Page 18 of One Bed

Golly tucked her hand into Gib’s elbow and Gib shortened his long stride to match hers. ‘What would you like to drink, Gib? A beer? A G&T? A Martini?’ she asked, as they approached the front door.

Gib patted her tanned and wrinkled hand. ‘It’s a bit early for me, Golly. But I wouldn’t say no to a bottle of water.’

‘You young people and your water. If I put any water into my system, my liver would think it was under attack.’

Bea caught his subtle smile. ‘We’re not nearly as strong as your generation, Golly,’ he said.

Golly led them into the imposing front hall, with its double-volume ceiling and handcrafted wooden staircase. The floors were black-and-white marble tiles, and the hall table was circa 1750 and held a bronze bust by the mid-twentieth century artist, Elizabeth Frink. The expensive, masculine bronze wore a garland of wilting daisies. The massive vase on a marble plinth at the bottom of the stairs contained brown and withered flowers. Bea added finding fresh flowers to her to-do list.

Bea watched Gib out of the corner of her eye; waiting for his reaction when he clocked the ten-foot nude on the wall above the hall table. It was sexy and sinuous and a little erotic.

Instead of commenting on the subject, he stepped forward and peered at the signature in the corner of the painting. ‘It’s a Heppel, probably painted in the late sixties or early seventies. Something about it makes me want to link it to his famous Nudes of New York series, but it’s too abstract to fit in there. And his next six paintings were more realistic, and the subjects were easily identifiable.’

Bea stared at him, surprised by his knowledge. While well known to connoisseurs, Heppel wasn’t a name that sprang to everyone’s lips when they saw the painting. Gib looked from the painting to Golly and back to the painting. ‘How did you come to model for Heppel?’ he asked.

Golly laughed and clapped her hands, delighted. ‘How did you know it was me?’

‘The tilt of the subject’s head. It’s the way you look at people a lot taller than you, you did it to me outside.’

Golly patted his big bicep. ‘You clever man.’

Damn. It was bad enough that he was sexy, she didn’t need him to be intelligent, andinteresting,too. If he turned out to be nice, she might have to ram a dagger into her heart and be done with it.

You’re not going to do this, Bea, you’re not.

‘I met Heppel in New York, when I first started work in a publishing house on Broadway, as an intern. Interns weren’t paid back then, and I was short of money. A friend of a friend told me he was looking for models, so I went along, and he hired me.’ Golly waved her hand at the painting. ‘Of course, he only painted that after we started sleeping together.’ She pulled a face. ‘He was a good artist, but a lousy lay. I forgave him when he realised he preferred men.’

Before any of them could respond to that, Golly spoke again. ‘Then the dick went to Vietnam and got injured over there. Stupid man.’

‘I don’t think he wanted to get hurt, Godma,’ Bea pointed out.

‘War is stupid,’ Golly said, placing her small fists on her jutting hips. ‘Women should run the world; we’d make a far better job of it than men.’

‘I’ve always said women are the smarter species,’ Gib smoothly replied.

Bea would bet her next quarter royalties he’d never said anything of the sort. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he smiled. She gripped the back of an elegant chair, next to which was a wooden wine barrel holding a collection of never-used walking sticks.

Gib gestured to Golly’s portrait. ‘I presume he gave you the painting as a gift?’

‘Jacqui Farrow bought it at auction a few years ago and harangued me to buy it from her. I didn’t want to, because I was still mad at him for going to Vietnam.’ Golly shrugged. ‘I don’t remember him painting it. Or me. There were lots of artists, lots of nude modelling, lots of dope, booze, and sex before, during and after those sessions… I was,’ she proudly admitted, ‘a bit of a slut!’

Bea rolled her eyes. ‘We don’t use that word anymore, Golly,’ she reminded her. Trying to get Golly to be more politically correct was an uphill struggle.

‘Well, I do! I was a loose woman, a bit of a nympho,’ she told Gib, with not a hint of embarrassment. ‘I love sex. Haven’t had much of it lately, though.’

Right, too much information. To his credit, Gib’s expression didn’t change, except that his silver-blue eyes brightened with mirth. Golly had no shame, and no filter, but she was never normallythisforthcoming with strangers.

Before anyone could say anything more, Reena walked into the hall, wiping her wet hands on a tea towel. ‘Since Nadia and Cassie are trying to get things sorted for the cocktail party tonight, I made Chicken 65.’

Bea’s eyes widened in horror. Chicken 65 was one of the spiciest dishes in India, an intensely spiced fried chicken that routinely made grown men cry. She’d been introduced to Reena’s spicy cooking when she was ten and had had twenty years for her taste buds to shrivel up and die. If Gib ate the Chicken 65, he wouldn’t be able to walk and talk for days.

‘I love fried chicken,’ Gib responded. ‘And hot food. I spent the morning on the water and I’m starving.’

Dear God. Bea closed her eyes in dismay. She could see a lawsuit in Reena’s immediate future.

Reena clapped her hands, delighted. ‘Good, give me ten minutes.’ Reena took two steps, turned and returned to grab Golly’s hand. ‘You need to help me.’

‘With what?’ Golly demanded. ‘You know I’m not domesticated, Reen!’

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