Playing Grace Read Online Free PDF Page B

postcards of Will and Kate. As the traffic stopped she saw the boy nearest her extract a mask of the prime minister from his bag. He seemed highly delighted with his purchase and she wondered why until she heard him shout ‘Simon Cowell’ and hold it over his face. There was no time to laugh at that because now it was a half-run, half-walk to get to the safety of the next traffic island before the impatient drivers, revving their engines, surged forward as the lights changed again and mowed you down.
    Cutting across Trafalgar Square and squinting to see what was on the fourth plinth, she scattered pigeons and headed for the domed and columned mass of theNational Gallery. A quick check of her watch – no, Gilbert’s tour would not have finished. If she was quick, she could catch him in action. Making slow progress against the flow of visitors already exiting, she reached the stairs and climbed them to arrive in the run of rooms dedicated to sixteenth-century European paintings. The atmosphere was hushed, reverential almost, as she approached a gallery in which, at the far end, she could see Gilbert and his tour of four people. They were gathered around a picture of a portly woman whose hand was resting on a stone balustrade.
    In his pink shirt and pale linen trousers, his jacket slung over one arm, Gilbert could have been any urbane man in his sixties who, judging by his slight paunch, was too fond of a good meal and a good drink. Yet close up, the half-moon glasses, the intensity of his tone and the way he was talking as much with his hands as with his mouth hinted at a more cultured, perhaps studious, person. Grace watched him illustrating Titian’s vigorous brush-strokes.
    Heads moved in closer to the picture. There were nods, noises of consideration.
    ‘And here,’ Gilbert said, moving along to the next painting, the blue of his eyes still vivid behind his glasses, ‘one of the most influential paintings of the Renaissance: Bacchus and Ariadne .’ He surveyed the group and left a pause of afew seconds before confiding, ‘Of course, Titian’s religious paintings of the period exhibit this same vibrancy.’
    There was more nodding as if those listening had known this all along and were happy that Gilbert had been able to confirm it for them.
    Grace was going to move closer when she saw one of the gallery attendants walk slowly towards her, raising a hand in greeting – Samuel, his curly dark hair grey in places, but his friendly, open demeanour still managing to make him look much younger than she guessed he was.
    ‘Puttin’ them all in a trance,’ he said in a soft aside, his accent lilting and tripping and somehow at odds with his sombre gallery uniform.
    Grace nodded. ‘Kind of mesmerises you, doesn’t he?’
    They continued to stand, side by side, as Gilbert moved his group along to the next painting. As he did so, he caught sight of them and lowered his head and peered over the top of his glasses, but did not smile. Gilbert liked to maintain a serious persona with his tours, but when he had all of his group firmly established in front of the next painting, she saw him lift his hand and place it on the back of his head as if smoothing down his hair, before splaying his fingers wide and then wiggling them.
    ‘He’s telling me he’s got another five minutes to go,’ Grace said in response to Samuel’s quizzical look.
    There was a low-throated laugh. ‘He’s a clever one, that Gilbert. Yeah. Really clever.’
    A suggestion of something in Samuel’s voice made Grace turn to look at him. That ‘something’ was in his eyes too, soft and watchful.
    ‘I’ll wait for Gilbert outside,’ she said and walked away as quietly as she could, thinking about Samuel and what that soft look meant and whether Gilbert had any inkling at all.
    Out on the steps, she watched the people in Trafalgar Square before tipping her head back to peer up at Nelson. Did he dream of Lady Hamilton up there, a soft gleam in his