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‘Which part of we’re running out of money don’t you understand? If we leave it to the solicitors we’ll have nothing left.’
He pushed away from the wall. ‘But I know nothing about probate. I wouldn’t have a clue what to do.’
‘I’m not talking about probate. You need to persuade Louisa to sell Rubha Castle.’
Oh, no. This was one argument he wasn’t getting involved in. ‘You know I can’t do that. Rubha Castle’s Louisa’s home, it’s her livelihood. It’s where she wants to raise a family—’
‘We can’t afford to keep both properties. The terms of the will state we’re only allowed to sell one. If we get rid of the Windsor townhouse, it won’t solve our financial problems. Plus, I’ll be out on the streets. At least Louisa has an alternative. Harry’s family own half of Scotland, but I don’t have anywhere else to go. Or don’t you care?’
‘Of course I do. I just wish there was a way of keeping both.’ He rubbed his forehead, feeling as exasperated as Sophie sounded.
‘Well, there isn’t. Rubha Castle costs a fortune to upkeep. It no longer attracts many visitors and Louisa’s insistence on rescuing random animals is adding to the expense. If we sell it now we’ll get a decent return, but if we wait until it crumbles to the ground it’ll be worthless. It doesn’t make good business sense.’
‘But Louisa loves it here. She’d be heartbroken to sell. And you know how much she adores those animals.’
There was a weighted pause. ‘I know.’
Despite his sister’s determination to sell the castle, he knew she was worried about Louisa and didn’t want to cause her any distress. His youngest sister worked part-time for an animal charity, she’d built a life for herself in Scotland, she’d even married a local laird. She was a sensitive soul who was trying to rid herself of her own childhood demons by making Rubha Castle a ‘happy home’. Olly could understand that.
And so did Sophie, despite what she claimed.
‘I wish there was something we could do.’
Sophie sighed. ‘Did Louisa tell you her great plan?’
‘What plan?’
‘To sell Mother’s paintings. She’s sent them to an independent art gallery in Windsor for valuation.’
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. The subject of art was a sensitive one.
‘I think she’s hoping they’ll sell for a shedload of dosh and solve our problems. I’ve no idea what their value is. The gallery owner asked for any preliminary drawings of the works to be sent over, but neither of us has any idea what those are. Do you?’
‘They’re the preparatory drawings an artist sketches before painting the main work.’ He frowned. ‘Why do they need preliminary drawings?’
‘Apparently, it helps to evaluate the paintings. Mother never sold anything during her lifetime, so it’s difficult to put a value on the work.’
Technically, that statement wasn’t true. His mother had sold a painting in 2007 for a whopping 1.7 million quid. But as the world at large, and in particular the French buyer of the painting, believed it to be painted by Italian Renaissance artist Albrico Spinelli, Olly wasn’t about to correct that assumption. Especially as he was complicit in the crime – albeit unwittingly. If the truth ever got out about the painting’s real origins, the fallout would be immense. The family’s reputation was shaky enough. There was no way they could withstand the scandal of forged masterpieces, a lawsuit and a criminal investigation.
He shuddered at the thought.
Part of him worried that selling his mother’s paintings posthumously might be exposing them to overintense scrutiny. But they didn’t have a choice. And it’s not like she’d forged the Spinelli herself, was it? He had no idea who the real artist was, or how his parents had come into possession of the painting. But the point was, they needed cash, and he wasn’t about to stand back and let four hundred years of family history flush down the loo without a fight … no matter how averse he was to his relatives. His mother had been a bloody good painter. If he was right, her work was valuable. And, more importantly, finite in number. Nothing like a dead painter to inflate the asking price.
He rubbed his forehead, his mind returning to the present. ‘I think they’re boxed up in the billeting room somewhere. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can find.’
‘By the way, Louisa found another painting hidden among Mother’s collection. It was boxed separately and covered in a dustsheet. It was a painting of a religious bloke reading from a scroll. It wasn’t like her other paintings, but Louisa thought the gallery might as well have it.’
Olly’s world skidded to an abrupt halt. His heart followed suit, banging into his ribcage, sucking all the oxygen from his brain.
He must have made a noise, because Sophie said, ‘Olly, what’s wrong? Is it a bad painting?’
A bad painting?
On the contrary, it was a bloody phenomenal painting.
It was the second forged Spinelli.
Shit!
Chapter Three (#ulink_fd419bda-3c8e-5116-bfa8-7135e04c69a2)
Later that day …
Lexi peered through the glass-fronted oven door to check on the development of her cupcakes. Unlike the problems associated with trying to run an art business and avoiding her ex-husband, baking never gave her headaches, inflated her overdraft or cheated on her with a younger woman. Plus, whipping up a batch of naughty treats gave her something to nibble on with her caramel latte. And boy, was she in need of a sugar rush tonight.
She removed her oven gloves and reset the timer.
Her sister appeared in the kitchen having selected The Five Satins ‘In the Still of the Night’ on their recently acquired jukebox, complete with crackling speakers and flashing disco lights.
‘So, what’s eating you?’ Tasha fixed Lexi with a frown. She was wearing her black mesh bodice dress with buckled sky-high stiletto boots, rendering her a good inch taller than her twin – even with Lexi in four-inch heels.
‘Who says there’s anything wrong? Maybe I’m fine. Maybe I’m so relaxed I’m—’
‘Baking.’ Tasha nicked one of the chocolate orange truffles cooling on the wire cake rack.
‘I bake all the time.’
‘Yeah, but you only bake large quantities of coronary-inducing confectionery when your stress levels are through the roof. You’re very predictable.’
‘Predictable?’ Lexi slumped against the sink. ‘That’s highly depressing.’
Tasha licked the chocolate-coated truffle. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
Lexi sighed. ‘What’s there to say? I’m a thirty-two-year-old predictable woman who put her trust in a cheating gambler. I’m beyond help.’
‘This is true.’
Lexi glared at her twin. ‘Thanks.’
Tasha gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘Trusting someone isn’t a flaw. You had a bad experience and got burnt. Shit happens. But you’ll get over it. Time heals and all that crap.’
Lexi rolled her eyes. ‘You should be a marriage guidance counsellor.’
‘It’s a gift, I know.’
‘Right at this moment it doesn’t feel like I’ll get over it. I no longer trust myself, let alone anyone else. My judgement is clearly abysmal.’
‘Only when it comes to men. In everything else you have impeccable taste.’ Tasha pointed to their latest acquisition. ‘Like that coffee table.’
‘Liar. You said it was a piece of crap.’
‘The mosaic tiling converted me. I couldn’t see how a fifteen-quid reject from eBay would complement your other eclectic pieces. I was wrong.’
‘Eclectic? Careful, Tasha, that almost sounded like a compliment.’
Tasha folded her arms. ‘I say it as I see it. This place needed a makeover, I was just too lazy to do anything about it.’
Which wasn’t true. Her sister’s desire for change had nothing to do with needing a makeover.
They’d inherited the three-storey townhouse when their grandmother had died ten years ago. It was situated within a stone’s throw of Windsor Castle, nestled in the cobbled side streets along with the other quaint shops and eateries. Their grandmother had run Elsie’s Teas & Treats for nearly forty years and she’d been a key figure in their lives growing up. She’d encouraged their individuality, wanting them to be independent, self-sufficient and resourceful women.
When she’d died, she’d gifted them the building in the hope they’d fulfil their desire of running their own businesses, which they had. They’d divided the space into two areas, with two flats above: one for sharing, the other for renting out. Below, they’d opened Tainted Love Tattoos and Ryan Fine Arts: two contrasting businesses, linked by a shared love of art.
The set-up had worked perfectly. As twins, they’d always been close, despite their differing personalities. In fact, most people didn’t even register they were identical. It was amazing how changing your hair colour and throwing in a few tattoos could mask the obvious. Lexi’s preference for lightening her hair and wearing colourful retro clothing contrasted with Tasha’s ebony hair and penchant for body art and metal piercings. But underneath the camouflage, they shared the same DNA. More than that, they were best friends. There was no one on the planet Lexi felt closer to than Tasha.
When she’d married Marcus and moved out of their shared flat, it had been a wrench leaving Tasha, but at least working next door had ensured their close bond remained. And when her marriage had broken down, it was Tasha who’d been there for her, insisting she move back into the flat. It was just like old times, the pair of them living together and being the emotional support they both needed.
Lexi watched her sister wipe chocolate from her black nail-polished fingers. ‘Thanks again for letting me move back in, Tash. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘Luckily, you’ll never have to find out. Besides, you were having a meltdown. It was my duty as your loving sister to rescue you.’
‘And I appreciate it, really I do. But you didn’t have to let me loose with a paintbrush.’
‘Actually, I did. Even I could see this pad needed your style input.’
Another white lie. The flat had looked fine. The real reason Tasha wanted a change of décor was because of Harriette.
Tasha had only had one serious relationship before Harriette, a woman called Sara, whom she’d dated for two years. But the relationship had soured when Sara became clingy and jealous of Tasha and Lexi’s close bond. In the end, Sara left, claiming Tasha never put her first. Tasha was heartbroken.
Tasha had steered away from relationships for a few years, but then she’d met Harriette, who seemed like the real deal. She was funny, kind and brought a lightness to the relationship that balanced out Tasha’s tendency for melancholy. They made a great couple and Tasha adored her. So much so, Harriette moved into the flat and they spent months doing up the place and making a home together.
But then Harriette fell pregnant and returned to her ex-boyfriend, whom Tasha had no idea she was still seeing. Tasha was devastated. More than that, she felt betrayed, which manifested into rage, resulting in her smashing up the flat, destroying furniture and ripping up curtains and soft furnishings. Hence the need for a makeover.
Tasha had recovered, but there was a hardness to her now, as Marcus had discovered when Tasha had slashed his tyres. Not that she felt sorry for Marcus. But Tasha wasn’t someone you wanted to get on the wrong side of.
Tasha leant against the worktop. ‘Besides, this place is a damned sight better than that monstrosity of a mansion in Notting Hill. You never looked right there. This place is more you. Retro-chic.’ She inspected a chipped nail. ‘Marcus would hate it.’
Lexi grinned. ‘That’s part of the appeal.’
Tasha laughed, something she rarely did. ‘Talking of Dickwit, have you heard from him lately?’ She reached over for the bottle of orange liqueur Lexi had used for baking. ‘Christ, paint stripper’s more palatable than this stuff. We need something decent to drink.’
‘I meant to restock, but I ran out of cash. I’ll pop to the wholesalers on Friday. I’m planning a big shop.’ She untied her blue chequered apron.
Tasha looked appalled. ‘What have you got planned for Saturday, sorting through your sock drawer?’
Lexi threw the apron at her. ‘Make yourself useful, there’s a sink full of washing-up.’
Tasha grunted something unintelligible. ‘Fine, but then I’m heading to the off-licence.’
Lexi checked the progress of her cupcakes. ‘In answer to your question, my beloved ex is—’
‘Hang on.’ Tasha held up her hand. ‘If we’re going to discuss Scumbag, we need suitable background music.’ She went over to the jukebox. A few seconds later The Platters started up with ‘The Great Pretender’.
Lexi glared at her sister. ‘Are you trying to be funny?’
‘Hell, no.’ Tasha came back into the kitchen. ‘If I’d wanted to be funny, I’d have chosen ‘I Could Have Told You’. Ole blue-eyes says it much better than I ever could.’
‘And with slightly less sarcasm.’
Tasha picked up the pink rubber gloves draped over the sink. With her kohl-black eyes and asymmetric bob, she looked the most unlikely of domestic staff. But then, she’d always been a contradiction, a cocktail of sweet and sour … only these days it was more sour than sweet. Heartbreak tended to do that to a person.
‘So, news on Scumbag? Please tell me he’s been kidnapped by guerrilla terrorists and is being held at gunpoint somewhere deep in the Amazonian jungle.’
The timer on the oven pinged. Lexi opened the oven door and removed her cakes. ‘You have a warped mind.’
‘Naturally.’
Lexi rested the baking tray on top of the oven. ‘Until today, I’d assumed Marcus was still in Spain with Cindy.’
‘And he’s not?’
‘He showed up at the gallery this morning.’
Tasha spun away from the sink, dripping foamy suds over the kitchen floor. ‘You’re kidding me? What did he want?’
Lexi refused to meet her sister’s inquisitive gaze. ‘Usual stuff. He’s sorry, he didn’t mean to hurt me … where’s his money. You know the pattern.’ She spoke quickly, hoping her sister wouldn’t catch on.
‘Where’s his money? What money?’
There was no point hiding anything from Tasha, she was too astute … which was why not telling her about taking the twenty-seven grand from the house was so stressful. ‘It turns out he surrendered a life insurance policy, which I knew nothing about. He forged my signature so he could cash it in. The official receiver’s got wind of it and wants the money returned. Twenty-seven thousand pounds.’
‘The little shit!’ Tasha threw the saucepan in the sink. ‘And Marcus thinks you have it? After everything he did, the guy’s lucky I don’t put a contract out on him.’
Lexi wondered if her sister was being serious. Some of Tasha’s customers at the tattoo parlour certainly looked capable of inflicting a knee-capping.
‘And even if you did have his filthy ill-gained money, as if you’d give it back after what he did. He virtually bankrupted you, jeopardised your business and hooked up with a woman who could’ve auditioned for the starring role in Barbie Does Dagenham!’
Lexi sighed. Tasha losing her rag wasn’t a surprise, but it was slightly puzzling as to why her sister was still so angry after all this time. Lexi had moved past wanting to dismember Marcus a long time ago. Well, mostly anyway. She still loathed what he’d done, the way he’d done it, but there were no active emotions left, just an overwhelming sense of sadness that settled over her when she dwelt on things too much.
Like the day they’d first met.
It was Valentine’s Day 2014 and she’d gone to London for an exhibition. She’d stopped off for a coffee on the South Bank and became aware of a man staring at her. The next thing she knew, he was sitting next to her, making her laugh and persuading her to join him for dinner. By the end of the evening, she was smitten. When he’d kissed her goodnight and told her she was the woman he’d been waiting for all of his life, her fate was sealed. A six-month whirlwind romance followed, filled with love, laughter and excitement. He lavished her with expensive gifts and took every opportunity to ‘flash the cash’, keen to demonstrate his wealth and back up his promises of a financially secure life. She never doubted his honesty or sincerity and ignored her sister’s concerns that he was ‘too good to be true’. They married in a registry office and for the first year everything was fine. But then he started disappearing for days on end, stressing over his used-car business and behaving strangely. He became secretive, moody and defensive when questioned. But it wasn’t until he cleaned out their savings account and ran off to Spain with his PA that she’d discovered the depth of his deception.
Seeing him today had been hard, a test of her resolve, but it had confirmed one thing: she no longer loved Marcus. Cindy was welcome to him.
But Tasha hadn’t finished ranting. ‘Money-laundering, scum-sucking wanker! Why the hell does he think you have his rotten money? Anyone with an ounce of sanity knows you’d never touch anything illegal.’
Lexi decided it was time to change topic. If her left eye started twitching it would be game over.
