‘Who is Aldeburgh’s equivalent of Andy Warhol that we’re dressing up for?’ she teased.
‘Elijah Beckworth.’
‘Elijah?’ Flick repeated and turned to look at her. ‘Did you sayElijah?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘I think he came to the pub last week. Dark blond hair, beard …’
‘… Twinkly blue eyes and a smile that’s warm enough to melt an iceberg? That’s the one.’
‘And this is his show?’
‘It’s an exhibition.Les Misérablesis a show.’
‘Sorry, exhibition?’
‘Uh-uh.’
‘He drew me a picture while he was sitting at the bar.’
‘You should keep that because his stuff sells for a fortune.’
Grace continued to talk but Flick wasn’t listening. Instead, she concentrated on how inexplicably nervous she was growing at the idea of coming face to face with Elijah again.
Chapter 32
EMILIA
Two people awaited a cautious Emilia when she reached the private dining room at the rear of the near-empty pub. On impulse she made a mental note of all available exits before closing the door behind her. Even then, she questioned whether this was a good idea or a foolish one.
Inside, a man and woman were sitting together on one side of a wooden table. Emilia pegged him as somewhere in his forties, with a lantern-square jaw, receding hairline and dark eyes that were impossible to read. She was younger than him, with a rich brown complexion and prominent cheekbones. Her expression was part curious and part satisfied that Emilia had come.
‘Take a seat,’ the woman began, pointing to a chair opposite. ‘You will likely have a lot of questions.’
‘Who are you?’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ she replied, batting the question away with her hand.
The casual dismissal confused Emilia. ‘It does to me.’
‘Move on.’
‘Who am I?’
‘I can’t answer that.’
‘The woman who gave me your number told me Ted’s not my husband. Who is he?’
‘I can’t tell you that either.’
‘Then why the hell am I here?’ Emilia huffed.
‘Because there are people out there who can give you those answers. But not us.’
‘Who? How do I find them?’
‘All in due course, Emilia.’
