of the first things she’d learnt when starting at Witherby’s Fine Art five years previously was the importance of presentation. Whether it was finding the perfect frame for a painting, a table from the right period to display an exquisite porcelain vase, or just ensuring you were immaculately turned out, presentation was an essential part of maintaining Witherby’s reputation as one of the foremost auction houses in the country.
Having used a damp finger to tame a stray tendril threatening to escape from the sleek bun tied at her nape, Lucie dried her hands on one of the white hand towels stacked in neat rolled rows next to the sink then slid her arms into her navy jacket. Single button fastened at her waist, a quick half-turn and a smoothing hand over the matching pencil skirt and she was ready to face the music.
The low heels on her navy court shoes sank into the deep pile of the forest green carpet as she strode along the hallway then down the sweeping staircase which led from the upper floor staff offices to the ground floor housing the exhibition spaces. Witherby’s occupied what had once been a grand Georgian mansion in the heart of London, and its high sculptured ceilings and painted half-panel walls added to the gravitas and atmosphere. Coming to work every day in the exquisitely beautiful building felt like a real privilege to Lucie—even if the ancient heating system and original sash windows left something to be desired in the cold depths of winter.
As she stepped down onto the creamy marble floor of the imposing entrance hall, a blast of cold from the open front door sent a shiver through her, and she was glad for the thermal vest hidden beneath her silk blouse. A strip of Wedgwood blue sky showed over the rooftops of the buildings across the street. It might be chilly, but at least the weather was fine which boded well for their first major sale day of spring. A quick, nervous smile to James, the doorman clad in a traditional set of tails, complete with top hat, earned her a wink in return. ‘It’s going to be a good one,’ he said. ‘They were queuing to get in.’
His declaration did nothing to quell her nerves, nor did the hubbub of conversation already spilling out of the open double-doors of the main auction room. The start of the auction was still three hours away. ‘Better go and make sure everything’s ready then!’ Lucie kept her tone bright and breezy, like it was just another day and not the most important one to date in her career. With a quick wave, she headed down a short corridor to the left of the main entrance and into the private viewing area where select patrons were given time to peruse the best lots in relative peace.
One more deep breath as she paused on the threshold and then she swept into the room, head high, smile bright, eyes dancing over the people already gathered with a glass of Buck’s Fizz. ‘Something to drink, Ms Kennington?’ Marnie, one of this year’s new interns, offered her a silver tray topped with glasses.
‘Thank you.’ Lucie accepted a highball filled with sparkling water. The ice clinked, and she wrapped her left hand over the right to calm the slight shaking. She cast a glance around the room, trying to focus on individuals and not just the blur of chattering faces. Spying a famous newspaper art critic holding court in one corner, she took a too-large mouthful of water and almost choked as the bubbles fizzed up the back of her nose. Smooth, Lucie. Snorting out one’s drink was most definitely not the ‘Witherby’s way’ of doing things.
Hoping nobody had noticed her discomfort, she began to stroll around the edge of the room, catching snippets of conversations as she went. It came as no surprise how few of the discussions were about the painting they’d all gathered to see. Art was rarely appreciated solely for its ability to induce an emotional reaction, whether breath-taking joy, or shock and discomfort. It had become a commodity. A thing to own for the sake of owning it, or even as a way of reducing taxation liabilities. It was the ugly side of the art world, a necessary evil without which she wouldn’t be able to do the job she loved. But it broke her heart to think of all the treasures secreted away in bank vaults and kept under lock and key. A shiver ran through her. Try as she might to escape it, the tendrils of materialism continued to thread themselves through her life.
‘Ah, Lucinda, there you are.’ The warm greeting from Carl Nelson, the head of her department, chased away the dark clouds gathering in her mind. He’d been nothing but supportive since she’d first joined the company as a shy girl fresh from university. Setting her shoulders, she lifted her face to meet the paternal smile he aimed her way and moved towards the small group gathered around him. ‘I was just telling everyone about your remarkable discovery.’
A woman clad in a sleek black skirt and jacket that whispered of vintage Chanel from every stitch and thread gave Lucie an appraising glance before smiling. ‘You really just found the piece hanging forgotten in the hallway?’
Lucie nodded. ‘I was there to appraise another artwork entirely. I turned to take off my coat and caught sight of the Meileau from the corner of my eye.’ She paused, lost for a moment in the memory of her first sight. Butterflies danced inside her, the same as they had in the dusty hallway of a suburban bungalow. The luminous blues and greens of the beautiful watercolour had glowed even in the half-light of a gloomy afternoon, stealing the breath from Lucie’s lungs.
‘And Impressionism isn’t even her speciality.’ The slightly hesitant voice behind her shoulder was another welcome balm to Lucie. Turning, she made room for a slightly rumpled-looking Piers Johnson to join them. ‘So you can imagine,’ he continued with a quick wink at Lucie, ‘how green with envy we were when our Pre-Raphaelite-loving colleague stumbled across one of the discoveries of the decade.’
Fighting not to blush, Lucie found his hand and gave it a quick squeeze before dropping it again in case he got the wrong idea. With his kind blue eyes twinkling from behind the lenses of his wire-framed glasses, to the ruffled brown hair that always looked in need of a good comb, Piers had the kind of bookish charm that ticked every one of Lucie’s boxes. Or should have.
They’d dated a handful of times the previous summer before Lucie had admitted reluctantly to herself that the only stimulation between them was on an intellectual level. When he’d finally kissed her in a quiet corner of the V&A where they’d been to visit an exhibition together, it had been…pleasant.
Though he’d been disappointed when she’d suggested they had too much to lose in terms of both friendship and their working relationship, he’d been nothing but gracious. Over the past twelve months he’d never intimated he wanted to resume their fledgling romance, but she caught the odd look from him now and then that made her wonder, so she was at pains not to act in a way he might take as encouragement. He was a decent man, and the last thing she wanted to do was hurt or embarrass him. Turning up to support her today was just the sort of thing he would do, and she wished, not for the first time, that she was attracted to him. He was perfect for her in every other way.
Swallowing a sigh of regret, she turned his compliment aside with one of her own. ‘Oh, Piers, don’t tease so. Everyone knows how much you’ve done to build Witherby’s reputation to what it is today. I’m just a beginner in comparison.’
Casting her a grateful smile, he shoved his glasses back in place with his forefinger. ‘You’re too kind.’ He turned back to the client. ‘Since Lucie’s find we’ve all been trawling the valuation enquiries inbox in the hopes of matching her success.’
Members of the public were welcome to submit requests directly to Witherby’s via their website, and it usually fell to Lucy and the other junior valuation staff to comb through the emails and winnow out anything of interest. Her find had, temporarily at least, elevated the task from mundane chore to something of an in-house competition to find the next big thing.
‘It was pure luck,’ she stressed. ‘Any one of my colleagues could’ve been assigned the visit. I was just in the right place at the right time.’
‘Well, we’re all on tenterhooks. When do
