Renaissance Of The Heart - Part 5 free porn video

Part I

January 31, 1512

Casa di Venuccio de Lambra, Rome Italy

It is a particularly cold mid-winter afternoon. A man is sitting by a crackling fire and is fashioning a small figure from soapstone. The light shows that it is nearer supper than lunch. He looks up as his young wife enters the house.

“You are late Vittoria.”

“Pardon, Venuccio, he made me sit a long time today.”

“But he progresses?”

“I hope so. He was later than usual. He says he has to be everywhere.”

“Yes, sometimes he sleeps only three hours. The work on the ceiling is nearly complete, but it is delayed. His Holiness grows weary.”

“But it must be an enormous job. How does he do it?”

“He has a special framework. I haven’t seen it. Only a few are allowed.”

“He must be prone?”

“You would think so, but he stands.”

“Oh! And I grumble of a stiff neck!”

“You must want to rest. Maybe you want to relax and I will read to you first.”

“Thank you, Venuccio, I would like that. Have you eaten? There is some rabbit in the pot.”

“Later. Sit here my darling.”

“Yes, if you are pleased, my husband.”

Venuccio leans into a small trunk and pulls out a book of poetry.

“He keeps you a long time then?”

“Yes, and I am stiff.”

“How so?”

“If I was just seated… but he wants me to turn to one side with my shawl across, like so.”

“You must let me help you relieve the ache in your shoulders, before you go to sleep, Vittoria.”

“And where will that lead!”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“When I am in my bedroom, I trust you like a thief in the night!”

“Oh, I do enjoy the tone of your voice when you speak so, my darling.”

Vittoria giggles and relaxes in her chair.

"A woman knows what her husband likes to hear. You are so thoughtful, darling Venuccio.”

“You speak plainly with him, I hope. He likes you, I have noticed.”

“Who?”

“Simoni! Who are we talking about!”

“Simoni Indeed! How old is he? Forty?”

“He is still a man.”

“It is true, he is generous in his language. But it is entirely platonic I assure you.”

“I am sure you’re right.”

Vittoria rubs her neck and adjusts herself in her chair. Venuccio continues to question her about her day.

“What do you wear in these sessions? He is not forthcoming.”

“A blue silk dress. He keeps it. I change behind the screen.”

“He has a dress?”

“He keeps it in the trunk.”

“Oh. What colour blue?”

“I don’t know. Blue. But he said the paint is like the blue of the sea. Why does it matter?”

“No, I just wonder why it is such a secret. I asked who the painting was for. He says that it is a big project. But no matter. It is an honour for me to have you as the subject.”

“Anything to please you, Venuccio.”

Venuccio picks up a decanter of wine from a small wooden shelf and pours some into two silver goblets.

“To your continued health and vivacity, my Vittoria.”

“Reciprocated, my sweet husband.”

Venuccio raises his wife’s hair in his hand and it falls through his fingers like black silk.

“You look charming tonight, Vittoria. Your hair is lustrous and wonderful.”

“And for this you may kiss my hand, Venuccio. On account of my smooth sheets, which I will soon be lying upon.”

“I will watch you sleep.”

“And will your slumber be better as a result?”

Venuccio leans towards his wife and places her hand on his heart. Vittoria’s eyes light up and she looks at him woozily.

“It will beat all the harder on the morrow, my Venuccio.”

“You know me well, Vittoria!”

“I should do, my husband.”

Venuccio sniggers, biting on his goblet gently before taking a draught of the wine.

“So you will sit for him again tomorrow?”

“In the afternoon, after I have assuaged your beating heart!”

Venuccio smiles and winks at his wife.

“And what pray, are your plans tomorrow, husband?”

“Well, after…”

“Yes, when you have crumpled my sheets…”

“Yes, after that… I begin a job for the Mayor. He wants some ornamentation at the entrance of his house.”

“Charming. And will pay you well?”

“Will pay us well, my Vittoria.”

Vittoria smiles contentedly and sips her wine.

“You were going to read to me?”

“If you wish?”

“Certainly. What is it?”

“It is a poem. It’s just a little one that I wrote for you a day or two ago. So, if you are comfortable?”

Vittoria nods and smiles without speaking. Venuccio turns the crisp pages of the book before finding the right poem. He wets his lips with the wine and moves a candle to the table by his side.

“Love is a gift of Venus, her voice softly spoken.

Like a gentle breeze she mellows and glides

Across your fair skin, anointing with care.

The Moon glows, shining upon your soul so pure.

Reaping your beauty, nourishing and growing.

Tranquillity befit of Lunar shadows reawakened.

Mercury whispers, harkening, I listen intently,

His message brought on breath of early dawn,

Unwritten, yet clear like Mayfly’s wing.

Like the silent wings of an owl, Uranus glides unseen.

In the sky, his home he remains like my dreams

Until a thousand fold tales are woven.

Saturn’s pendulum swings, timeless and knowing.

My heart might age, but my love remains the same,

Always and forever for my darling, nurtured in the stars.”

“Oh! It is beautiful, Venuccio!”

Vittoria holds her husband’s wrist and kisses his hand.

“My talented husband. Sculptor and poet.”

“Thank you. I have an exquisite inspiration! More wine? It will help you sleep.”

“You are sure you are not seducing me with the grape, Venuccio?”

“Me?”

“I know it is red blood that runs through those veins, my husband.”

“This from my wife, who seduces me by her very footfall and the swish of her hair.”

“Venuccio, you are a satyr!”

Venuccio disguises his smile with his wine vessel and brings the conversation back to her task.

“See if you can find out who the painting is for. I am curious.”

“You are his student. Why does he not tell you?”

“He tells me nothing. Did he say who commissioned the painting?”

“No. And I don’t like to ask. Simoni is a very difficult man to draw out. Who am I to question someone as well connected as he?”

“Yes, but he is kind in many ways. He is charitable. But a perfectionist. If he asks you to sit for so long, you may depend on it that there is a reason.”

“I am sure.”

“So he gives nothing away? I find he talks to himself.”

“Yes, he mutters. Now that you mention it. Giuliano. I distinctly heard him mention Giuliano - twice.”

“Giuliano? It means nothing to me.”

“Oh and he had a visitor yesterday. A messenger.”

“A page?”

“I think not. Higher.”

“He did. There is nothing in that. He is always communicating with The Mount.”

“Well there you have it.”

“Wait…”

Venuccio rubs his beard, deep in thought. 

“Blue like the sea?”

“What?”

“You said he said the paint is ‘blue like the sea?’”

“Yes, why? What is the meaning of that?”

“Giuliano!” Santa Madre!”

“Venuccio?”

****************

Part II

Christmas had come and gone. I had not seen Elizabeth since leaving Rome two weeks earlier. We had kept in touch and it was nice to hear that with her improved cash flow, she and her parents had had their first proper Christmas for three years. Careful management of her finances had allowed them to splash out without piling on extra debt and the stress that came with it; no dreaded January bills landing on the mat. But her debt hadn’t been paid off entirely and mine had only just begun. My money was running out fast.

In contrast to Elizabeth, I was penny pinching, but hadn’t let on to my folks. As far as they were concerned, going to Italy was all part of my work. I deliberately hadn’t kept them ‘in the loop’ and if it came to it, asking them for help would be embarrassing and appear woefully negligent. I had built up my career only to throw it away on a whim. A labour of love – ‘a fool’s errand,’ I could hear them say. Thankfully it hadn’t come to that yet, but there was still the immediate prospect of running out of funds at the most expensive time of the year.

I didn’t want to skimp on presents, so threw caution to the wind and hammered my own credit card in order to get my Mum and Dad some nice things. That was on top of all the bills and an impending trip to Florence. I had sat down to a very depressing two minutes with my calculator, which after adding up everything twice, showed that there was seven hundred pounds between me and destitution. The various tests on the painting had soaked up the bulk of my money, and having it professionally cleaned, followed by the flights and insurance. I had bargained for all of that. I had soaked up money somewhere and a lot of it.

I checked all my receipts, looking for a black hole. It dawned on me that I had borrowed to cover the main expenditures – all the big things. What I had over-looked was all the little things - the stuff you take for granted with a regular income. Not being an accountant, what I had underestimated were the coffees at Starbucks; petrol for my car; all the little treats that you just don’t think twice about. They all totted up. Taking into account the return flight to Florence, my accommodation and Giorgio’s fees, I was heading for a major overdraft situation.

I hadn’t let on to Elizabeth. I just did the whole Ostrich routine and opted to worry another day. I figured, worst case scenario I would get my money back and then just find another job. It wasn’t about the money though. The romance of the painting - Rome - all the dreams I had dreamed, of going around the world on a yacht with Elizabeth would be nothing more than that - dreams.

After leaving Rome, things hadn’t stood still. The painting had been sent to Florence under the supervision of Elanora’s team and waved under the noses of the Florence School of Art. They don’t waste their time for just anyone who claims to have a Michelangelo. Giorgio and the Director at the Art Institute in Rome had thrown all their weight behind our painting. Giorgio was keeping me informed along the way. He said that they would convene in the new year and then we would just have to wait. It might be one week, or it might be two.

*****************************

I awoke on New Year’s Day with less of an hangover than I had anticipated. Looking down the street from my bedroom window I was surprised to see that all the snow had thawed overnight. All that remained of the festivities were the spent shells of a few squibs and semi-inflated balloons now hanging forlornly from their lamp posts.

I had a sense of melancholy, mixed with trepidation. Having come so far in the lead up to Christmas, I was now on the precipice of failure. I might have thousands of pounds worth of scientific evaluation backing me up, but at the end of the day it was going to come down to the consideration of five people. Giorgio left me in no doubt as to the magnitude of it all. A small drawing by Michelangelo had fetched 10 million pounds - double the estimate - in 2011. That was just a drawing or cartoon, as they were known.

An undiscovered finished painting by the great man was just unprecedented. One was thought to have all the credentials in 2012 when it was discovered behind another painting in a college in Salisbury. That one hadn’t had the backing of Giorgio. It failed to gain the final seal of approval and is relegated to a footnote in the long list of ‘if onlys.’ However, Giorgio said that Elizabeth’s painting stood out. There was just something about it. I had pored over photos of the main one in The Sistine Chapel as a student as well as other examples of Michelangelo’s art. He was very good at hands for a start. Some of the greatest artists have struggled with hands and either messed them up or avoided them altogether. He had a gift of expression, pathos and depth of interpretation. The beauty of his portrayal of the Virgin Mary in Elizabeth’s painting embodied all his finesse. The modesty in her sideways gaze and protective embrace of her baby was beautifully depicted.

Yet the Florence School of Art were notoriously tough cookies. They were secretive and surrounded in mystery, nominating and electing their members behind closed doors. Any ruling was unchallengeable and final. There was no court of appeal, no second chance. What they said went, so I was glad I had a world authority on my side. I asked Giorgio if he would have made a call without all the science. His answer was honest but reassuring. “Yes, but it’s nice to have the proof.”

Elizabeth had gone back to work and made the difficult decision not to come to Florence. We simply couldn’t risk her losing her job if it all went wrong at the last moment. Being late back from Rome once was embarrassing, twice would seem like carelessness. Her boss was not the most understanding of individuals, so we made a joint decision that I should travel alone.

She was acutely aware that it was a massive trip. I had never sat down with her and seriously discussed that outcome. I guess we were both avoiding it. It would still be a great painting but would knock a couple of noughts off the value. We would, with Giorgio’s blessing ask it to be catalogued as ‘After Michelangelo.’ This was art world parlance for ‘painted by someone who was attempting to recreate the same style.’ It wouldn’t mean it was a forgery, just an homage to the original artist. Maybe it was a student or another little known contemporary. It was still a big deal, simply given the age of the work, but it was a different ball park from the real McCoy. The result would be that we had all our debts paid off and a really good holiday but the yacht would have to wait.

The first snowdrop shoots had begun to emerge, when I embarked on my trip to Italy. I had heard about Florence and knew that it ranked among the great cities of Europe, but I cherished the memories of Rome. It was where Elizabeth and I had properly fallen in love. Where we realized that we were making a commitment to each other, besides having fantastic sex. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed not having her being by my side. I wanted to share the moment with her, either to have her shoulder to cry on, or share the moment of elation, if that was what was meant to happen.

Florence itself was beautiful but lacked the ostentatious grandeur of Rome. It was a little more laid back, yet none the less enchanting. Terracotta roofs and domes, beautiful statues and ancient palladia and archways. There was less of an inclination for me though to do anything remotely touristy. Not least because I was trying to be frugal and also that without Elizabeth to enjoy it with, I felt that the experience would be a little anaemic. I had a job to do and just wanted to get on with it and come home.

I spent the Monday doing very little indeed. It was Italy but it was January and still very cold. I found a small museum, and whiled away a few hours looking at Roman beakers and mosaics. My hotel had basic TV but lacked the satellite channels, so I was glad that I had brought the novel that I was reading. Italian soap operas were not my thing.

I was up early on the Tuesday amid Florentine drizzle and eked out my breakfast in small nibbles, finding my appetite suppressed by my butterflies, which had turned into Emperor Moths.

I was due to meet Giorgio at 10am, who had taken the 90 minute trip from Rome by train. He had presented his evidence in writing in the new year and now he was as eager as me to hear their decision. I met him at the station and we took a taxi from there. We sat quietly for a while in contemplation. I couldn’t believe I was about to get an answer. Giorgio, probably sensing my nerves, broke the silence with a little small talk.

“Good New Year, Cindy?”

“Not bad. Had a bad cold. Spent most of it in bed. You?”

“Si. Quiet. With family. The fireworks were ummm…spettacolare. You say?”

“Spectacular?”

“Si. Spectaculare.”

“Good eh? I watched them on TV. Edinburgh looked the best.”

“Si. They did a display from the Colosseo. It was fantastic!”

“Cool. How do you think it will go today, Giorgio?”

“I cannot say. I am quietly… compiaciuto. Sorry, I can’t think of the word.”

“It’s okay.”

“Don’t worry, Cindy. I want the same outcome as you.”

“I know. It’s like waiting for your exam results but a million times worse!”

Giorgio tapped my hand warmly and smiled.

“I understand. Anyway, Cindy. We are here.”

I looked through the drizzle covered window of the taxi and clambered out after Giorgio. We entered through the revolving doors of the foyer. It was a luxuriously designed building of biscuit-coloured stone and topped with a gorgeous brick red dome and had intricately fashioned Renaissance windows. We were greeted by a lady who was introduced to me by Giorgio.

“Cindy, this is Valeria, she is a spokesperson for the School and is also a lover of Michelangelo.”

I shook hands with Valeria, who was a woman in her early forties and who smiled kindly through somewhat old fashioned spectacles. She had perfect English and a rather faint accent compared with Giorgio’s archetypal Italian.

“So Cindy. You have been like a cat on a hot tin roof?”

“You could say that, but I’ve tried not to let it get in the way too much.”

“It is a beautiful painting, Cindy. Do you want to follow me.”

We were taken across the shiny floor of the entrance, which had a large staircase at one end and a number of doors leading off, one of which was guarded by a serious, uniformed man. Valeria spoke to him briefly in Italian, which resulted in him unlocking the door.

“Please, please,” said Valeria, ushering Giorgio and I into the room. I entered first and there, on an easel by the window was Elizabeth’s painting. In the centre of the room was a polished wooden table and three chairs, where I sat and waited for the other two to join me. Giorgio seated himself, but Valeria remained standing and stood to one side of the painting.

“Thank you. Okay, so I am sure you are chomping at the bit, so I will try not to over prevaricate.”

I looked at Giorgio for reassurance, but he seemed at least as nervous as me.

“I’m sure you know, Cindy,” began Valeria, “That there is a much larger version of this painting in Capella Cistina, in Rome.”

“Yes, I saw it.”

“Ah, so you know, the poses are identical, or nearly identical.”

“Yes, it was remarkable. Sorry, I’m interrupting you…”

Valeria smiled and waved away my apology.

“So, I hope to be able to tell you some things that you don’t already know. And you too, Giorgio.”

Giorgio nodded slowly, rubbing and twisting his beard in that way of his.

“We have in our library many documents pertaining to Michelangelo and it is clear that the painting in Capella Cistina had a predecessor. That painting was completed in 1514. The earlier one, we have evidence to show, was finished in March of 1512. The clergyman shares a likeness to Pope Julius, but depicted in stylized garb. Michelangelo had persuaded the Pope to allow him to paint the ceiling of the Sistine chapel but by 1512 had fallen behind, not helped by working for a whole year and starting over. Pope Julius was probably eager to see it finished in his life time and maybe Michelangelo made the ecclesiastical figure look like him, as a way of buying some favour and extra patience.”

I sat fascinated, listening to Valeria’s background notes. I put a hand up politely, burning to ask a question.

“Yes, Cindy.”

“Wasn’t it odd to start a huge painting while he was doing the ceiling?”

Giorgio nodded and smiled at my question.

“It is a good question, Cindy. Michelangelo was a supreme genius. Like other such figures… Leonardo… Newton, they were never at rest. Who is to say why and when he did what he did. We cannot tell. Anyway, turning to the original painting - the sample as it were. On consulting our archive, we have uncovered an entry in the diary of a contemporary of Michelangelo. One Venuccio de Lambra. He was a sculptor and painter who worked alone and also worked for Michelangelo on some important jobs…”

I didn’t like the way this was going. I had never heard of Venuccio de Lambra, no disrespect to him, but was preparing myself for the news that my painting was by him.

“… I will translate an entry from his diary on the day of November 3, 1512. ‘Astonished and grateful beyond measure. Simoni today gifted us with the portrait of Our Lady and Christ for the birth of our treasured little son, Venuccio.’”

“Who is Simoni?!” I blurted out.

“Michelangelo,” said Giorgio.

“Oh of course, sorry.”

“Yes,” added Valeria. “His closest friends and associates knew Michelangelo by his last name as a mark of respect.”

“Oh! So Michelangelo just gave this painting to his friend?”

“So it would appear. Michelangelo’s private life was alas not recorded, so there we enter into the realm of speculation.”

“Oh, so what happened then?”

“Well… therein hangs a tale.”

I looked at our painting with renewed optimism as Valeria’s rather enigmatic story continued to unfold.

“The next mention in our records are in the will and testament of Venuccio de Lambra senior, on his death in 1571. We know he left the painting to his younger son, but after that we are in the dark.”

“Oh, I see.”

"Yes, but following your excellent research in Rome, we have been able to fill in a few gaps.  Actually, this was very important. We have traced a catalogue of the renowned art dealer Giovani Moretti, and find that he acquired the painting in 1895 from a collection in the sale of Eduardo Columbo, whose family had a number of very great works including two more by Michaelangelo.  The fact that the painting belonged to the Columbo family is a further pointer. It is only a surprise that they let this go, but we will never know."

"Wow, that's fascinating," I said.

“So, of course, your painting has surfaced and now we were faced with a question. Is this the lost painting given to Venuccio in 1512?”

“Wow!”

“There are two things to bear in mind. Michelangelo is a difficult artist to copy. While certainly, he had some talented contemporaries, the hallmarks that hail a true Michelangelo are hard to replicate. On the other hand, lost paintings by Michelangelo are as rare as hen’s teeth. The age we know beyond doubt is correct. That is not disputed. The further knowledge that the blue of The Virgin’s cloak is painted in Ultramarine is a strong indication.”

I wasn’t one to bite my nails, but I now found myself sitting there, nibbling away.

“My astute and learned colleagues have deliberated and assessed your painting, examining the detail minutely, taking into account the various scientific analyses and of course the opinion of Giorgio, who is held in their high esteem. Might I ask, Cindy. Why did you think this might be a Michelangelo?”

“Me? Ummm… I studied him as a student. I just felt it was right. It’s beautiful.”

“And… The Committee agree with you. They have no doubt that this is the lost original of The Adoration of Madonna and Child.”

“What?”

I turned to Giorgio.

“It means it’s the real thing, Cindy.”

Valeria gave me a hanky, as I was flooding with tears of joy.

“What… what happens now?” I asked, sniffing.

“That is up to you,” answered Valeria, “But should this come on the market, I assure you that the government will make every effort to buy it. The School would like to offer you our services for free, in counselling you through the process. I expect they will make a very generous offer, but if you wish to take it to an auction in England, we understand.”

“Thank you, that’s incredible.”

“We do however insist on organizing the transport back to England, if you chose that route. We would expect you to defray that cost as part of any sale, of course.”

“Yeah, of course. Sorry, I can’t think, I need to ring Elizabeth.”

I went back into the entrance hall, trembling from head to toe. I sent Elizabeth an SMS, saying I needed to speak to her come what may.

“Hi Cindy!”

“I’m here at the Florence School of Art.”

“Yes?!”

“It’s by Michelangelo, Elizabeth! We did it! We did it!”

…

“Elizabeth?”

“I’m here. It’s just… I’m going to cry now…”

“I so wish you was here! I’m a wreck. There’s all these things to think about.”

“I think it will sink in later. I can’t wait to tell Mum and Dad.”

“They’re going to make you an offer, but they expect you’ll want to put it on the market.”

“Do we have to be on the news and everything?”

“No, Valeria - she’s like the spokeswoman person, says we can remain anonymous. But the sale will be front page stuff obviously.”

“Where’s the painting now?”

“It’s in this room. It’s going to be kept under armed guard or something. They’re arranging everything. We just have to sell it!”

I went back into the room and thanked Valeria and Giorgio for everything.

“Congratulations, Cindy. This is a momentous find! Momentous!” said Giorgio.

“Someone will be in touch,” said Valeria shaking my hand.

The drizzly rain had not abated when I walked into the street and I hailed a taxi to take me back to my hotel. Florence was beautiful but it didn’t feel right enjoying it without Elizabeth.

****************************

I came back from Italy in a bit of a daze. Everything had happened so quickly and it was hard to believe that it was nearly ‘job done.’ I had made an appointment with this guy from Florence, who was to bring a representative of the Italian government. Elizabeth and I enrolled a guy from Curzon’s the Auctioneers. We had chosen them because of their experience in high profile fine art sales. I had explained the slightly convoluted history - her great uncle; Elizabeth selling it and then me buying it. That I had just given the painting back to Elizabeth, in sight of my Solicitor, just so no one could say we had done anything funny. I wondered what Craig would make of it. He would be bound to recognize the painting and realize that he had let a Masterpiece slip through his fingers. He couldn’t say I didn’t tell him!

The day before the meeting, the Florence connection phoned and reluctantly pulled out after failing to come up with a figure that everyone at their end could agree on. That was before even we had had the chance to turn them down. Giorgio was surprised by that outcome but put it down to Italian bureaucracy. Curzon’s had admitted they had no idea how much the painting was worth, so it was going to be a surprise for everyone. The School of Art in Florence were as good as their word and the painting was delivered to Curzon’s on our instruction by a special courier and arrived amid a flurry of publicity. Suddenly it was on the Six O’Clock News. It was all a bit surreal.

The day before the sale was Elizabeth’s Mum’s birthday and it was a big one. I had met her parents briefly when Elizabeth introduced me before Christmas, but as far as they were concerned we were just very good friends. We wanted to keep it that way from their perspective. Elizabeth didn’t think the time was quite right to break the news properly and turn me into ‘the elephant in the room.’ I liked that we were still a kind of secret. It made it exciting.

They had toyed with the idea of hiring the church hall, but in the end Elizabeth’s Mum decided to hold a party at their house, which was quite big. Even so, it was a full house. I hadn’t had a get together with my parents since my 21st . There were never enough chairs.

Elizabeth and her Mum and auntie had done most of the baking. It was a nice do. There were those things that you only ever see at family parties, like vol au vents. Elizabeth had surprised her Mum with her cake. It was a huge Tunis cake, which I had never heard of but apparently had been popular years ago and was enjoying a revival thanks to Mary Berry. As a lover of chocolate and marzipan I made sure I had a big chunk. Elizabeth was meant to be cutting equal slices but I guess the knife slipped.

It’s surprising how hard it is to pretend to be ‘just good friends’ when you are a touchy feely kind of person. Never mind that I wanted to rip Elizabeth’s clothes off. She looked very appealing at the party in her shiny grey dress. I mingled with her friends and family, sipping wine and smiling, while trying not to be too obviously distracted by my lover’s peachy bum as she wiggled round her house. I politely took one of her canapés but pinched an extra glass of champagne from the tray as she whisked it from guest to guest.

Finding five minutes alone with Elizabeth was proving a challenge, not helped by her numerous relatives who just wanted to talk about the painting, which was understandable. My own role in the matter appeared to have been exaggerated. One person thought I was an art critic, another understood that I was a ‘great artist’ whatever that meant. I suppose it was Chinese whispers or something, or maybe people just like to be impressed. One guy, who said he was Elizabeth’s uncle seemed to take a shining to me. I have that effect on middle aged men. I suppose my dress was a little plunging around the neck line. However, I did manage to slip away and ‘grabbed’ Elizabeth as she was passing.

“Hey! Ummm… your Mum was asking about the stuffed olives.”

“Stuffed olives?”

“Yes, black or green…”

I tugged Elizabeth by the wrist, dragging her into the hall.

“I’ve not even done any stuffed…”

“Yes, they’re in here…”

I opened the door under her staircase and pulled her in, suddenly finding ourselves in total darkness, but ever so close.

“Cindy, why are we in the larder?”

“I just wanted five minutes.”

Elizabeth fumbled for the light, as I eased my hands around her waist and over her bottom.

“You’re naughty, Cindy Lucina.”

“That dress is awesome! You look so sexy.”

I squeezed Elizabeth’s bum cheeks in each hand and kissed her at the same time. Elizabeth ran her fingers up my arms sending goose bumps everywhere.

“I’ve never made love in a larder,” I admitted.

“It’s a bit impossible, isn’t it.”

“Just kiss me then.”

Elizabeth’s lips met mine in a soft embrace as our tongues played together in secret.

“How many glasses have you had?” asked Elizabeth.

“’I’m sober honest. I’ve seen so little of you in the last three weeks, I’m just making up for lost time.” This is quite exciting isn’t it.”

Elizabeth kissed me again.

“It is actually. I wonder how long we can go missing before someone twigs?”

“I don’t know. Ages probably.”

“Hmmm… wait till I get you properly alone.”

“Can’t wait. I bet your Mum will be looking for you.”

“I know, but another kiss won’t hurt.”

Elizabeth’s tongue parted my lips as her hands caressed my bum and we stood squashed together in an unfeasibly tight space like two teenagers stealing five minutes at break time.

“What time do we have to be there tomorrow?” asked Elizabeth.

“The sale’s at one. I said we’d be there at twelve. They’re expecting it to be a full house, but Jeff from Curzon’s is saving us a couple of seats.”

“Cool. We’d better get back to the party.”

“Elizabeth?”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

Elizabeth sank her hands into my waist and squeezed me like a tube of toothpaste, squishing my boobs together under my top. My nipples became hard and I had a job to stay composed.

“I love you too.”

“Can we go away on a big holiday when it’s all done and dusted?” I said.

“Where?”

“Anywhere. But somewhere special. Just you and me.”

“I’d love that. Ooh Cindy, you’ve got me all worked up now and I can’t do anything about it.”

“I know. Sorry. Party.”

“Okay. Don’t forget the olives.”

I kissed her again and switched off the light.

The day of the auction was one of those bright frosty days, when the sun seems to be on over time and any clouds have shrunk beyond the horizon. I met Elizabeth at our favourite coffee shop in town. I was in a tastefully jazzy but business-like suit; she was in navy dress and her new posh shoes.

“I’m nervous,” said Elizabeth. “I’ve never been to an auction before, never mind one for a painting like that.”

“It’ll be fine. No one knows who the owner is, apart from who you’ve told. There’ll be a few cameras and stuff. Just ignore them and enjoy it.”

“I know, but I know I’m the owner. Will we be able to see the painting?”

“Yeah, it will be on display.”

“I just hope it goes somewhere that people will see it, and enjoy it.”

“I think it will, hun. I think the Italians will pay anything to buy it. So it will end up in a gallery somewhere.”

“I hope so.”

“Yes, Giorgio says it’s like they believe it’s rightfully theirs. It’s like the Greeks and the Elgin Marbles.”

“Yeah, you know when I was a little girl I thought they were like little glass marbles. I was like, what’s the fuss!”

“Awww Elizabeth.”

“Who do you think they’ll be up against?”

“Who?”

“Sorry, the Italians.”

“Ummm… probably the Qataris. They bought Cezanne’s Card Players.”

“Oh what was that?”

“That my sexy friend, is the current record for a painting.”

“Oh, I thought that was Jackson Pollock.”

“Lots of people think that. I think it depends who the media think is important. The Card Players almost doubled the price for the Pollock.”

“Really? That Pollock. I always thought that was a bit fishy.”

“Fishy… Oh ha ha ha!? Anyway babe, we had better be going.”

“Okay, let me just finish dunking my biscotti or I’ll lose a tooth.”

“Yeah, we’re okay yet. Loving the dress by the way.”

“Thank you. I’ve only worn it once. I thought it looked right. I was thinking about a hat.”

“It’s not Ascot!”

“Ha! I know, anyway it might have attracted attention.”

“Let’s just go with the flow. You look great.”

The overflow car park at Curzon’s had kicked into action when we arrived, but my guy had had a spot coned off for us. There were mobile TV stations from BBC and Sky News and reporters parked by the barrier. Elizabeth and I flashed our passes at the attendant on the door and we joined the throng. The majority were guests of the auction house and a Who’s Who of the art world.

The main viewing gallery had been seated out and already there was standing room only with TV cameras around the outside and microphones erected near the front. There at the front, with pride of place was our painting. It was on an easel, with a back drop of black velvet and behind that, a large purple screen, with the auctioneer’s logo emblazoned in gold lettering.

The Managing Director of Curzon’s approached us and showed us to our seat. He gave us some last minute updates and the low down on the sale.

“We’ve got five phones up, Cindy. We should be good to go in ten. We’re just waiting for someone in Australia. If they don’t get in gear soon, they will miss the boat.”

“Oh right. Is there an internet bid?”

“No, not for this sale. We normally do, obviously, but this is a bit different.”

“I guess.”

“Anyway, I’m needed. And good luck.” He smiled at Elizabeth and shook her hand as he spoke and went off with someone from the press.

As the minute hand moved round to 1pm, everyone got into place. The phones were manned by three women and two men, all seated along a table at right angles to the rostrum.

“I’ve never been so excited,” said Elizabeth.

“Me too. I think he’s getting ready to start.”

“Whatever it makes,” said Elizabeth, sincerity etched into her lovely features. “We go half. Hundreds of thousands, a few million. We split it down the middle.”

“You don’t have to, baby. It’s your painting.”

“No Cindy. It’s ours. Well, until it’s sold.”

“See your folks right. If there’s a bit left over…”

My sentence was interrupted by the auctioneer who tapped his microphone, bringing everyone to order. He introduced himself and confirmed that for this auction there was no internet bid and no reserve. As he said, ‘It had to go.’

There was a definite buzz about the place as he got things under way. My heart was going ten to the dozen. I had been to umpteen auctions but nothing like this.

“Okay ladies and gentlemen, I can start on commission. We’ve got a few bids on the books… twenty… thirty… forty… fifty million pounds. That seems sensible. Do I see sixty million?”

Elizabeth looked at me open-mouthed and gripped my hand. I just stared back. The auctioneer acknowledged one of the phones.

“Thank you, sixty million. Seventy?”

One of the ladies on the phone raised a finger.

“Seventy million. Do I see eighty?”

Three hands went up but two phone bidders backed out.

“Thank you. Ninety if you like.”

All eyes were on the auctioneer as he kept the sale going. Then, the cat was put among the pigeons as there was a call from a phone bidder of one hundred million.

“Thank you. And do I hear one hundred and ten million?”

There were more nods from two phone bidders but the third and final woman re-seated her receiver and politely waved her hand at the auctioneer.

“Okay, so for this wonderful Michelangelo painting, do I have one hundred and twenty million?”

Elizabeth was gripping my arm. I looked at her and saw that she was struggling to take it in. Both remaining phone bidders were still interested.

“One hundred and thirty million?”

One guy nodded but the other was in conversation with his client.

“One hundred and thirty five if it helps?” said the auctioneer.

Both clerks spoke down their respective phones and then there was a pause as their clients were no doubt weighing things up. Things were getting serious. There were nods from both clerks.

“One hundred and forty million!”

The first guy raised a finger. There were gasps from the auction and a general hum of excitement.

“Thank you. One hundred and forty five.”

There were more conversations on the phone. The first guy nodded to the auctioneer. The second guy was holding things up and then shook his head and placed his receiver.

“Final warning then.”

Elizabeth was holding onto my arm, as if her life depended on it. I knew it would be big bucks, but I never expected this.

“Going once, going twice… The Adoration of Madonna and Baby by Michelangelo. Sold for one hundred and forty five million pounds!”

The auctioneer brought down his gavel with a whack! It made me and Elizabeth jump. There was a sudden burst of flash photography and the telephone clerk was swamped by the media. I turned to Elizabeth and hugged her tight where she sat. No one was looking at us. I kissed her face as the tears rolled down her cheeks. I didn’t weep. I think I was in a shock. My journey had been different to hers and I don’t think it had sunk in.

Elizabeth smiled through her tears of joy and gave me a slightly damp peck on the lips. At the same time, I felt my phone whir in my pocket. It was a message from Giorgio. I clicked on the little envelope and held my phone up, so that Elizabeth and I could read it together. It read simply, ‘We got it back.’