The Chase

2

“You all right?” Clara rested her palm on my forehead.

“The stairs took it out of me,” I fibbed and gestured to get the attention of a waitress.

She came over, and with a nod of thanks I lifted a flute of champagne off her silver tray and took several sips to quench my thirst.

My thoughts drifted to the basement and my run-in with Tobias Wilder. These were the kind of moments I cherished—me dipping my toe in the dangerous side of life—but I knew the moment I saw reason, I’d pull it right out.

The only romance I would ever indulge in again was the fantasy where everyone lived happily ever after.

Oh no, I’d really embarrassed myself down there.

Clara narrowed her gaze and it made me smile. It was the kind of smile you give when you doubt yourself beyond all reason.

“Happiness is the best revenge,” she offered brightly. “I’m happy you’re here.”

It was still difficult to accept Zach wasn’t coming back. He should have been here tonight and it hurt so bad that I’d had to tear up my invitation because it had his name on it.

I tried not to think of the way his copper locks flopped over his deep blue eyes, or how his refined nose made him look so cultivated and that endearing way he emanated his free-thinking spirit.

A month or so after my father’s funeral, Zach Montgomery, the man I had been destined to marry, complained my grief was causing him too much stress. With our finals looming he couldn’t be “distracted.” He needed a break from us, just for a little while. I’d lovingly given it to him.

I’d seen my understanding nature pay off when he’d graduated with an MA in art curating.

Afterward, when the intensity of our studies was over and I could see the strain lifted from his handsome face, I’d met him for dinner at our favorite pub, The Old Ship, and reassured him I’d pull back on all this unnecessary drama of grief. I’d truly believed he’d realize his mistake after our exams were over. Even with Clara’s disapproval I couldn’t have refused him had he changed his mind and asked to come back to me.

Until the dreadful truth came out.

That stark memory returning along with that knot in my stomach, and I felt like I was there again—

Tucked away in my favorite corner of the Witt Library, with my head buried in a book. I’d been reading about Vermeer and how he’d painstakingly chose his expensive pigments. Colors I’d once run my fingertip over, acutely aware of the privilege of such intimacy that came with ownership. One of the few from my secret stash that not even Zach knew of.

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 at The London Times as 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.

We made our way over to Liza, and she smiled with relief when she saw us. I got her talking about her favorite subject, modern art, and she soon relaxed as she chatted away about the latest piece she was working on.

Together we mingled with the other guests, sipping champagne and popping back way too many caviar hors d’oeuvres.

Clara arched an amused brow when I reached for another flute from a passing waiter’s tray. I’d never tolerated booze well, very often getting tipsy on merely one glass. Still, this night was the first real evening I was letting myself go in what felt like ages, and I soon found myself having fun. With Clara’s mischievous insights into the other guests, she had me and Liza struggling to keep our laughter down.

Nigel nudged up against Clara. “You’re looking lovely tonight.”

“Thank you.” She offered him a polite smile.

“You didn’t bring your camera?” he asked.

“Taking the night off. The staff get nervous when they see a photographer taking photos of their priceless paintings. Something about copyright.”

His overly critical gaze found me. “I was sorry to hear about your father.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that.”

Those difficult few months were behind me now and for the first time tonight I’d felt that wedge of pain in my heart lifting. I swallowed my grief with a sip of champagne and broke Turner’s gaze, hoping he’d talk to Liza.

“I hear a rumor you’re hiding away more paintings?” he said.

I shook my head, not wanting to go there.

“One step at a time,” Clara whispered.

Nigel narrowed his gaze. “Your skills could be put to good use.”

“Excuse me?”

“That fire at your father’s home?” he said.

“I don’t remember much.” Other than the bitter taste of ash.

“She was ten,” snapped Clara. “For goodness’ sake.”

“Interesting that Walter William Ouless’s St. Joan of Arc has turned up in Venice?” he went on. “Have you heard?”

My throat tightened. “That’s impossible.”

“And yet.” He smirked.

A wave of panic circled my stomach.

Part of me wanted it to be true. Needed to believe our beloved Joan of Arc had survived that fire. But with that revelation would come a truth so vivid I wasn’t sure I’d survive it. All I’d known would be proven a lie.

I’d missed her terribly; Ouless had masterfully painted one of France’s most beloved heroines. Her legacy included visions of Christ that inspired her heroic reclaiming of France from the British. Of all my father’s collection she’d both inspired and scared me the most, perhaps because some part of me knew I’d never be capable of that kind of bravery.

Clara piped up, “Maybe Ouless painted more than one?”

Nigel tutted. “How likely is that?”

“Sounds very likely,” she said. “Probably loads of them out there.”

I cringed too soon, revealing I knew all too well this remarkable British painter was known for his one-of-a-kind masterpieces. Ouless was considered one of the nineteenth century’s best known portraitists and his Joan of Arc had been sought after by too many collectors to count. My father had rejected every offer.

Nigel lit up with triumph. “There’s a chance it wasn’t destroyed as alleged.”

“I’m afraid it was,” I said through clenched teeth.

Clara sounded distant. “Really, Nigel? This is Zara’s evening to celebrate her dad’s legacy.”

“What’s left of it,” he muttered.

I reached out to the marble pillar to steady my legs.

“Any plans to visit the painting?” he added. “If that piece is real—”

“Of course it’s not,” I said.

“It’s coming to London for final authentication apparently,” he said.

My legs wobbled with the unsteadiness of my feet.

“Are you sure?” asked Clara.

“That’s the rumor.” Nigel frowned his disapproval.

Dread shot up my spine. “Who is this mystery dealer?”

Who was the outrageous person willing to put his or her reputation on the line?

“Have no idea,” said Nigel. “I’m sure you’ll want more answers?”

“Yes.” No.

I want to forget.

The resurfacing of that old lie proved jealousy for my father’s collection still went deep. I wasn’t ready to give up the others, not yet.

Black spots flashed across my vision—

Tobias Wilder strolled out of the crowd toward us carrying two glasses of champagne, and I sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. He offered one of them to me; bubbles rising to the surface, the chilled glass making my fingers tingle as I accepted it from him.

Soothed by his beautiful striking face and that rugged stubble clashing with his styled locks he’d since run a comb through.

“Thank you,” I said, amazed my underwear fiasco hadn’t scared him off.

“My pleasure.” Tobias gave a self-possessed nod and then gestured to the waiter beside him. The young man handed out more champagne flutes to the others in our group. Two more waiters hurried forward and held out their trays laden with china plates full of hors d’oeuvres.

Nigel, Liza and Clara all helped themselves to the assorted small bites of food with obvious glee, seemingly recognizing him too. With a wave of my hand and a kind smile, I declined an appetizer.

“That’s awfully nice of you,” Nigel said.

“Mind if I join you?” Tobias showed off that dazzling smile. “What a fantastic venue. Love this place.”

The staff hurried away.

Dragging my teeth over my bottom lip, I tried to think of something to say, perhaps draw his attention to the Raphael directly behind him. In that painting the Italian artist had captured the beguiling image of a young lady with a unicorn on her lap.

“You like that one?” Tobias asked me with his back still to the painting.

“Yes.” I loved it and adored the crisp gold and burgundy of the subject’s dress, her delicate beauty, her eyes exuding innocence and the way she held that small animal on her lap so very carefully.

“Is that a unicorn?” asked Clara.

“A conventional symbol of chastity,” I told her.

“The allure of High Renaissance.” Tobias turned to take in the portrait and then spun round and fixed his gaze on mine—

Liquefying my insides and making my chest tighten.

Oh, bloody hell.

He was still staring at me.

At least when I’d met him briefly in the basement there had been some distance between us, but now, with that intense green stare locked on mine and that delicate waft of heady cologne reaching me he’d made my thoughts freeze.

“Mr. Wilder?” Nigel proffered his hand. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.” Tobias turned toward Nigel and reached out to shake.

“I was in LA when The Wilder hosted the Samurai collection,” Nigel told him. “Japanese art is my specialty.”

“That was five years ago.” Tobias turned to us. “The Taka Ishii Gallery generously loaned us a few of their most treasured pieces. First time in the US.”

“I’d have loved to have seen that,” said Clara. “Will it come to London?”

“Afraid not,” said Tobias. “The collection is at home in Tokyo now and won’t tour again in our lifetime. Though we are hosting a collection by Sandro Botticelli.” His face lit up with happiness. “It’s quite something.”

Sighs of admiration rose from everyone circling him.

“You’re all invited of course—” his gaze fell on me “—if you’re ever in the neighborhood.”

My heart fluttered at the thought of seeing those early Renaissance pieces by an artist who’d captured the deepest emotions in his subjects’ eyes.

Who was I kidding? My heart was fluttering over this hottie.

Tobias smiled wistfully. “Seeing La Primavera up close is a privilege.”

I wanted to tell him how much I’d always wanted to visit The Wilder Museum, but held back, not sure if that would come over as a little forward.

Tobias slipped into a smile. “Nigel, may I call you Nigel?”

“Absolutely.”

“I enjoyed that piece you wrote about the Tate.”

“The one on Anna Lea Merritt?”

“That’s the one,” he said. “Very insightful. Love her work.”

“She married her tutor,” I muttered.

Tobias looked my way, his eyes narrowing in interest, and he made me blush.

Clara’s eyebrows popped up, and I hoped she was the only one who’d caught my visceral response to this man. For some reason my mouth had stopped working and this was unusual for me. I loved taking part in this kind of conversation and Clara knew it.

“So what brings you to London?” asked Nigel.

“Business,” he replied.

With Tobias conveniently distracted, I took a breath and admired him discreetly. He moved with such refinement, and yet his earthiness made him less threatening. I kicked myself that I’d had him all to myself down in the basement and not taken the time to talk with him and get to know this enigma better.

Tobias tucked his left hand into his trouser pocket casually and took a sip of bubbly.

That lick across his bottom lip, that tilt of his head, that intensity in his expression as he listened to Nigel.

God, he was gorgeous.

A rush of excitement flooded my chest as I realized he was still hanging out with us.

I let out a wistful sigh.

And earned a flicker of amusement in Tobias’s expression; his eyes crinkled into a subtle smile.

Oh no, he’d sensed me staring.

Reason kicked in as I recalled my first instinct had been to run when I’d met him. He’d no doubt have a slew of women chasing after him and all of them from his world of beautiful socialites. The European supermodel types who took perfection all too seriously.

And based on the passing glances from the other guests surrounding us, many of them seemed just as enamored and more than proved my glum musing that men like this could only be enjoyed from afar.

There was an evening of Googling Tobias Wilder ahead of me when I got back to my Notting Hill flat. See what he was up to now and perhaps find a clue to why he was in London. I’d dig up some dirt on him, no doubt, some article to confirm my gut feeling about him. Tobias Wilder was out of my league for all the right reasons.

He stepped forward to shake Liza’s hand and then Clara’s, his smile reaching his eyes. Their faces lit up in delight at meeting this charismatic man.

“Pleasure’s all mine.” He turned to me and took my hand firmly in his. “Tobias.”

“Zara.”

His smile faded and he blinked at me.

“Zara Leighton,” I said brightly.

His hand slid from mine and he looked away as though distracted.

“Tonight’s a celebration for Zara,” explained Nigel. “She’s given her painting to the gallery. It’s quite a find. Have you seen it?”

“She’s beautiful,” said Tobias. “The painting. Well, I should go. Thank you for the great company. It’s been...insightful.”

“But you only just got here?” said Clara.

“I have an appointment across town.”

“Where are you staying?” asked Nigel.

But Tobias was already weaving his way through the crowd and heading fast for the door.

That masterful stride carrying him away from us.

We all swapped wary glances with each other at his quick exit, and I felt Clara’s arm wrap around my waist to comfort me.

Tobias’s attention had been short lived and someone or something had drawn him away all too briskly. Taking another sip of champagne, I feigned there had never been any hope it might have been me.

3

With my morning latte in hand, I wound my way up the fourteen-story staircase of The Tiriani Building toward the top floor. My fear of being late clashed with my claustrophobia. Taking the elevator was impossible, though, but as every building had stairs it was never an issue and on the positive side it was great for my bum.

During my interview three weeks ago I’d been wowed by the sprawling view that stretched as far as Canary Wharf, and the interior’s decor of steel and silver solidifying its cutting-edge reputation.

Pausing between floors to catch my breath and take delicate sips, careful not to spill my drink on my new blue silk blouse or Ralph Lauren skirt, I was close to being late for that 9:30 a.m. staff meeting. My first introduction to Huntly Pierre’s elite crack team of investigators had kept me up all night with a mixture of excitement and nerves.

I patted myself on the back with how well I’d already coped with disaster this morning. My curling iron broke seconds after switching it on so I’d had to shove my wayward locks into a neat chignon.

Huntly Pierre took up the top six floors and was a modern masterpiece of architecture smack-dab in the middle of The Strand, and the kind of real estate that proved the company was thriving. I’d been brought on for my special brand of expertise garnered from that art history degree I’d earned at Courtauld. This was truly my dream job. I would soon be hanging out at galleries all day, chatting with other art lovers, and my nosy personality would get its daily fix.

My face flushed as I recalled last night’s highlight at The Otillie, meeting the enigmatic Mr. Wilder. I’d fallen asleep with my laptop open on his pretty boy face.

One thing was for sure, he was the outdoorsy type and had a thing for motorbikes and sports cars, or any kind of speed, for that matter.

Soon after I’d gotten home from the gallery I’d sat riveted to my screen as I’d watched what was hailed as a rare insight into his life filmed last year and aired on national television. He’d taken the interviewer on a private tour of his Los Angeles gallery. As they’d strolled through The Wilder, perusing his fine collection of paintings, Tobias had sincerely expressed his passion for seeing art education continued in schools.

I’d let out a sigh as I’d watched him express his belief that students benefited greatly from learning to see beyond the ordinary—

“They must be taught to look closer,” he’d fervidly expressed. “They must be shown how to peer through the enlightened lens of art and develop the skills that will lead them to experience creative lives.”

That short journalistic piece had highlighted his serious nature, which I’d glimpsed last night. Though when Tobias had finally relaxed a little, enough to smile into the camera, he might as well have been looking through the screen at me.

My face burned brighter at the seeming chink in that bad boy charm that threatened to disarm my defenses.

Though there was tragedy in his past too. I found an article on him from five years ago, written in the Telegraph Online. His parents had died in a plane crash when he was a boy. Perhaps this was why he was so driven; he was running away from the pain. He’d refused to comment on that aspect of his life, preferring instead to keep it private.

There had been photo after photo of the press catching him making supersonic exits at every opportunity, his hair messed up and his sunglasses shielding those stunning green eyes. The press had christened him “Mr. Elusive” and it suited him.

Now that I knew it wasn’t unusual for him to perform a disappearing act I didn’t feel like it had been me who’d scared him away with any number of my usual social blunders.

I wished I’d savored that sun-kissed body a little more but I’d been so shocked to see a living, breathing masterpiece subtly flexing his muscles in The Otillie’s basement.

I felt a wave of melancholy that I’d never know the meaning of that Latin inscription on his well-toned torso. I wondered if he had any more of those mysterious inked inscriptions on any other part of his body.

I flinched and almost bit through my lip.

And burst through the top-floor exit with a little too much gusto.

That caffeine had evidently kicked in, and I startled Elena, the receptionist, forcing her to spring to her feet to greet me.

“Morning exercise,” I managed breathlessly.

“Good morning, Zara.” She sang the words in that heavy Glasgow accent.

I’d fallen for Elena’s easy breezy charm the day of my interview when she made me laugh with her cheeky humor. She’d worked here for years and seemed to know the inside scoop on everyone. I loved her fashion sense, that daring miniskirt just above her knees and those fine leather boots, which seemed a statement of her unwavering confidence—I’d overheard her on the phone handling difficult clients—her purple sweater added a dash of color.

A rush of movement came at me.

Danny Kenner swept past me with the biggest grin. “Hi there.”

His accent reminded me of Tobias’s, but Danny had a Californian lilt whereas Tobias’s had an indistinguishable husky edge.

His ripped jeans and Lacoste jumper, along with his Nike sneakers, revealed Huntly Pierre’s more casual approach to their dress code.

I smiled after him.

Danny had made me feel welcome during my first visit here, and we’d hit it off straight away with our shared love of “anything” by Rembrandt and Starbucks.

Elena beamed at him. “They got a fingerprint on the Jaeger case.”

My gaze snapped after Danny, wanting to run after him and hear more.

Last night, the same evening I’d dropped Madame Rose off at The Otillie, there’d been a theft from a private house in Holland Park.

This morning, I’d been riveted to the TV as the BBC newscaster had reported that nothing else had been taken. The Jaeger family had lost their greatest heirloom, an 1896 Edvard Munch, and were predictably devastated.

This second theft in under a month in London was sending the art community into a spin. The police were scrambling for clues and had brought in the team at Huntly Pierre.

Part of this job was also comforting the victims and I prided myself that with my tragic history I’d flourish with that aspect of my profession. I knew what it felt like to lose what had essentially become a friend; for some, art had a way of drawing you in and holding you spellbound for a lifetime.

I felt a rush of excitement that I was finally here.

“Your meeting with the staff got pushed,” she said. “The boss has a last-minute change in schedule.”

“I imagine everyone’s crazy busy,” I said. “How are you handling the press?”

“Everything goes through Mr. Huntly.”

“Of course.”

“He’ll come get you when he’s ready.”

“Great.”

“Let’s show you around.”

She introduced me to the rest of the staff, and I was greeted with warm smiles. Everyone seemed friendly and acted happy here, which was a great sign. The large windows allowed sunlight to flood in and the warm tone of those cream-colored walls gave the central cubicles a spacious feel.

When we made it to the room that would become my office I saw the small brown paper bag on the desk.

“It’s a muffin,” said Elena. “My treat to make you feel at home.”

“Thank you, Elena. That was so kind of you.” I peeked into the bag. “Now this is a perfect way to start the day.” It made my mouth water just thinking of it.

“Here’s what you’ll need to get started.” She handed me a file. “You’ll find everything on our private website. Just hit Staff Access. Change your codes and shred this.”

“Got it.”

She left me to get settled, and I sat in the leather swivel chair and fired up the desktop computer in front of me.

There was an empty bookcase flush against the right wall, a filing cabinet in the corner and a stack of empty files on top of it. The blank wall in front was just waiting for a painting. That view was something else: the River Thames looked beautiful with the morning sunlight reflecting off it.

I dragged my gaze away and tapped my code into Huntly Pierre’s database and began navigating the software. Taking a bite of that delicious blueberry muffin, undoing all the good of those stairs.

“Good morning, Ms. Leighton.” Adley Huntly leaned a shoulder casually on the door frame. His friendly face beamed a warm welcome.

Brushing crumbs off my hands, I pushed myself to my feet.

His white hair gave my boss an arty flair. He was strikingly tall and slim and his tailored suit rounded out his aristocratic air. Adley was well respected in the community as one of the most successful consultants in the industry. Working for him was going to be life changing.

I made my way over to him. “Sir, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Likewise, Zara.” His handshake was firm and his smile reassuring. “Do you have everything you need?”

“Yes, thank you. Elena’s been wonderful.”

“Glad to hear it. Ready to get to work?” He gestured. “We’re in the conference room.”

He led me back through the foyer and down a long sprawling hallway. I’d not seen the east wing yet and tried not to gape at the whitewashed walls upon which hung a line of forgeries of the Old Masters.

“I want to thank you again for this incredible opportunity,” I said.

“We’re delighted to have you onboard.” He checked his phone as we walked.

I paused before the stunning replica of Vincent van Gogh’s The Starry Night.

“Good, aren’t they?” he said.

“They are.” I let out a sigh of wonder as we strolled passed a Salvador Dali. “Will I be part of the Jaeger team?”

“Perhaps. The painting’s gone. Lost without a trace, apparently.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Actually, we have a new assignment for you. A client needs an authentication on a piece he’s considering purchasing.” His face crinkled into a smile. “Thought we’d break you in slowly.”

“Of course,” I said, “Whatever you think is best.” Adley went on ahead into the conference room.

I glanced behind to take in one of my favorite paintings by John Singer Sergeant, affectionately known as Portrait of Madame X. A lifelike image of an elegant young woman wearing a long black evening dress, her hand casually resting on a small table as she stared off wistfully.

Virginie Gautreau had been an American beauty who’d garnered a notorious reputation for her rumored infidelities. The painting had caused a scandal during its 1884 debut in Paris.

My focus was captured by its guilty secret. This portrait was a brilliant forgery that could have slipped past the experts. It was that good.

“Ms. Leighton?” Adley called out.

Virginie Gautreau masked her true feelings so well. Like I was doing now.

My feet melting into the floor as my breath caught.

Adley had taken his place at the head of the table and beside him sat a stunning thirtysomething, her hair a striking platinum blond up in a neat chignon.

And sitting beside her—Tobias Wilder.

Now cleanly shaven, he’d outdone his last suit with this three-piece pinstripe number that highlighted his finely formed physique, his short dark blond hair perfectly combed and those striking eyes...were locked on mine.

What was he doing here?

There was no sign of that dashing warm smile. His mouth was fixed in a tense hard line of scrutiny and those irises were now a startling jade.

I dragged my gaze away from his and looked over at Adley.

He was studying my reaction. “Those forgeries have a knack of getting to you, don’t they?”

Catching my breath, I gestured to the paintings. “How do you ever get any work done?”