Finding Mr Right In Florence

‘There are often markings and labels which can help trace its provenance. But I should warn you that there have been lots of scandals over the years in the art world. Copies, forgeries, and even forgeries of forgeries.’

‘So you’re saying my grandfather’s paintings could be fakes.’ Which meant that he was risking making his grandfather’s final weeks miserable, taking all hope away. He didn’t want to do that. But he didn’t want his grandfather to die full of regrets, either.

‘Or good reproductions, or maybe copies. If we can find paperwork for the provenance, that will help.’ She looked at him. ‘Why did you ask me to help?’

‘Because my grandfather and my sister like your show,’ he said. ‘Nonno says you understand art. That you love it.’

‘I do,’ she agreed.

‘And your biography on the Hidden Treasure website says that your studies are in the exact area of my grandfather’s collection. Nineteenth-century Italian painters—the Macchiaioli, to be precise.’

* * *

Had he looked her up on only the Hidden Treasure website? Or had he seen the other stuff that would come up on an Internet search of her name?

As if the thought showed on her face, he said gently, ‘And I saw your interview. Sorry, that’s not meant to be unkind. Just that it was the next thing on the search results.’

‘I know.’ But it also meant that he knew everything that Eric had done. What a fool she’d been. ‘And you still want me to look at the paintings?’

‘Yes, I do.’ He looked straight at her. ‘Speaking out like that takes courage. I admire what you did. And I admire the way that you’ve moved on, done something good with your life.’

She wasn’t quite there yet, but she was trying. ‘I wanted to help other people in my situation. The interview seemed like the best way.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly, ‘that you went through something so horrible.’

‘It’s past,’ she said. ‘And I’ve moved on.’ That wasn’t completely true. She’d completed her MA and started her PhD, forged a new career. She’d proved to herself that she wasn’t the pathetic mess Eric had wanted her to believe she was. But she hadn’t dated anyone since Eric. She couldn’t trust herself not to get it so badly wrong as she had last time.

And this wasn’t about relationships. Yes, so far, Angelo Beresford seemed like a nice guy. He’d been sensitive about her past. And he was attractive—he would’ve made a perfect artist’s model. But for all she knew he could be in a committed relationship. Even if he wasn’t, it didn’t meant that anything could happen between them. She didn’t trust herself—either to find the right person for her, or to make it work. This was going to be strictly business.

‘All right. I’ll come to Florence and see the paintings.’

‘Good. Tomorrow?’ he asked.

She stared at him. ‘Tomorrow?’

‘I know it sounds like a rush.’ Though he didn’t sound in the slightest bit apologetic.

‘It is a rush,’ she corrected.

‘Time’s the one thing I don’t have,’ he said.

She thought of her own grandfather and how much she missed him since his death; she would have done anything to help him in his last days. Anything to make him smile instead of looking so lost and desolate, the light in his eyes gone. Clearly Angelo Beresford wanted to do the same for his grandfather. Who was she to deny that? ‘All right,’ she said.

‘May I have your mobile number?’ Angelo asked. ‘I’ll get my secretary to book the flight and contact you with the details.’ He took a business card from his desk and scribbled something on the back. ‘My private mobile, email and address, and my office details on the front,’ he said, handing the card to her. ‘If you do think the paintings are worth working on, what happens next?’

Now she was on safer ground. Work, not emotions. ‘I’d photograph them, front and back,’ she said. ‘Then I’d set up a computer file for each one and work through the provenance.’

‘How long would that take?’

‘Photographing, maybe half an hour for each one. Less if I have someone to help me take them down from the walls and put them on an easel. The paperwork really depends—I can do some things online, but I’ll also need to look at any paperwork your grandfather has. I’d like to talk to him about each of the paintings and for him to tell me what he remembers about them, if he’s well enough.’

‘Nonno’s always well enough to talk about art,’ Angelo said. He looked as if he was weighing up her words, working something out. ‘So if we allow, say, three days to take the photographs, and a couple of days to talk about the paintings, we can fly back to London next Friday.’

She blinked. ‘Are you serious? You want me to spend practically a week in Florence? With no notice?’

‘I want the project done as soon as possible,’ Angelo said. ‘You can stay at the palazzo with us, or I can book a suite in a hotel for you if you’d prefer.’

Stay at a complete stranger’s home—even if he was an elderly man in his final days? This was all going way too fast for her. ‘I haven’t even seen the paintings yet. Until I have, I can’t make any promises.’

‘My grandfather believes they’re genuine, Miss Thackeray, and I trust his judgement. Give me that week. I’ll book a hotel for you. If you come to Florence with me tomorrow, see the paintings and you think I’m wasting your time, then that gives you a few days’ holiday. If you don’t think it’s a waste of time, then that’s a few days of work with some art that I’m guessing will be useful for your studies. Either way, I will pay you a consultancy fee for your time.’

Florence. Where, if the paintings turned out to be a disappointment, she could visit the Galleria d’Arte Moderna at the Pitti Palace, her favourite place in the city, and see some of the paintings she was studying. On the other hand, this could be the chance to see some paintings by her favourite artists that had been lost for decades...

How could she turn down an opportunity like this? ‘All right.’ She took one of her own business cards from her handbag. ‘That’s my work mobile number.’ She scribbled down some more information on the back. ‘And my private mobile and email.’

‘I’ll let you know the flight times and I’ll arrange for a taxi to take you to the airport in the morning,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Miss Thackeray. If you give my secretary your bank details on your way out, I’ll transfer a consultancy fee for your time.’ He named a sum that made her eyes widen.

‘Working on the basis that you’re right about the collection, I’ll need to bring my camera, tripod, photographic lights and an easel,’ she said. ‘Plus my laptop. And I’d prefer them to travel with me in the cabin rather than in the hold.’

‘Noted. I’ll organise the baggage details. And if you can give my secretary your passport details,’ he said, ‘she’ll check you in on the flight.’

In some ways, this was surreal. But it was also the first time she’d felt properly enthusiastic about something since the court case. Maybe this would be the tipping point, the thing that finally helped her to move on and put the past completely behind her.

‘I’ll go home now and arrange it,’ she said.

‘Thank you, Miss Thackeray. I appreciate it.’ He held out his hand to shake hers.

Again, her skin actually tingled where it met his. She’d have to be very careful not to let her attraction to him get in the way. She knew what she was doing where work was concerned, but relationships were a very different matter. Something she really wasn’t good at.

‘May I borrow those photographs?’ she asked. ‘So I can talk to my producer.’

‘Of course.’

‘Thank you.’

* * *

On the way home, Mariana used her phone to snap the photographs, emailed the images to Nigel, and then called him.

‘I’m just out of the meeting and I’ve emailed you some photographs. Here’s the elevator pitch. Imagine the equivalent of a chateau full of lost paintings by Degas, Monet and Pisarro. And the owner wants me to catalogue them all and check out the provenance of some of them.’

‘No way,’ Nigel said. ‘No way is there a chateau full of lost French Impressionists.’

‘Equivalent,’ she reminded him. ‘It’s a palazzo in Florence, so we’re talking Italian rather than French Impressionists. It’s the Macchiaioli, the ones I’m studying. And I’m going to see the paintings tomorrow.’

‘What?’

‘Angelo Beresford wants me to authenticate the paintings—and the painting in that last shot I sent you is unsigned. If it’s what my gut tells me it is, then it’d be perfect for the show.’

‘If something sounds too good to be true, Mariana, it usually is.’

Yeah. She knew that one first-hand from the lovely, sweet, gentle man she thought she’d got engaged to—the man who’d turned out to be a control freak with a nasty temper behind the charm. The man who’d almost broken her. ‘It’s worth a look,’ she said. ‘Just think, Nigel. A whole collection. Art that hasn’t been seen for decades.’ Even the idea made her heart rate go up a few notches.

‘So, on the basis of a few photographs, you’re planning to go to Florence tomorrow with a stranger.’

‘A lawyer in a very respectable firm that has very posh offices in the city, and he checks out as genuine,’ she corrected.

‘But the man’s still a stranger.’

‘We’re working on the third series of the show now. How many lost paintings have we found so far?’ she asked.

‘Fourteen, and two where we couldn’t prove the provenance or get them accepted by the experts, but the detective side of the story made really good viewing,’ Nigel said. ‘Along with all the hundreds of people who’ve contacted us about fakes and copies.’

‘I think it’s worth following up,’ she said. ‘I haven’t had a holiday in a year and a half. Worst-case scenario, if it is too good to be true, then I’ll get a few days’ break in Florence. Best-case, if this is an eccentric collector and the paintings are genuine, they’ll fit in with my PhD and make a potential episode of Hidden Treasure—and I think it’ll be our best episode to date.’

‘You really want to do this, don’t you?’

She nodded. ‘I’ve got a funny feeling about it.’

‘More like you really want it to be true,’ Nigel said. ‘Like if someone told me they had what they thought was a lost Turner painting and we looked into it for Hidden Treasure and managed to find the provenance. I’d be thrilled.’

‘Exactly.’

Nigel sighed. ‘I’d be happier if someone went with you.’

Mariana knew what he was worrying about. ‘Eric isn’t going to come after me,’ she said. ‘There’s a restraining order in place.’

‘Which he broke last year.’

‘And he has a suspended sentence. He’s not going to risk spending at least two years in prison,’ Mariana said. ‘So I’m going to Florence. I’ll keep you posted.’

She was lucky, Mariana thought as she walked from the tube station to her flat. So very lucky.

Lucky that she had a family and friends who’d refused to give up on her when Eric had started to isolate her from everyone. Lucky that they’d seen through his charm when she hadn’t been able to—and then that they’d seen her failing self-esteem and bolstered her. Lucky that they’d got her into a refuge when things turned nasty and then helped her get a restraining order so he couldn’t come anywhere near her again.

Eric had lied in court. He’d said that she was making it all up. That she was a drama queen begging for attention and she might as well have been on one of those ‘court case’ reality TV shows rather than in a proper court of law.

But the court had seen the truth. That he’d systematically undermined her over the two years of their relationship, made her feel useless and worthless, and isolated her from her family and friends. And her lawyer had found one of his exes; Eric had treated Adele in exactly the same way, and she’d been willing to speak up in court.

The court had made the injunction with no reservations.

And how Eric must hate it that she’d gone on to be happy. That she’d finished her MA in History of Art and then landed the job presenting Hidden Treasure. That she was well on the way to becoming Dr Mariana Thackeray and people respected her for her knowledge.

He’d tried to bring her down when Hidden Treasure first started airing. He’d posted anonymous comments on social media, hinting that she was unstable and untrustworthy. In the end, to squash the rumours and to make sure the truth was told properly, she’d told her story to the national press and made sure that the fee went to the women’s refuge that had helped her. She really, really hoped that she’d helped other people in that situation and given them the courage to find an escape.

She’d come through the other side.

But she was never, ever going to get sucked into another relationship again. She’d learned that work and friendship were reliable; love and her judgement in men definitely weren’t.

* * *

‘We’re flying to Florence tomorrow, Mamma,’ Angelo said.

‘And do you think she will do the job?’ Lucrezia asked.

‘I hope so. She needs to see the paintings for herself before she’ll commit—which is fair.’

‘Maybe I should come back from Rome.’

Where she was staying with his sister and the new baby.

Baby, Angelo thought, and shoved the thought aside before it started trampling on a sore spot. ‘Don’t cut your visit short, Mamma,’ he said. He loved his mother dearly, but she had overdramatic tendencies—he rather thought she enjoyed playing up to the stereotypes of being Italian and being an opera singer—and the last thing he wanted was for his mother to scare Mariana off. ‘It’s fine. Nonno will have me to translate if he gets tired, and he has Lucia to look after him.’ The housekeeper, who kept everything on an even keel and kept an eye on Leo for Angelo.

‘Angelo. It breaks my heart seeing him fade and knowing I can do nothing to help.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Palliative care. O mio babbino caro.’

She was so upset that she was whispering the words rather than singing them as she usually would. Angelo dug his nails into his palms. He couldn’t fix this. Nobody could. But he was going to make sure his grandfather was happy before they lost him for ever. He was going to bring joy to Leo Moretti’s last days, whatever it took. ‘I know, Mamma. It’s hard.’

‘And you’re a good boy. So like your father. Roderick would be so proud of you.’

Angelo had followed in his father’s footsteps as far as his career was concerned, even joining the same legal firm. His marriage and the children he’d thought he’d have were a very different matter.

‘Would you have time to come and see us when you’re in Italy?’

He knew what his mother wasn’t saying. They all understood why he would find seeing the baby difficult. And he also knew he had to face it, for his sister’s sake. He had to put his family’s needs first instead of being selfish and trying to protect himself from having old scars ripped open. ‘If Mariana stays to do the photographs, I’ll come up to Rome for the afternoon. I’ll get the train.’

‘Try, Angelo. Cammie worries.’

His younger sister was far less dramatic, but he took the point. ‘I know, Mamma. And there is no need to worry. Everything is going to be just fine.’

He’d make sure it was.

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