Page 7 of The Chase
Snug in my oversize jumper to ward off the chill of the Witt, I’d been happily reading away until those familiar voices of my classmates had caught my attention. I’d placed my fingertip on the page to keep my place...
Their hushed gossiping the catalyst that sent my life into a tailspin: Zachary Montgomery was now living it up all the way across the world in a little town called Tivoli, where he’d taken a job in an art gallery.
The news came as a blow, not least because I’d had no idea he’d even left London.
The whispers went on to reveal a few of the other students had received their invitations to the wedding of Italian beauty and fellow student Natalia Donate to Zachary Montgomery.
Those late evenings Natalia had spent hours with us studying at my flat had provided her with access to more than just my art acumen. She’d made a play for my boyfriend and come out the resounding winner.
If paintings taught me anything with their endless portrayals of human suffering, it was that heartbreak is inevitable and we are fools to be surprised by it. Trust is an ill-fated pursuit.
Although Clara believed in true love and had no doubt found it, I questioned whether I was ever going to experience it again.
Clara tutted. “He doesn’t deserve one more second of you.”
I leaned in and hugged her. I’d tell Clara about my risqué adventure once I’d gotten control over this flush that threatened to rise each time I thought of him.I imagined over the course of the evening one of the many artists here or even sculptors would spot the infamous Mr. Wilder and try to persuade him to pose for them.
Naked. Preferably.
I treated myself to that thought.
“So what do you think?”
My attention snapped to Clara.
“They’ve gone all out, haven’t they?” she added as she looked around.
“This is more than I expected.” Using a pillar for a shield, I looked for Tobias in the crowd. “Can’t get over it.”
“They’re wooing you for the other paintings.” She turned to look at me.
“It does look like it, doesn’t it?”
“You never talk about them?” she said.
“They’re all I have left of Dad.”
She rubbed my back, knowing well enough not to push me. “He’d be so proud of you.”
The black marble tile almost clashed with the pink marbled pillars lining the room either side. Along those pristine cream-colored walls hung the finest eighteenth-century Italian paintings, which were apparently on loan from the Vatican.
Suppressing my melancholy, I vowed to enjoy tonight.
The Otillie was one of my favorite places to visit and easily one of the most prestigious galleries in the world, with a unique collection of both modern and ancient art.
Despite such grandeur, it was also famed for showcasing new and up-and-coming artists before anyone else had discovered them. Like the young painter Liza Blake, who stood alone in a corner looking a little forlorn. She’d been easy to spot with her blue hair, and her boho chic dress looked cute on her, those round rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. Artists were always so interesting, their perspectives so profound, and I admired their tenacity for following their hearts and sharing their emotional power. Perhaps it was the only way to find ours, through their vision of just what we were capable of.
“Let’s go say hello to Liza.” Excitement flushed my cheeks that I was here again.
I took in the other guests, a handful of well-known socialites, some I recognized from past events, the avid art collectors circling The Otillie’s rising new talent and ready to invest in their promising careers.
“Look who’s here,” whispered Clara. “Your favorite person.”
I almost coughed up my drink.
A well-worn face and yet strangely handsome in a highly bred kind of way. The Right Honorable Lord Nigel Turner stood out in the crowd with his high cheekbones and overly refined nose. His tweed jacket with that perfect bow tie made him seem extra quirky and yet moneyed. His chin rose with an air of superiority as he perused the other guests. Nigel was apparently related to “the Turner,” or so he told us. He worked atThe London Timesas their senior art critic and wielded the kind of power that could make or break an artist’s career.
I’d crushed on him back when Lady Zara Leighton had a nice ring to it. Right before I’d actually met him.
