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She checked her watch. It had been over twenty minutes since her encounter with the owner. He was back outside, standing beside the car, and another man was standing with him, dressed in drab work clothes, with a beret on his head.
They were talking in low voices. A few doors up from where they stood, three girls came out of The Cat’s Meow, laughing together, one holding a shopping bag. A shop girl followed them out, watching them for a moment before she turned and walked toward the two men.
She looked angry.
The gallery owner caught sight of her bearing down on them.
“Patty.” It wasn’t a greeting so much as a warning.
It had an effect.
Patty adjusted her stride, making it less vigorous, and when she reached them, her voice was low.
Gabriella would guess she hadn’t planned on being quiet initially.
It was surprising more because Patty clearly felt entitled to give the gallery owner a piece of her mind.
Even in Australia there was a discernible class structure, but she’d found it was far more obvious in England. Her beat was the affluent boroughs of Chelsea and Kensington, and toffee-nosed prats tried to put her in her place on a daily basis.
The gallery owner was clearly educated at a public school and came from money. Gabriella guessed Patty came from a very different world, yet here they were—on first name terms, and even with the warning to keep things quiet, Patty stood toe to toe with him.
They spoke for a few moments.
“No!” Patty’s voice at last lifted up to an audible level.
At her exclamation, the gallery owner glanced around, and the man in the beret took Patty’s hand, murmuring to her. He looked over her shoulder, said something, and she glanced back.
There were two women approaching, and Gabriella guessed he was telling her she had customers.
With a tight nod, Patty extracted herself and disappeared back into her shop.
The men stepped even closer to each other, heads bent together.
The butt of a cigarette flew out of the passenger side window of the van Gabriella was standing behind, and a man inside cleared his throat softly. Gabriella took a step back as the van started up.
Since she’d last looked across the road, the man in the beret had gotten into the car and was driving off.
The van did a tight u-turn and drove after it.
Gabriella watched it go, wondering if it was following the car or simply a coincidence that it left at the same time.
She glanced over at the gallery again and found herself looking straight at the owner. He was watching her from the other side of the street, staring at her with an intensity that lifted the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck
Then he turned away, walked into the gallery, and shut the door.
* * *
When she got home, she saw a removal van parked outside, and furniture being packed inside.
“Who’s moving?” she asked one of the men carrying a rolled-up carpet over his shoulder. He was a small man, with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He looked as if he should be bent under the strain. He gave her a cheeky wink as he slung his burden into the back of the van.
“Geezer on the ground floor.”
“Mr. Higgins?” She hadn’t realized he was moving.
She went in, got her and Mr. Rodney’s post, and walked up the stairs. Mr. Rodney was waiting for her at the top. He looked a little jumpy.
“Mr. Higgins is moving out,” he said.