‘I’ll always worry about her, you know. I’ll always feel compelled to protect her from being hurt and abandoned in the way I was.’
‘I know that,’ he says as gently as he can, ‘but maybe, for now, just let her enjoy her moment, knowing you’ll be around to pick up the pieces if she needs you.’
Heather makes a pinching gesture using the thumb and forefinger of her right hand.
‘Picking up the pieces. Yes. That I can do,’ she says.
The wine slips down far too easily, and they’ve drained the entire bottle by the time Scott realises he needs a distraction to break the subtle shift that’s happening between them. As they’ve talked, they've inched closer together on the sofa. Now, he canfeel her breath on his face when she laughs, meaning she’s close enough to touch. Which definitely can’t be good.
‘So, your paintings?’ he says.
Heather jolts upright and places her glass on the coffee table.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘The paintings.’
They move into Scott’s study, a large room fitted out with a long desk which occupies an entire wall. The desk houses three large screens and a host of other computer-related paraphernalia. It’s Scott’s den.
‘Gosh. It’s like the MI5 headquarters in here,’ she gasps, which makes Scott want to simultaneously hug and laugh with her.
‘Let’s get the art set out first,’ he says.
He’s prepared ahead of time. There’s already a large white sheet stuck to the carpeted floor with duct tape, four spotlights to provide even light coverage and an SLR camera on a tripod with a wide-angled lens ready fitted.
They work in virtual silence, taking their time, unrolling each picture, securing it at the corners and photographing it several times until they find the perfect orientation to best show the work. The few words that are spoken are about camera angles, lighting, and how best to portray each painting.
Seeing Heather’s work up close again reminds Scott of her phenomenal talent. Every brush stroke is considered, every millimetre of shading honed.
He straightens up from his hunched position over the last piece of art, his camera held in one hand.
‘You know this stuff is remarkable, right?’ he says.
Heather busies herself rolling up the canvas and slotting it into the specialised tubes she’d brought with her to transport her work. She pops the plastic top in place. It’s clear she doesn’t accept praise easily.
‘Well …’
‘Honestly, Heather. Once we get these images uploaded and arranged online, you’ll get a proper feel for how great your website’s going to look.’
Heather closes her eyes in a slow blink before turning to look at him.
‘Thank you,’ she says, her voice a whisper.
Scott runs downstairs to throw the lasagne he’d made earlier into the oven before returning to Heather in the office. It took him ages to decide what food to serve. Lasagne, he thinks, gives the perfect balance of showing some effort without looking too try-hard. He returns to the office to find Heather swinging from side to side on one of the swivel chairs by his office desk.
‘Ready to begin?’ he asks.
‘Ready.’ She smiles.
They take some time selecting the perfect design template for Heather’s online site and gradually build up a portfolio, giving each piece a title, brief description and price. Even Scott, the perfectionist, is pleased with how things develop. They stop once the pictures are uploaded, and the beep of the oven tells them it’s time to eat.
‘So, we need to think about how we market you next,’ he says as he serves slabs of pasta onto their plates.
‘Me?’ Heather’s forehead creases in confusion.
‘Yes. We need to let people know a bit about you. When and why you paint, what motivates you. Just some basic background. People nowadays like to know the person behind their purchase.’
‘Really?’ Heather mirrors Scott’s movements, taking her plate, adding some salad leaves and sprinkling some oil and vinegar over her food. Her movements appear robotic, and Scott knows she’s likely processing this information. That she, as an artist, is a commodity in her own right.
‘So, what do people want to know?’ she asks once they’re sitting at the table and a second bottle of wine, Malbec this time, is poured.
