‘Of course I’m sure,’ he snapped irritably. ‘I’ve known the man since university. He’s always prided himself on his poncy handwriting.’
Ouch, I thought, but said nothing.
‘However, I fail to imagine why on earth Jules Croisset would give you of all people a Christmas present.’
‘Can it possibly be that he likes me?’ I flashed back, nettled at his derisory tone.
‘He’s barely met you!’
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong,’ I said defiantly. ‘We’ve been out to lunch together, spent a whole day together, in fact.’
‘What? When?’
‘I can’t remember offhand,’ I said crossly. ‘Oh, last Sunday. Does it matter?’
‘You’re supposed to be working here.’
‘Yes, well, it was one of the many occasions when my services were not required.’
In the short silence that followed, we glared at each other. Then abruptly, he turned on his heel.
‘Well, they are now, so you can make me something to eat.’ He marched to the door. ‘Something light, a sandwich or something, on a tray. Bring it up to the gallery.’
‘Very well, but can I just explain about Jules—’
Holding up a hand as if stopping traffic, he cut me off mid-sentence. ‘Nothing to do with me. What you do in your own time is entirely your own affair.’ He turned away again.
‘Luc…’ I began to his back and then hesitated, all at once nervous about using his given name.
He swung round, his face wiped of expression. ‘What?’
‘You were going to say something to me, before your mother phoned. You said you had something you wanted to say to me.’
‘Did I?’ He yawned as if bored, but it was a false yawn, a pantomime yawn. ‘Well, I’ve forgotten. No matter. It would not have been anything important.’
And with that, he was gone.
Alone in the kitchen I stared at the door as it closed, slammed indeed, behind him. What the hell had happened there? At a loss, my eyes shifted to the Christmas present still sitting on the table. I felt a sudden powerful urge to chuck the wretched thing in the bin. Instead, seizing it, I tore off the fussy wrapping and threw it aside. Inside was a plain black rectangular box. I lifted the lid.
Lying on a bed of tissue paper was the brutalist necklace I had admired in the shop in Biot, the necklace I had admired last Sunday with Jules.
Chapter Sixteen
‘Knock, knock.’
‘Who’s there?’
‘Luc.’
‘Luc who?’ I said warily.
‘Luc Back in Anger.’
Despite myself, I laughed. ‘Very good,’ I said to Emma.
‘Actually, it isn’t,’ she said seriously, sitting down at the kitchen table where I was chopping onions and peppers. She had just washed her hair, which was dripping wetly all over her shoulders. ‘John Osbourne quips aside, I don’t know what’s the matter with Dad. I mean, he can be pretty grumpy normally, but I’ve never known himthisgrumpy.’
‘Christmas hangover?’
