Page 92 of Worth Every Penny

I keep step with Kate until we’re standing in front of it.

“He took me to see it at a gallery in Mayfair once,” she continues. “Did you know it sold a few years ago for something crazy, like fourteen million dollars?”

“It was seventeen.”

She falls silent, gazing once more at the picture. “Dad thought it looked like me.” She tilts her head, squinting as if she’s trying to see the likeness and failing. She gives a little sigh and takes another step right up to it. “Look at the brush strokes here.” She points to part of the woman’s shoulder. “The work in this… the skill… and the expression on her face. It’s incredible.”

I’m not looking at the picture. I’m looking at Kate. To see her so fascinated, so in awe, delights me.

“That one’s my favourite too,” I say.

“Why?”

“It reminds me of you.”

She scoffs. “You’re just saying that.”

Her gaze drifts to the little black plaque on the wall beside it and she bends to read the text.

Bedtime Story. Stephen Condar. 2004.

On private loan from N. Hawkston.

One hand flies to her mouth. I knew this was coming, but even so my pulse is racing.

She takes her time straightening up, like whatever happens next is pivotal.

“Nico,” she breathes. “You own this painting?”

“I own them all. I started collecting them after your father died.”

A potent stillness fills the air.

“Why?”

I shrug, sliding one hand into my pocket. I’ve never told anyone about this. After Gerard died, and I was left picking up the pieces of the mess he left, it had bothered me how much he had resisted selling his art collection to pay his debts. I guess I started collecting them as a way to assuage my guilt. Maybe if I’d known how much he was struggling before the end, it might all have gone differently. We could have got him help. He might not have died.

That could all be bullshit, but collecting works by his favourite artist had a way of making me feel better. Like I hadn’t let him down. It was easier to buy paintings than grieve.

“I’ve acquired a taste for it,” I lie.

Kate frowns, and I know she doesn’t buy my explanation for a second. But her brow smooths and threads of understanding silently spin across the space between us, binding us together, tightening around my chest—this is so much more than merely liking an artist’s work. This is love and grief and all the things we’ve never shared and everything we will crystallizing into one beat of presence.

And for just a moment, I have the strangest sense that Gerard is here with us.

Kate’s eyes glimmer like she feels it too. “And Stephen just happened to be here tonight?”

Her words bring the gallery crashing back into my awareness. The light. The noise. The other people. I sip my champagne and bubbles pop against my tongue. “He drives a hard bargain, but I guess if you never leave the house, you have to make it count. I flew him out a few days ago.”

She gasps. “You didn’t. Nico.” Her fingers tremble against her lips. “You hadn’t even asked me out a few days ago. You only asked me yesterday.”

“Like I said, I’m very good at reading you. I knew you’d say yes.”

She looks completely overwhelmed as she swipes her thumb beneath her eyes. “I thought you were ignoring me. I thought you didn’t message me after Mum’s house because…” She muffles a moan with her palm, then lets her hand slide away from her face. “And you were planning this? You arse,” she hisses. “You let me think…” I can’t help smiling at the way her face screws up as she tries to make sense of it all. Her eyes flutter shut for a second, and I don’t know if she’s going to smile or cry when she says, “I didn’t expect anything like this. I didn’t…”

I press my lips to hers and her body softens against mine. This kiss is gentle, delicate, and more like a confession of love than anything else.

And I’m not fucking sure that isn’t exactly what it is.

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