The Lost Relic

One morning a week after the party, Brooke had been driving to work when Phoebe had called her sounding emotional and asking if they could have coffee that day. They’d met at Richoux in Piccadilly, and taken a small table in the corner of the tearoom. Brooke had known right away that something was up. Her sister looked suddenly much older than her thirty-eight years, gaunt and strung out. Over far more than her usual share of cream scones, she’d come out with it:

‘Marshall’s having an affair.’

‘What?’

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just do. He’s stopped paying me any attention. He comes home late. He’s irritable and restless.’

Jesus. Under the table, Brooke’s toes had been curling. ‘He has a stressful job, Phoebe. It could be work related. Problems at the office. It doesn’t have to mean—’

‘There’s more,’ Phoebe cut in. ‘He bought jewellery. I found a receipt in his pocket. Tiffany’s. Three grand. Who’s that for, eh?’

‘Maybe he wants to surprise you.’

‘A week after our anniversary? Christmas is miles away and my birthday’s not for another seven months. It isn’t for me, Brooke. I know it.’ Phoebe had burst into tears at that point. ‘I couldn’t bear it if he left me. I’d die.’

Brooke had done her best to reassure her sister that nothing was wrong. Everything would soon go back to normal.

She could have murdered Marshall.

Then, two nights after that, the first of the phone calls. ‘It’s me. Are you alone?’

‘Of course I’m alone. I live alone. It’s three in the morning, Marshall. Go to sleep.’

‘I can’t sleep.’

‘Good bye.’

Eleven, twelve, thirteen more times he’d tried to call that night, keeping her from sleep until dawn. The next evening had come the knock on the door that she’d been dreading. Marshall had looked wrecked there on the doorstep, demanding to know why she wouldn’t answer the phone. Worried he was going to make a scene, she’d let him come inside the flat.

Big mistake.

‘The way you talk to me. The way you look at me, the way you laugh when I tell a story. I know you like me. Admit it. You have feelings for me.’ She could smell the alcohol on his breath.

‘You’re crossing the line, Marshall,’ she shouted. ‘I’m not going to let you hurt Phoebe like this.’

‘Not going to let me? This is all your fault!’ Digging in his pocket, he came out with a small packet. ‘Look. Let’s not fight. I bought you a present.’

Brooke had stared in horror, knowing what it was. ‘I don’t want it.’

‘It’s from Tiffany.’

‘Give it to Phoebe. My sister. Your wife, remember?’

‘Phoebe and I are finished.’

‘Not according to her. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

‘But—’

‘Listen to me, Marshall. Your behaviour with me is completely irrational. It’s clear you’re going through some kind of crisis, and I think you need to seek professional help. Now, I can give you some numbers to call—’

‘Yeah, I’m mad,’ he’d grunted. ‘Mad about you.’ And put out his hand to touch her cheek.

She flinched away. ‘Don’t. I think you should get out now.’

‘I can’t. I love you.’

‘That’s ridiculous, Marshall.’

‘Oh, right. You love him. The soldier.’

‘Ben. He’s not—’ But there was no point in correcting him. ‘Yes, I do.’

He flushed. ‘How can you be in any kind of proper relationship with someone who lives in another country? Now that’s ridiculous.’

‘That might not be for long, because I’m thinking of moving there to be with him full time. Not that it’s any of your bloody business.’

‘Has he asked you? Bet he hasn’t.’

‘Get out, Marshall!’

Finally, with threats and as much force as she could use without physically attacking him, she’d managed to get her brother-in-law out of the flat and chained the door in his face. He’d ranted and pleaded a while on the doorstep, then skulked back across the street to his turbocharged Bentley.

In the weeks since, Brooke had been feeling increasingly powerless and confused, angry, even guilty. On the pretext of wanting to spend more time together, she’d arranged to meet Phoebe several times in town for coffee, never at the house or at her own place. It made her feel better to be there for her sister, protecting and supporting her in her time of need; yet at the same time she was more and more miserable for hiding the truth.

Meanwhile, Marshall’s barrage went on. She was terrified even to check her emails and texts in case it would be him, and she avoided the phone almost all of the time. Once or twice it had been Ben calling her, wondering how she was and why she hadn’t been in touch. Her excuses had been thin, unconvincing at best. She’d kept conversation to a minimum, afraid that she might let something slip. Briefly, during one of her sleepless nights, she’d considered telling him the truth about what was going on with Marshall. But that had been an idea she’d very quickly dismissed.

Ben would be on the first flight to London to beat the crap out of him.

It wasn’t that Marshall didn’t have it coming – it was the ugly mess that would ensue. She could see it all. Assault charges. Police. Explanations. Ben in trouble. Phoebe devastated.

No chance.

And now, standing here on this beautiful warm sunny day surrounded by the flowers in her garden, Brooke felt completely walled in.

What am I going to do?

Chapter Ten

Once inside the elegant old house, Ben saw he’d entered a private art exhibition. The entrance foyer was filled with stands of posters, pamphlets and guides, and framed prints around the walls gave a taste of what lay inside. He felt very out of place in his jeans and denim shirt. Scanning the crowd he counted roughly thirty-five guests. Apart from one or two elderly couples, most of the people were in their mid-to-late thirties or older, many sporting a carefully-cultivated arty look. With the exception of one or two bohemian scruffs, everyone was very well dressed, and being Italians there was an unspoken war going on as to who could look the most chic. Probably the winner out of the whole bunch was the square-jawed guy in the Valentino blazer who’d clearly been dividing his time between working on his tan and studying old Robert Redford movies. Mr Dashing. Ben smiled to himself and shook his head.

After Gianni, the youngest person in the room was a sullen teenage girl with long curly blond hair, who was doing everything possible to distance herself from her parents and make it clear that she’d rather be anywhere but here.

‘Donatella Strada,’ the boy’s mother said warmly, keeping a tight hold of her son with her left hand while extending her right.

‘Ben Hope.’ He took her hand. It was slender and felt delicate in his. Donatella was small and petite, almost elfin. He liked the sharp look of intelligence in her eyes. She didn’t have that air of pretension that he could sense in