Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 145112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
My fingers reach for my mouth, and my eyes cast over her shoulder to see Becker quickly look at his collar before he brushes at something. A smear. From my lipstick. Then he looks to me, his mouth dropped open. His coolness has been superseded by Mrs Potts’s super-coolness. Now he looks guilty, too.
Caught.
She hums, and I force an innocent, sweet smile, for what reason I don’t know. I’m kidding no one. My appearance, my behaviour, the evidence, it’s all labelled me guilty as charged. No interrogation required. ‘You have the Countryscape auction this afternoon.’ Mrs Potts is speaking to Becker but looking at me. ‘You mustn’t be late or you’ll miss the lot.’
My discomfort is suddenly transformed into excitement. Countryscape? I’ve heard of it. Or read about it. A private auction house in a sprawling mansion. It has showcased some of history’s most famous pieces. To say it’s super-exclusive is an understatement. Only the richest and most credible pass those doors. By endorsement. Fucking hell.
‘I’m expecting a call from Doc—’ Becker stops mid-sentence and flicks me a dirty look. Dr Vass. His therapist. I’m insanely curious. Has he discussed me with his therapist? ‘I have a conference call,’ he says. ‘Then I’m leaving at two. I’m taking Eleanor.’
‘You are?’
‘You are?’ Our stunned replies collide, and we both gawp at Becker like he might have lost his mind.
‘Yes,’ he says, picking up a book from a nearby table and pointlessly inspecting it, casually brushing off dust that isn’t there.
‘That’s not wise, Becker boy.’ Mrs Potts’s tone is dripping with warning.
He slides the book on to the table and raises his chin confidently. It’s laughable, but I’m unsure how to interpret his misplaced valour. ‘Buying is part of this business, Mrs Potts. It will be good for Eleanor to experience it.’
‘But . . . we . . . she . . .’ Mrs Potts stammers, her coolness disappearing. ‘You never take company to auctions,’ she snaps, worry lacing her tone. ‘You need to concentrate.’
I keep my mouth firmly shut. I’m intrigued. Part of me desperately wants to go, but I’m too afraid to speak up for fear of being sliced by Mrs Potts’s angry tongue. My decision to zip it is only reinforced when she turns and studies me carefully. I have no idea what’s going through her mind. Maybe she’s wondering who instigated the events she just walked in on. That should be an easy conclusion to reach. Except it’s not. We’re both guilty, and I can tell she senses it. I feel like she’s delving into my mind and reading it.
‘I’ll be in my office,’ Becker announces.
What? My eyes shoot to him as he edges towards the door, and I shake my head, forbidding him to leave the library for me to face the wrath of Mrs Potts alone. The friendly old lady looks truly formidable right now. She isn’t happy. We might both be guilty of fooling around like a pair of sex-starved desperadoes, but the latest bombshell – him taking me to Countryscape – is Becker’s idea and Becker’s alone. I’m shirking all responsibility.
Shrugging apologetically at me, he continues to move towards the door, ignoring the angry eyes I’m sending him, something I’m trying desperately to hide from Mrs Potts.
‘Bye.’ He whips the heavy doors open and zooms out.
The bastard.
I remain in place, awkward as hell, waiting for it. Time seems to slow to a stop, dragging out my torture as Mrs Potts takes her duster to a bookshelf nearby and flicks it across a few shelves. I should run, but just as I’m about to make a dash for it, she sighs heavily. Then she turns and wobbles across the library, heading for the doors. That’s it? Just a sigh? I thank my lucky stars, deflating on the spot.
But I’m holding my breath again when she pauses, her hand resting on the gold doorknob. ‘Eleanor,’ she says quietly, but not quietly enough for me to pretend I didn’t hear. I wouldn’t be so disrespectful, anyway.
‘Yes, Mrs Potts?’ I maintain my respect and face her when she turns, hoping I’ve cleared my expression of all guilt and apprehension. At least, I try my very best. I have no clue if I’ve succeeded, and her straight face isn’t giving me any hints.
‘There is no happy ending here, dear.’ Her voice is soft, almost pitiful. Maybe it’s the distressed undertones telling me she’s speaking sense, or maybe it’s my gut instinct. ‘Unless, of course, I’m mistaken in my assumptions.’
I almost manage to disguise my frown. I know exactly what her assumptions are and there is nothing I can do to prevent her from assuming what she’s assumed. My mind is running away with me as I stand like a statue under Mrs Potts’s glare, and my reply is delivered with conviction I’m faking to within an inch of my life. And I feel so guilty for lying to the dear old lady. ‘Nothing has happened between Mr Hunt and me.’