Page 66 of Eternal Obsession
“You can handle anything. You’re the bravest person I know.”
“Actually, you are.”
“So how are you really?”
“I’m doing okay.”
Ingrid poked around in her bag and pulled out a card.
“What have you got there?”
“It’s a postcard. Someone left it yesterday at the station front desk for me. It’s of St. Catherine of Alexandria.”
“Let me see.” Elizabeth reached over and took the card from Ingrid. “She’s beautiful.”
“It’s taken from a portrait that’s showing at the National Gallery. It’s on loan, apparently. Limited time to view it. The card’s postmarked from here in London.”
Elizabeth flipped the postcard over. “Ingrid, eight o’clock. That’s all that’s written on it? Looks like you have a secret admirer.”
“I doubt that.”
“Darling, trust me,” Elizabeth said. “You are smart and beautiful, and that’s why men don’t approach you. Perfect skin, big brown eyes, full lips, tight arse. Why, if I wasn’t married . . .”
“You’re outrageous!”
“Now the National is the sort of place that you’ll meet the best guys. You know, your type. Intellectuals always hang out at galleries, museums, etcetera. Go on and get down to the National!” Elizabeth winked.
“What if he turns out to be a stalker. You know you can’t be too careful.”
“What if you took a leap into the unknown. Anyway, if you do meet someone cute, research them within an inch of their life. Spy on them.”
“Is that fair, though?”
“We are women, darling, magnificent and meticulous. It is our divine duty and right to deploy every ounce of investigative genius we possess to scrutinize those fortunate enough to orbit our stratosphere.”
“I like that.”
“Permission given to dive deep into their minds.” Elizabeth winked. “And their private lives.”
Ingrid brushed her thumb over the postcard admiring the remarkable 1507 portrait. It captured Raphael’s rendition of martyrdom as divine ecstasy rather than what it really was, the torture of a young woman for her faith.
It was eerie and yet mesmerizing.
What did sending her this mean? Or perhaps she was overthinking it.
“Now I must dash, as hubby is cooking tonight and such an event is a bit like a solar eclipse. Blink and you will have to wait another hundred years for the stars to align. Now it is what—seven o’clock? Better get moving.”
Ingrid peered down at the postcard again. “Isn’t it strange that this invitation is for tonight?”
“The same evening you’re in London.” Elizabeth sat back, stunned. “Oh, that changes everything. You can’t go. Not now you’ve told me that.”
Chapter Thirty-One
JADEON
London, the city that no longer sleeps.
It is here that I find some solitude, wandering among the crowds until my need for normality subsides. I love this vibrant capital, more for its culture than anything. Sometimes Alex likes to come with me. Other times, like on this occasion, he wanted to hang out in the West End and take in a magic show.
