The Lost Testament

5

‘I don’t know what it is about that woman,’ Angela Lewis said, ‘but I find her incredibly irritating.’

She and her former husband, Chris Bronson, were relaxing in the lounge of her flat in Ealing, watching the large LED television that she’d purchased the previous day, and which Bronson had then spent hours installing after they’d got it back to the flat. For the last thirty minutes they’d been watching a popular antiques programme.

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Bronson replied. ‘She’s always got this smug-git expression on her face and you can just tell that she thinks she’s absolutely wonderful. It’s a pity, because apart from her I really enjoy the show. But I suppose for you this antique stuff all feels a bit amateur?’

‘Not exactly. The world of antiques is simply enormous, and there’s no such thing as an expert on everything. I know my way around ceramics, obviously, because that’s what I do all the time, but every time I watch this’ — she raised one elegant bare leg from the footstool and pointed it at the television screen — ‘I learn something new, something outside my particular specialization.’

‘And I suppose like everybody else you keep hoping that some hideous vase or something you pick up for a few pence at a car-boot sale actually turns out to be some long-lost priceless relic from the Ming Dynasty so that you can retire on the proceeds,’ Bronson suggested.

Angela glanced at him, a smile playing over her lips.

‘There are a couple of problems with that scenario,’ she said. ‘First, the chances of a Ming vase — or any other really valuable antique — turning up at a boot sale are vanishingly small. And second, I’ve never been to a car-boot sale, and I’ve no intention of going, so if your idea of a dirty weekend is tramping around a muddy field in the rain wearing wellington boots and looking at stalls covered in overpriced twentieth-century souvenirs from Brighton and Blackpool, you’ll be going by yourself.’

‘Actually,’ Bronson said, ‘my idea of a dirty weekend is a lot less like that and rather more like the one we’ve just spent.’

‘Installing television sets?’ Angela laughed.

‘I was thinking more about what we got up to after I’d lugged the box up the stairs and got the thing working.’

‘Well, I thought you deserved a lie-down after all your efforts. That’s the only reason that happened.’

‘Of course, of course. In fact, I feel as if I could do with another lie-down right now. Unless you’ve got any better ideas, that is.’

Angela stood up from the sofa and looked at Bronson, running a hand through her shoulder-length blonde hair. Yet again he was struck by her resemblance to a mid-thirties Michele Pfeiffer, especially her mouth, though her eyes were green rather than blue. Bronson still entertained occasional fantasies about seeing her in a Catwoman outfit, but the time had never seemed quite right to suggest it.

‘We’ll have to eat something at some point, I suppose,’ Angela said, ‘but right now I’m not really that hungry. Maybe if I took a bit of exercise that would give me more of an appetite.’

Then she turned round and walked over towards the hallway that led to the bedroom, her hips swinging under her short skirt.

‘That works for me,’ Bronson said, standing up quickly to follow her.

Forty minutes later, having comprehensively unmade the bed and done their best to exhaust each other, Bronson and Angela lay side by side, propped up on pillows and each sipping from a glass of red wine.

Angela seemed somewhat distracted, which was unlike her.

‘Is everything OK? Are you busy at the museum at the moment?’

Angela shook her head. ‘Not really. Well, in a way, yes. I mean, there’s nothing much of any interest going on there at the moment, but we’re actually pretty busy. To be perfectly honest, I’ll be quite glad when the next two weeks are over.’

‘Why?’

‘You know I enjoy my work, but about ten days ago I had another two boxes of potsherds delivered to me, and for whatever reason the powers that be have decided that they needed results quickly. I presume there’s some exhibition coming up and they want to put some of the reassembled vessels on display. The trouble is that all the shards of pottery seem to be about the same size and almost exactly the same colour, so trying to achieve anything meaningful is a bit like doing a jigsaw puzzle when you have no idea what the finished picture is supposed to look like.’

‘That must be incredibly frustrating,’ Bronson said.

‘It is. It’s frustrating and boring and important and urgent all at the same time, which is a pretty unpleasant combination. I’m not looking forward to tomorrow morning at all. Which is why I want to make the most of today,’ she added, snuggling up close to him.