Page 28

‘Steady on, little one,’ he said, gathering them up and placing them back on the desk. He immediately spotted the manuscript. ‘May I?’

‘Yes.’ I was now jealous of the paper. God help me. I’d bet every woman felt this way around him.

After a few moments he said, ‘Yes, you’re right about Simon Forster. Same style.’

Tash walked in with a tray bearing a pot of tea, three mugs and a packet of Hobnobs. She sent me a look I hadn’t seen since high school, when we both fancied Tommy Gooden. That answered my unspoken question. She’d had the same reaction to him. Which was sort of a relief, but only a bit.

He pulled out a chair. ‘Do you mind if I sit?’

‘Take a seat,’ said Tash, and she turned to me and mouthed, ‘He can just take me.’

I swallowed laughter. This was madness. He was an expert and I must act like one too.

‘These first three poems echo the ones that were rejected by his publisher after the war. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

The poems he submitted were only replicas of these poems in this manuscript,’ he paused to take a mug from Tash.

‘Those rejected works are nowhere near as good as these.’ He frowned.

‘Thinking about it now, it feels more like he was trying to remember them and he could only produce a pale comparison to . . .’ He ran his hand down the first page of the manuscript.

‘These poems which are superb, like his prime works.’ He looked up with a huge smile on his face. ‘This is truly exciting.’

That smile.

‘Oh good.’ Dear God, surely I could have said something more intelligent?

‘Do you have any idea how a Simon Forster manuscript could be here?’

‘None at all. There are a few puzzles to be solved, like who is the woman in the painting.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That is truly extraordinary. Do you know anything about the artist?’

‘We have yet to get the painting off the wall. That should happen tomorrow, and hopefully it will be signed on the back, with maybe the sitter’s name too.’ I drew a breath. ‘And there is a great deal of correspondence that might shed light on it and possibly the manuscript.’

‘What interests me are the annotations in pencil, as well as the poems themselves.’ He traced them with his finger. ‘It doesn’t look like Simon’s writing, but whoever made them understood the work intimately.’

‘Not his writing?’

‘No, when I researched the programme we did last year on his work, I read through hundreds of his letters. But I do recall seeing this handwriting before, just not in such great quantity.’

‘Will this manuscript be valuable?’ Tash asked.

‘Academically, yes, and commercially, possibly.’

‘How?’

‘Well, Simon died in 1959.’ One corner of Rory’s mouth lifted in a half-smile that took my breath away.

‘It is still in copyright, so his heirs might want to find a publisher, and with the story of a lost manuscript, it might make some money.’ He looked at the page it was open to and read out the first stanza.

Your brow is furrowed

You peer at me

Seeing more than

Skin and bone

I feel each brush stroke

I am undone

You glance up

Your face flushed

You know

I am seen

Will I ever be able

To hide again?

Tash and I shared a glance. We were all his. His voice and his delivery of the words were more seductive than a touch. I was light-headed.

‘This is powerful.’ He stood. ‘Have you found anything else?’

‘We haven’t been through all the contents of the desk yet and there is more paperwork in both studios.’

‘You mentioned there was a signed copy of a book of poems?’ He looked me directly in the eyes. His were green with flecks of yellow.

‘It’s upstairs in one of the bedrooms.’

I almost found it a relief to leave his presence so that I could breathe. I paused on the staircase and looked at the portrait.

‘Absolutely exquisite,’ Rory said.

I nearly leapt off the step in surprise.

I hadn’t heard him follow me, but that was probably because of my racing thoughts.

There was no way I should be feeling like this.

I’d been nine years in a relationship with Paul.

Recently, though, I’d gone off sex. It was a case of lying back and thinking of anything else but him.

He hadn’t seemed to notice my lack of enthusiasm.

But this man standing beside me had woken up my sexual urges, and they were making my skin tingle with anticipation.

Which of course was stupid. He was an expert coming to evaluate a manuscript.

That was all. He was a professional and I was not a schoolgirl.

As I put one foot in front of the other, it gave me much-needed space so that normal thoughts could return.

I was in a committed relationship. But I would allow myself a little leeway, as I’d had a crush on Rory since he first appeared on screen.

His passion for literature had changed my mind on so many works that I had despised while studying for my A levels.

Once I reached the small bedroom, I took a deep breath preparing myself for his arrival in the room.

I pulled the book off the shelf and held it in front of me like a shield.

It was a good thing he had no idea what was going on in my head.

If he did, he would think he had stumbled into a lunatic asylum.

‘What a stunning house.’ He looked about the room. ‘Did the artists have children?’

‘No, but there are two great-nephews, so maybe they stayed here.’

He picked up the teddy bear from the bed and smiled. ‘Lucky them.’ Placing the teddy back, he bent low to inspect the books in the small bookcase. When he straightened, I handed him the poetry book.

He turned to the inscription. ‘That’s certainly his signature.’ He continued through the book. ‘These are his best-known poems.’ He looked at me. ‘Although wonderful, it’s his Venetian poems that are his best. You’ll long to be there.’

I held my words back, for I longed to be in Venice with him.

There was something about the city that said romance.

I’d gone with Tash when we were twenty. We’d had ten pounds a day to spend, so it was one museum and no food, but I’d fallen in love with La Serenissima anyway.

We had both vowed to return. I hadn’t, but Tash had gone for her fifth wedding anniversary.

‘We read those poems for A level.’

He laughed. ‘You wouldn’t have read the Venetian ones, as they are very sensual. I would imagine that you read the ones written in the 1920s, which were filled with the legacy of the Great War.’

I nodded, remembering them. ‘Their imagery has stayed with me.’

‘Not surprised. It’s unusual, which makes it stick.’

He continued through the book, and stopped on the final page. Written clearly in black ink were the words Not all is as it seems and you are privy to secrets .

‘That’s not Simon’s writing. In fact it looks like it was done by the same person who annotated the manuscript.’

‘If it is, maybe that person knew Sheba or Vivian, which might explain why they had it.’

‘Hmm.’ He walked out of the bedroom and I listened to his footsteps on the wooden floor. The urge to follow him propelled me out the door, but I stopped when I saw him on the landing, staring at the portrait. He was transfixed, and so was I.