Page 27 of Milo
“I can’t tell you yet.” I bend to peer at the surface. “I’ll need to take it out of the frame and look at it under the microscope and also make sure the panel support isn’t cracked. Then I’ll do some tests.”
“What sort of tests?”
“I need to know the composition of the varnish first, so I’ll send a sample to the labs. Once I know that, I’ll test the solubility of the varnish in various solvents.”
“Will that damage the painting?”
I can’t help feeling that he already knows the answer to these questions, but I answer anyway. “No, of course not. I’ll test at the edge of the painting under the frame. Once I get the tests back, I can start to remove the varnish.” I smile at him. “That’s the exciting bit but it’s also the most perilous because you run the risk of removing the paint colours.”
He shrugs as if unconcerned by my warning, but why would he be? From the sound of it, these aren’t personal or even very valuable portraits to him. That makes me feel a bit sad, like the lady and man in the portraits have been abandoned in some way.
“Should we remove it?” he asks, leaning against the table like he’s at a party, relaxed and with one corner of his mouth tilted. I look at him in query. “Well, wouldn’t people say we should leave it? That the patina of ages adds to the attraction and history of the painting and therefore its value?”
I smile at him. “I don’t think you need to worry,” I say bluntly. It’s never wise to get a client’s hopes up. “These are definitely not Vermeers.” He laughs and I shake my head. “I suppose it comes down to whether you want the artist’s version of the picture. I don’t think many artists put varnish on their paintings with any intention other than to make it look attractive at the time. They wouldn’t have given much thoughtto its appearance in hundreds of years.” I shrug. “I’ve been a struggling artist. I can tell you they’d be more concerned about being able to eat that night.”
He laughs again. “No long-held desire to be an artist now?”
“No.” I smile down at the portraits. “I prefer this. It’s a bit like being Indiana Jones but not so much running around and sweating and, thank God, no fedora. I’ve got far too much hair to keep that hat on for any length of time.”
He chuckles and shifts close. I want to immediately back up but I don’t, staying still and smelling the faint trace of lemon and bergamot of his aftershave. “So any preliminary thoughts? I know you have some.”
I shake my head. “At first glance, I’d say that the artist used Dammar varnish which was a mix of dammar gum and turpentine. It was introduced in the early nineteenth century and was a common varnish for painting, and it’s fairly easy to get off. The paintings don’t have huge amounts of accumulated grime on them like tobacco and soot, which is good.” I look down at the two portraits. “There is a lot of red and green in the man’s portrait, though, so I’ll take a very light hand with that as those colours are more fugitive or vulnerable than blues and white.”
I look up and he’s staring at me with something moving over his face. “Claudia Fenwick told me you were good.”
I smile. “I am good.” It feels amazing to say that and own it. I look at him. “I am surprised she had a good word to say for me, though.”
He shrugs. “She said you were the best student she ever had but had terrible judgment in men.”
I shoot an involuntary glance in the direction of Niall’s house and then look back at him and shrug. “She’s not wrong.” Loyalty compels me to add, “That’s in the past though. I think I’m a little better now.”
He smiles and I wonder what he sees. He settles his back against the wall and stuffs his hands into his trouser pockets. “I’d like to take you out to dinner, Milo. Is that something you’d be interested in?”
I’m startled, even though I’ve known from the beginning that he liked me. I hesitate and his eyes sharpen.
“Of course, it’s fine if you don’t want to. If you’re interested in someone else, like Mr. Fawcett for example?”
“Oh, I’m not interested in Niall,” I say quickly. “Not like that, I mean. We’re friends,” I finish somewhat lamely.
He cocks his head to one side, his gaze steady and his expression warm.
Without any input from my brain, my head spins to look at the door as if Niall’s going to appear to save me from the situation. That need angers me enough to tear my eyes away. There’s nothing to be rescued from. It’s a dinner with a nice man and I don’t need rescuing or saving.
I turn back to him. “Dinner would be lovely.”
The next evening, I come into the lounge and stop short. “Hey, is she going to–”
Niall looks up from the floor. He’s lying on his stomach with his long legs stretched out, his head resting on his hands and Dotty curled in the hollow of his back. They’re watching Cora who has rolled onto her stomach and is staring back at them with a mischievous look.
“Not yet,” he murmurs. “But she’s close.”
“She’s been rolling over for ages but normally she just stays there for a bit making little noises.”
He laughs and holds out his hands to her. “Come on, Cora Bora. Come to Uncle Niall and Uncle Milo. Let us be the first people to see you crawl.”
I nudge his ribs with my foot. “You’re the most competitive person I know.”
He laughs. “Have you met the small Irishman you hang around with? If you were in the queue for heaven, he’d trip you up to get to the gate first.”
