He stalked off and Fen’s stupid feet followed. A dog following a bone. Though not at speed. Couldn’t Ripley have at least smiled at what he’d said?
“It’s not far.” Ripley’s pace was much too fast for Fen.
He did his best to keep up, failed, and Ripley eventually slowed down. Fen was sort of surprised he’d not been asked about the crutch but this guy was so self-absorbed he probably hadn’t noticed.What shall I go for? Injured in a shark attack? Ingrown toenail? Fencing accident? The truth?
“The artist is a friend of mine, so be careful what you say.”
Fen bristled. So Ripley already had him down as someone who said what came into his head without thinking about it. Oh, Fen had thought about it!Fuck you and the donkey you rode in on!
Fortunately, the gallery wasn’t far away. Less than a hundred metres from the bar and when Ripley held the door open for him to go in, Fen thawed—a little. Coats were taken, cloakroom tickets given and Ripley looked him up and down. Fen had no idea if he approved of what he was wearing, but nothing was said. In this dim light, the sweater didn’t look too bad. A tray of what appeared to be flutes of champagne appeared in front of them, brandished by a waiter, and they each took a glass.
When Ripley began to walk round, Fen stuck to his heels. The paintings were smudgy impressionistic landscapes done in pastels. Not really Fen’s thing, though they were clever. He sipped the champagne and grimaced at the sharp taste. Not that he knew anything about champagne, the only time he’d ever had it was when Alistair had opened a bottle for Fen’s mum’s birthday.
It seemed as if Ripley didn’t know many people there because he didn’t sayhelloto many and even when he did, he kept moving. When he finally stopped, he was greeted by a guy who looked nervous, and Fen guessed he was the artist.
“Congratulations,” Ripley said. “How’s it going?”
“Okay, I think. Everyone’s being kind. To my face, anyway. So, who’s this?”
“Fen,” Ripley said. “This is Josef. It’s his work on the walls.”
Fen shook his hand. “Dulux Polished Pebble? Silk?”
That raised a laugh. “Skimming Stone by Farrow and Ball, I believe.”
At least Ripley’s friend had a sense of humour.
“What do you think?” Josef asked.
Fen summoned up Alistair’s tact.“Your depiction of light as it changes through the times of the day is amazing. The purple is inspired, how it contrasts with the colours of autumn. I do like the lightness of the marks in the way you’ve handled the sky. It’s an intriguing balance.”
Josef beamed at him. “You’re an artist?”
“No, but I have restored paintings.”
“You think pink might have been better than purple?”
Was it a trick question? “I can’t answer that. You made the decision and you had your reasons.”
“What about this one?” Josef gestured towards the neighbouring painting. Fen moved over to look at it, considering what to say.
“Very vibrant. My eyes don’t know where to settle. On those lively blades of grass in the foreground, or the mountains with the amazing snow.” Or on the brown lump I can’t identify.“It’s very clever the way you pull the viewer’s attention over the painting.” Except where was the focal point?
“You don’t think it’s missing a focal point?”
“Yes, but I thought that must be what you were going for.”
“It is. Thank you.” Josef turned to Ripley. “Are you going to tear me to shreds? Ask me what I’ve painted? What the brown thing is?”
“Er…”
Oh God, don’t ask me that!
Josef chuckled. “I’ll give you a discount.”
“Er…”
“Not your thing, I know, but thanks for coming and thanks for bringing someone who does appreciate my work.”
