The Twelfth Tablet - Ebook by Tom Harper Page A

not very hard. All the power seemed to have temporarily drained out of him.
    The woman caressed the statue’s leg, running her hand down to the heel. Her lips brushed the cold bronze – a kiss, an offering.
    She straightened up. The look on her face almost made Paul forget the fist holding him.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
    Paul cleared his throat. ‘I think you ought to–’
    The fist hadn’t relaxed ‘Are you done?’ the man demanded. The woman stared up at the statue. She nodded.
    Paul stumbled as the fist let him go. The man took the woman’s arm and shepherded her to the door – leisurely, smirking. Paul turned out the lights, locked the door and prayed to the gods – ancient, modern, he didn’t care – that none of the guards had seen. If the curator knew…
    ‘I’m Ari, by the way,’ the man introduced himself, as if he’d never laid a finger on Paul. ‘This is Valerie.’
    He shook Paul’s hand. When he let go, Paul felt a wad of Swiss francs fat in his palm.
    ‘For the museum,’ said Ari. He winked.
    ‘Thank you so much.’ Valerie peered at him, as if looking for something she might have forgotten. ‘It was unforgettable.’
    Paul smoothed his shirt and watched them go. Just before the lift, he saw Valerie stretch up and whisper something in Ari’s ear. She looked like a ballerina, her toes pointed and her body pressed tight against her jersey dress. A silhouette that even the most hardened sculptor might have thought worth a block of marble.
    Ari nodded; she turned.
    ‘Why don’t you come for a drink?’
    ‘That’s very kind. Really, I should–’
    ‘Ari doesn’t mind. Do you?’
    Ari’s smile showed teeth as sharp as a can opener. ‘You must. We have to celebrate.’
    Paul blinked. ‘Celebrate what?’
    ‘Aphrodite.’
     
    ‘Have you worked for the museum long?’ Valerie asked.
    They sat in the bar of the Four Seasons: Ari filling out a club chair, Paul crammed on a loveseat with Valerie, squeezing against the end trying not to rub against her. Among the Gucci and Armani, his brown corduroy jacket felt like sackcloth. He hoped Ari was paying.
    He felt the wad of notes in his jacket pocket and savoured the weight. He could pay, if he had to.
    ‘I’ve been there two years. I just help out in the office – cataloguing, administration, paperwork. Only part-time. I’m still finishing off my doctorate.’
    ‘That’s fantastic.’ Valerie smelled of cigarettes and perfume: a dark, hazy scent that felt like 3am in someone else’s room. ‘I always wanted to finish university.’
    The waiter brought champagne and three glasses on a silver tray. A wisp of icy smoke rose out of the bottle.
    Ari gripped his champagne in a paw and took a slug. ‘So much of life is fake,’ he announced. ‘This is the real thing. Like Aphrodite.’
    ‘To Aphrodite,’ Valerie and Paul chorused. The champagne was so cold it left frost on his throat.
    Valerie twisted round in the loveseat so she was looking straight at Paul. Her knee pressed against his.
    ‘Tell me about your studies.’
    ‘I’m in the History of Art department here in Zurich. I–’
    ‘But you’re not Swiss?’ Ari interrupted.
    ‘English. I transferred here two years ago. From Cambridge,’ he added, hoping it didn’t sound arrogant.
    ‘What are you working on?’
    Paul hesitated. Six years in academia had taught him you had to judge your audience’s tolerance for details. ‘Ancient Greek religion.’
    ‘You do ancient Greece?’ A look passed between Ari and Valerie. ‘Perhaps you can help us.’
    Ari pulled a glossy sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded it. A tear ran down one edge where it had been ripped out of something.
    ‘You know this?’
    In the main photograph, a black background framed a flat piece of gold. Its edges were torn ragged; creases scored the surface, cutting through the tiny letters that had been pressed into the surface with blindpoint. It looked solid; in reality, Paul knew, it