn't help but feel a tiny pang of disappointment.

When people came over to their house, they always exclaimed over her home – its charm and its prettiness – but Maggie always felt the house was a work in progress, existing mostly as a dream inside her head. She loved her home improvement projects, like spending days painting the orange-tree trompe l'oeil outside her front door, or whitewashing the courtyard garden walls. She got a thrill out of mending and making do. But when she compared her home to Michael's cool apartment and his exceptional taste, she felt so . . . gauche. She'd had to think, consult magazines and work so hard painting and refurbishing things herself to get her house looking the way it did, while this apartment just seemed to ooze effortless sophistication.

What a catch
, she heard, imagining her mother's sly whisper in her ear. He was just the type of man her mother appreciated. Maggie could almost hear her voice in her head right now, from when she first presented her with a picture of Tim all those years ago, feeling so proud of their budding relationship. ‘So he's training to be an architect. But he's overweight. You can do better than that . . . For goodness' sake, he has a child already!' her mother had said, curdling Maggie's joy. ‘And if you must settle down with a . . . a . . .' Maggie knew she'd been about to say
northerner
, but just managed to stop herself, ‘. . . someone with so much baggage, do be careful. Don't get yourself into . . . trouble.'
Like me
, she was about to say,
with your father.
Brilliant. Wasn't it nice to know you would always be the dirty little mistake who'd ruined your poor mother's life? Maggie winced, remembering.

I'm not going to think about my mother now, I'm just not
, Maggie told herself, in an effort to put away an image of her mother, Valerie, fingers twisting her pearl necklace tightly around her neck.

Maggie stopped in front of a dark stained Chinese sideboard running almost the length of Michael's apartment. ‘A Fabergé egg. Wow. I've always liked these,' Maggie said, carefully touching with one fingertip the ornate egg on its filigree stand in the open glass case. ‘What a stunning example – where did you find it?'

Michael came out of the kitchen and flipped open the lid to show her the egg's hollowed golden interior. Its deep soft glow mesmerised her. ‘St Petersburg,' he replied, smiling at her.

‘Oh, snap, exactly where I get all my Fabergé eggs from,' Maggie said lightly.

Michael laughed. ‘Good-looking
and
quick,' he said. ‘Excuse me, that's the kettle. I'll just make the tea. You know,' he said, calling out from the open door, ‘it may have once belonged to a Tsar. At least, that's what the dealer told me.'

Maggie grinned. That's what they
always
said.

Michael came back into the room and set down a black lacquered tray on the dining table.
Was everything this man did so entirely flawless?
Maggie wondered. The tray held a black cast-iron teapot and two exquisite aquamarine-glazed cups.

Michael pulled out a chair, indicating for Maggie to sit down. When she was settled, he leaned over to pour her a cup of tea. ‘Mmm . . .' she murmured.

‘Nice ring,' he said, touching the stone on her finger. ‘Boucheron?'

The feel of his fingers on her hand made something inside her tingle. ‘Ah, yes,' she said. ‘It was a lucky find in Paris. Not that I get over there very often now. Not since . . .' She stopped, feeling suddenly hesitant.

‘Since you had children, you mean?' he asked, fixing her with those green, green eyes. ‘You do have children, don't you?'

Maggie felt odd; she really didn't want to think about Pearl or Tim or Stella at this precise moment.

He was staring into her eyes and Maggie nodded. Feeling wrong all of a sudden, she dropped her gaze. Her wrist still tingled from where his fingers had brushed against hers. What was that line from that episode of
Mad Men
?
If you don't like what's being said, change the conversation.

‘Do you have those photographs you were telling me about?' she asked, sitting up straighter in the wishbone dining chair.

‘Sorry? Oh – yes,' said Michael, leaning over to the far end of the table and pulling a folder towards him. He rummaged around inside. ‘Here they are.'

Maggie looked through the images and did a double-take. ‘Wow. These are . . . highly important,' she said, stopping to look up at him. Michael's uncle had obviously been a very wealthy man. There was a George III brass-mounted fustic, rosewood and marquetry commode, circa 1770, which was almost certainly by Thomas Chippendale, and a George II carved mahogany chair bearing the Barrington Arms, which must have been worth over five hundred thousand pounds alone.

‘Yes, I know. But frightfully ugly, don't you think?'

Maggie grinned; they certainly weren't to her taste – and clearly not his – but the right collector would pay a small fortune to secure them. The commode was bound to go for upwards of a million, at least. And those two pieces were only the prelude to more impressive items to come.

‘Here's the list,' said Michael, pulling from his pocket a notebook secured with a Mont Blanc pen.

Maggie scanned through another couple of photos. ‘Are all these Chippendale?' Maggie asked, knowing with certainty that they must be authentic – the pieces had clearly been held by the same family for generations, if the crests and flashes of the stately home shown in the background were anything to go by.

‘Very good. You know your stuff. I had a feeling about you. And this is George Stubbs,' he said, pointing to another eighteenth century painting of a King Charles spaniel. She'd have to consult her colleagues to be sure – art wasn't her particular area of expertise – but here was another item which was sure to go for over a million pounds.

Maggie took a moment to consider the importance of this sale. A lock of hair flopped down over Michael's eyes and he brushed it back absent-mindedly as he studied the papers, looking every inch the public
schoolboy he must have once been. His hands were quite possibly the most elegant she'd ever seen. A forbidden thought suddenly came into her head:
What did the rest of him look like, under the suit?

Michael looked up. And stared straight into her soul, it seemed. Maggie was convinced he knew exactly what she was thinking. She ducked his gaze, pretending to write something on her notepad, her pen scribbling meaningless words on the empty page. It was useless. She felt like an insect avoiding detection. Maybe if she sat like this for long enough, he wouldn't notice just how much she was squirming inside. God, what was wrong with her? And then another, even more unpleasant thought struck her – how did this make her any different from Rachel?

‘Maggie? Maggie?' Michael asked. He was waiting for her response to a question she hadn't even heard.

‘Um, what sort of date were you thinking?' she asked, trying to wing it.

‘A date?' Michael raised his eyebrows in amusement.

‘For your auction, I mean,' Maggie said, blushing again. God, the man was so utterly . . . charming.

‘Oh, yes,' replied Michael, moving to the kitchen to flick through a leather-bound diary on the bench. ‘It has to be July 14 or 18,' he said.

Oh no
, Maggie thought, her heart sinking.
What rotten timing!
Those days fell smack bang in the middle of their precious, long-awaited family break, reserved after much joint diary-wrangling with Tim. Two weeks with him and the girls, touring around North Wales and the Lakes District in a borrowed campervan. The date had been set for months now.

‘Unfortunately I won't be able to do it then, but one of my colleagues can take over,' Maggie said with genuine disappointment.

‘Really?' Michael asked, frowning. ‘That's too bad. You see, we have a bit of a family connection to Sotheby's. My mother's cousin's actually on the Board there – John Cochrane, you might know him?' Maggie did, but also knew he was better known by his official title,
Lord
Cochrane. ‘Anyway, my father really wants me to go through him, but
I told him all about you, and I think I've just managed to sway him around to my way of thinking – somewhere like Bonninghams would be much better to handle my uncle's estate, I thought. Surely they're hungrier, I said, and willing to work harder to sell for as much profit as possible . . .'

‘Well, yes,' said Maggie, not sure Charles Bonningham would be overjoyed to hear Michael's description as to what he thought set them apart from the larger auction houses. ‘But I can handle it up until I leave – I have a break planned then, you see, which would be almost impossible to change or cancel – then one of my colleagues, someone equally skilled, I assure you, could take over for me on the actual day.' This was ridiculous – why did he want her to conduct the auction? Could it be her, rather than Bonninghams, that he was actually interested in?