Art and Soul, page 11
She exhaled. Everything had gone to plan.
However, just in case, she decided to put some space between them and the scene of their misdemeanour. As she strode forward and round to the right, Charlie shadowed her, his gaze fixed on the buggy’s wheels.
He didn’t speak again until they had spent a good ten minutes among the Impressionists. This was more than enough time for Dylan to work out he could climb onto the wooden bench in the centre of the room unaided and stand on it before Mummy made him sit down.
With a mighty headache brewing, Becky found herself getting short-tempered with Dylan and his antics. In the short breaks between her son’s attempts to injure himself, she threw cold glances at Charlie’s back. Unmoving as other visitors bustled past him, Charlie was standing in front of Monet’s Irises, staring at the painting with his hands clasped behind his back, infuriatingly unaware of Becky and her indignation.
He hadn’t asked her how she had done it. Nor had he made any comment, positive or negative. What was wrong with him? This was supposed to have been ‘something spectacular’. She had expected surprise, but had hoped for more from him than silence. And, if she were honest, she had also done it to show off. But now she felt like a conjurer whose audience refused to applaud, even when she had pulled an elephant out of a top hat.
Next to her on the bench, Dylan took advantage of her lapse in concentration to sprint towards the metal rail designed to keep people a respectful distance from the art.
Before Becky could get to her feet, Charlie pounced. He grabbed Dylan round the waist and lifted him back from the wall. The toddler wriggled and reached for Becky, who accepted him from Charlie with a sigh and a tight-lipped smile. The parcel passed, Charlie went back to staring at the canvas.
The headache was pressing at the backs of her eyes. Perhaps this was it. All those favours she had called in to get a daub on a wall for a sneaky ten minutes and he had hardly noticed!
She let her gaze settle on the three paintings showing scenes from Monet’s gardens.
‘Have you been to Monet’s gardens at Giverny?’ she asked, merely to see if he were ever going to speak again.
‘No.’ He didn’t take his eyes off the wall. ‘But I always thought I’d go one spring.’
Dylan grabbed for her earring and she batted his hand away. Maybe she needed to bring the conversation back to his work and its one feature she knew something about.
‘And do you particularly like A Midsummer Night’s Dream?’
‘Hmn?’
‘The title of your painting. It’s from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’
‘Oh.’ He turned his shoulders towards her and frowned. ‘Some of Mel’s friends were in a student production. I think it was the third or maybe second time we went out.’
‘It must have gone well. For it to lead to a painting, I mean.’
‘No, not really.’ He shook his head. ‘We had a fight. I don’t remember what about.’
She probably did something amazing for you—Becky thought—and you were a sullen, ungrateful sod in return.
‘Becky?’ Their arms touched as Charlie sidled closer.
‘Yes?’ She resisted the urge to shrug him off. Perhaps he was finally about to say thank you.
Charlie tilted his head towards her and dropped his voice. ‘You couldn’t get me into the Tate Modern, then?’
She gasped and swung round to glare at him, but his reaction to her death stare was a burst of laughter. His face came alive; a broad smile and shining eyes creating more of an impression than the rampant hair.
His laughter was so surprising it took her a while to catch up with the joke. She used her free hand to punch him on the shoulder and hissed, ‘You bas—’, before modifying her language for Dylan’s benefit. ‘You can bloody well do some work and get in there yourself!’
Dylan copied Charlie’s laughter and clapped. The heaviness in the atmosphere lifted and Becky joined their giggling.
‘Let’s get out of here. Dylan will need a snack soon and I could do with a cup of tea. You are most definitely buying.’
A few minutes into the return train journey, Charlie rested his head against the window and closed his eyes. Dylan scrambled on and off seats, giving Becky few opportunities to glance in Charlie’s direction. When she did, apart from the occasional fleeting smile, the only other body movements she noticed were caused by the train lurching over points.
However, as they pulled into South Compton, Charlie opened his eyes and shuffled to the middle of his seat. He cleared his throat and scratched his beard. Below the cover of a deep frown, his gaze darted between Becky, the view, and various points inside the carriage.
The fidgeting persisted once they were on the platform. As they strolled towards the lift, he eased his hands into his pockets and then snatched them out, swinging his hand forward to punch the call button.
Becky stared at the illuminated arrow and balled her fists. To her left, she heard Charlie sigh and take another deep breath. ‘Becky,’ he said, ‘thank you for today. I’m sorry if my reaction wasn’t very …’
‘Effusive? Enthusiastic? Excited?’ She spat her words towards the lift doors. ‘Any other word of your choice beginning with E?’
The lift arrived and Becky whirled Dylan inside while the doors were still moving. Charlie followed them and, reaching across Becky to press the button to take them down to the entrance hall, said, ‘Putting things into words isn’t my thing.’
She rolled her eyes as the doors closed and was opening her mouth to reply when Charlie stepped forward and wrapped her in a hug.
Crushed against his chest, Becky steadied herself by clutching his shoulders, leaving her forearms pressed against his solid biceps.
He released her slightly from the initial embrace, but held her close enough so he could lower his lips to her ear. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.
The lift arrived at the ground floor and Becky jumped as the doors opened. Charlie stepped back and extended a hand in the direction of the exit. ‘Women and children first.’
Becky raced ahead. She parked the buggy next to the ticket machines and stooped to rummage in the nappy bag. While digging for Dylan’s sun hat with one hand, she used the other to rub her right ear, which tingled and burned from its brief contact with Charlie’s lips. That damn moustache and bloody beard. The sooner they went, the better.
The crackly announcement of the next departure from platform one must have covered Charlie’s approaching footsteps, but it didn’t matter: she knew he was behind her. There was something so still about his presence that to Becky, someone who existed in constant scrambling motion, standing next to Charlie was like wandering into the eye of a storm, the one calm spot in the centre of chaos.
Keeping her back to him, she fussed unnecessarily with Dylan’s hat and rubbed her right ear again, all while trying to ignore the left side of her face, which was inexplicably as hot and sensitive as the right.
As they said their goodbyes, Becky remembered to pass on an invitation to Ronnie’s birthday party a week on Saturday. Charlie accepted at her third time of asking, after she made it plain that upsetting Ronnie would be bad for his health. It wasn’t until a couple of days later, in a rare quiet moment, that she wondered whether his initial hesitancy had come from the mistaken impression she had been asking him to be her plus one.
Chapter 17
A week after his trip to London, Charlie went to bed late after spending hours drafting his latest email to Rachel. Following some of her suggestions, he had taken delivery of several new materials that afternoon and he wanted to thank her for her ideas.
Sleep did not come easily, and when it did he dreamt he was back in his studio. It was entirely empty, expect for the vacant easel and a workbench carrying his pot of brushes. An uncanny silence permeated the space; the normal background hum of birdsong and trees shifting in the breeze was eerily absent.
The south door opened and the lady entered. She was surrounded by golden light and the scent of a summer rainstorm. Her clothing consisted of nothing more than a large white shirt. The cuffs hung past her fingertips and the tail to the backs of her knees. She glided towards Charlie but said nothing, nor did she acknowledge him in any other way. Her expression was unreadable, neither friendly nor hostile. In each hand she carried a can of paint and when she was within arm’s reach she put them down and stepped back towards the easel.
Charlie looked down at the tins. They were open. He glanced up at her, waiting for instructions, but none were forthcoming.
With no specific goal in mind, Charlie picked up a two-inch brush and crouched to dip it into the first colour, a deep Prussian blue. He stood and edged forward, extending the brush in front of him. She shut her eyes and showed no reaction as he ran a line of paint down her shirt from the right edge of the collar to the cuff. He applied a firm, even pressure, using a long smooth stroke from her collarbone to her wrist.
Feeling more confident, Charlie seized another brush and repeated the movement on her left side, using the second colour, a vibrant emerald green. This time, when he reached the cuff, he stepped back to review his work.
She opened her eyes. Their colour was dazzling, a searing infinity of sublime shades and tones which forced Charlie to turn away and use his arms to shield his face.
When he turned back, she was gone and the easel held a painting.
The next day Charlie went out to the studio early and got to work. By late evening he was satisfied he had reproduced the painting in his dream and perhaps bettered it.
The hairs on the back of his neck tingled as if reacting to the stare of an unseen guest. He laughed and clapped his hands together. The muse had returned.
Chapter 18
Becky reserved the fourth Saturday in August for Ronnie’s thirty-sixth birthday party. Delighted her dad was also going, Phoebe volunteered to babysit Dylan from late in the afternoon, allowing Becky to get to Ronnie’s early to help set up.
As the women prepared the kitchen for the hungry hordes, Ronnie expressed her dissatisfaction with Charlie’s physical display of gratitude from the previous week. ‘I don’t care if he’s not good at putting his feelings into words,’ she snapped. ‘He should try harder.’
Becky shook her head as she tipped crisps into a bowl. That was Ronnie, Sweet in nothing else but name. ‘To be fair, from what I’ve seen so far, I’m guessing a hug is his equivalent of a handwritten thank you on expensive paper. You know he managed to propose to his wife without saying anything.’
Ronnie had been about to fill an ice-cube tray. She dropped it in the sink. ‘What?’
‘He gave her a painting for her birthday called The Proposal and when she turned round he was waiting on one knee with the ring. She said yes. Job done.’
‘Ugh! I suppose that is romantic, if that’s your thing. But I say it’s just another example of him being useless.’ She carried on with the ice cubes. ‘Anyway, how do you know this stuff? Because I’m guessing you’re not having long heart-to-hearts with Mr Hairy.’
‘Phoebe told me. She’s an information goldmine as well as a brilliant babysitter. Dylan loves her and he loves Charlie too. Actually, I think Dylan’s delighted to be able to get away with saying “ee” to refer to the three of you. Now all that’s left is to convince Mike to let us call him Mikey.’
Ronnie’s lips curled and her eyes glittered. ‘If he doesn’t soon get the hang of putting the toilet seat down I may start calling him that. I sometimes wonder if the useless artists wouldn’t have been easier to suffer. You’d think you’d be on safe ground with an accountant. But then I suppose I should have seen it coming: he does have an artistic side, with his photography and all.’
Photography was one of Mike’s passions, in addition to sport and Ronnie. He was skilled, and Becky had used him as a backup a couple of times when she feared the official wedding photographer might forget to put the memory card in the camera.
Ronnie changed the subject. ‘How is Phoebe doing at work?’
‘She’s been great. Something about her being so young makes people trust her. They don’t question anything she says and she’s getting the hang of staging distractions.’
‘And how are things going with the great artist and his penfriend?’
‘Fine. I had to help him with the first couple of messages, but now he’s flying solo. And her ideas are definitely inspiring him. I went over there a couple of days ago and he’d had a tonne of painting supplies delivered.’
‘Has he told Rachel he isn’t painting yet?’
‘No. But he thinks she won’t be expecting him to deliver anything months in advance.’
Ronnie snorted. ‘I bet she won’t. She knows artists are useless.’ She put a large supply of plastic cups next to the booze. ‘And what were Lady Stone’s fantastic ideas?’
‘Charlie was vague, but something to do with switching to acrylics and using colour as a theme.’
‘I guess those aren’t bad. Damn! Are you sure they were hers?’
‘Don’t be mean,’ said Becky. ‘She may not be the most loveable person, but she does know about art. And Charlie likes her. That’s the main thing.’
‘Speaking of love interests …’ Ronnie dropped another stack of cups on the countertop and nudged Becky. ‘Has “Mr Fit and I Know It” been in touch to fix a date for your dinner?’
Becky arranged the cups into neat columns, ignoring Ronnie’s leer. ‘No. And don’t get your hopes up. I will not be going to dinner with Virgil Locke.’
‘Why not? I know his name’s ridiculous. Poor bloke was probably named after some ancient relative, but that’s hardly his fault. Anyway, he’s loaded. And if he’s as gorgeous as you say—’
‘You weren’t there. It was creepy.’ She shuddered. ‘Anyway, he’s probably forgotten about it already and I’m not about to jog his memory.’
When the first guests arrived, Becky and Ronnie were still busy with the food. Mike was put in charge of answering the door and ushering visitors towards the kitchen and birthday girl.
When the initial wave had passed, Ronnie returned to their previous conversation. ‘Any idea when Charlie and Lady Stone might meet in person? Although you’ll have to convince him to spend some quality time with a barber first. I can’t imagine she’ll go for his current look.’
Becky slid another pizza out of the oven and passed it to Ronnie to cut. ‘I’ve told you. He’ll shave off the hair shirt when he’s ready.’
Becky had a theory, one of many, that Charlie’s recent scissor-dodging was an outward sign of grief and unhappiness. All the pictures of him taken during his years of professional and personal success showed a hairless face topped by a short-cropped scalp.
Ronnie was sceptical. ‘I don’t know. I still think you’ll have to drug him to get a blade near that face.’
A few minutes later, while in the middle of more pizza shuffling, Becky heard Charlie’s voice in the hallway. Mike had been given strict instructions: he was to look after Charlie all evening, show him around and introduce him to the least frightening guests. Becky had also suggested plying Charlie with a little alcohol might help ease him into what anyone might find a daunting social situation. Fortunately, Mike was the ideal person for this job. Ronnie was always complaining how he picked up friends with greater ease than most kids got nits. He would go to the pub for the afternoon and the next day he was going to the football with five guys Ronnie had never seen before. Apparently this was one of the several drawbacks of dating a Sagittarius.
Becky was wondering if the astrological issues in Ronnie’s relationship stemmed more from her egomaniacal leonine qualities than anything to do with Mike, when her friend suddenly broke into a fit of coughing. Dismissing this as more non-urgent attention-seeking, Becky kept her eyes on the task in hand. She had just closed the oven door when she felt a sharp poke in her ribs.
‘What?’ said Becky, spinning round to glare at her friend.
Behind Ronnie, Charlie and Mike were at the bar. Although she was without her glasses, Becky could see Charlie was treating them to a proper view of his strong jawline and even lips. The facial hair hadn’t gone, but it was restricted to a short, well-groomed beard and moustache. His hair was once again tied back and he had found a blue shirt to wear with respectable jeans.
‘Hello,’ said Charlie. He gave them a small wave.
‘Hi,’ chorused Becky and Ronnie, trying to suppress giggles.
Charlie nodded at Ronnie. ‘Happy birthday.’ He turned his head towards Becky. ‘Nice dress,’ he said, addressing the comment to her shoes.
‘Thanks,’ both women said, Becky quietly pleased she had let Phoebe bully her into changing into a knee-length dress which hadn’t been maternity wear.
Ronnie turned her back to them and went over to the sink where her shoulders continued to shake, accompanied by the occasional muffled snort.
Mike handed Charlie a beer and gestured towards the garden. ‘Come on, mate,’ he said. ‘Too many cooks and all that. I have to introduce you to some people.’
At some time around ten, a guest arrived bearing a karaoke machine. He claimed Mike knew all about it and had offered to help set it up. The birthday girl harrumphed and dispatched Becky to locate Mike. Unable to find him on the ground floor, she headed upstairs to the spare room which had recently become home to Mike’s photographic paraphernalia.
Charlie and Mike had their backs to her as she reached the open doorway. They made an odd couple. Mike always seemed to tower over Ronnie, making Becky forget he was also below average height and shorter than her. Charlie loomed half a foot above him, his broad frame a dark shadow next to Mike with his short fair hair and designer stubble.
