The Island

one. diana and her companions

The large room filled with crates of art work is already open when I descent to the vaults and my father is waiting for me. I pull my sunglasses over my eyes as I enter, staving off the hangover which still clings to me.

"Has it arrived yet?" I ask by means of a greeting.

Today is the day that the latest instalment of the Astor collection is due to arrive, and it is tradition that my father and I unbox it together.

He points to the long white table in the middle of the room, where a crate is sat, and I feel excitement stirring in me. We walk over to the crate and my father pulls it open with a smile. There are few things in life that bring him more joy than setting eyes on a new piece of art work he can call his own.

I lift the painting from its crate and my heart skips as the painting comes into view. It is an early Vermeer, known as
Diana and her Companions, and is every bit as striking in real life as one might imagine. I set the canvas down and my father and I take a few steps back in silence, admiring the beauty of the scene.

"We were lucky with this one," my father comments, unable to keep the smile out of his voice. This vault is the only place in the world it seems that he can be himself, and sometimes I resent him for it. The carefully cultivated persona of a stern businessman only slips in the presence of his art; his measured and emotionless expression only alters when it is touched by beauty.

"Is it going on loan to a gallery?" I ask, observing the subtleties of the work which allude to its mythological origins. It would be a tragedy for such an incredible piece to be hidden away.

I am surprised when my father shakes his head. "The V&A have already put in an offer, but I have other plans for the remaining collection."

"Other plans?"

"I plan to hold my own exhibition and auction for the Astor Art Foundation at the end of the summer," he explains, straightening his tie. I know this means that he is craving a cigarette, and the time I have remaining with him is running short.

"You're auctioning off the collection?"

"Only the inexpensive pieces," he nods, checking his watch and then going back to fiddling with his tie. Though many people revere my father as one of the world's finest art collectors and dealers, his life has been filled with scandal and gossip. He has been married three times - once to a woman, my mother, for only two years - then to two men, the first of whom he cheated on with his current husband, Paulo. My mother never knew my father was gay, when she married him, but she soon found out when she discovered the extensive list of men he had been sleeping with while they were together.

Needless to say, my mother moved to Los Angeles with three of my father's favourite works of art and has since relocated them to homes from which my father will never be able to retrieve them. I fly out to see her occasionally, but our relationship has been strained ever since she ran away with the painting which I loved above all others: Edvard Munch's Love and Pain.

"Where will the exhibition be held?" I wonder, pushing away thoughts of my mother, whose betrayal hurt more than my father's ever did.

"I have my eye on a few locations - nothing is certain, yet."

"I could organise it."

My father raises an eyebrow, and I can tell from his expression what he will say next. We've had this conversation a thousand times before; I ask if I can get involved in the business, he says no, we argue. You need time to be young and free, he will say, now is the time for mistakes.

"I'm ready for this," I try to tell him, adopting my most self assured tone of confidence. The kind of tone that can only be learnt in the prestigious halls of elite educational institutions.

In his pocket, my father's phone begins to ring. He pulls it out and glances at the screen, "It's Paolo. I need to get home."

"But—"

"Actually, Harriet, you can help me with this project."

I quickly turn on my heel and follow him out of the vault, eager to hear what he has to say. This could finally be my chance to prove that I'm ready to be a big part of the Astor Foundation, something I've been dreaming of for years.

"There is a painting I want to acquire, without which my exhibition simply cannot go ahead." We step onto the escalators and my heart rate spikes with anticipation. "I want Munch's Love and Pain back."

"But mummy gave it to...James Forbes." I say this name cautiously, and with a bitter taste on my tongue. Forbes was one of the wealthiest business tycoons in the country, and also happened to be the man with whom it turned out my mother had been sleeping with while her marriage broke down. When the divorce papers were finally signed, she handed Love and Pain over to Forbes, knowing he would never relinquish his hold on it.

He and my father had been avid rivals at Eton, and that continued right the way through Oxford (my father got a place at Brasenose college, whereas Forbes was reallocated to St Johns), and then into their business careers. Although Forbes knew little about art, he had several professional buyers to do the job for him.

My father nodded contemplatively. If he was as bothered by that name as I was, he didn't show it. "And James Forbes gave it to his son," he said.

I dug around in the deep recesses of my brain for a name. "...Rafael Forbes?"

"The very same."

I vaguely recall hearing that Rafael was expelled from Harrow, something to do with an indecent teacher-student relationship, and was then shipped off to some international school in Switzerland. That's how most rich parents worked, you see – by a strict policy of out of sight, out of mind.

"Does anybody even know where he is nowadays?" I wonder aloud.

"It shouldn't be too hard to track him down," my father replies as we exit the building and head toward our respective chauffeured vehicles. "I'll leave the issue in your capable hands, Harriet. The exhibition will be held on August 24th. If you need anything, you have my card. No expenses spared – I want that painting back."

Don't worry, I thought with a wry smile, I do too. Not to mention a hint of revenge...