She liked his confidence, his openness. ‘Me too.’ And just like that her arm once again softened against his.
‘So what has your day held so far?’ he asked, like they were far more familiar and used to catching up.
It was a nice way to phrase things, indicating that the best part of the day was yet to come. She thought he might be right.
‘Not much is the truthful answer. I own an art gallery in Pimlico, and even though I’m not involved in the day-to-day running, I like to keep an eye on the books and plans for the year. Truth is, I find the administration of it a bit of a chore, don’t want to be worrying about business rates and security cameras, but I guess it comes with the territory. Anyway, this morning I spent looking over the portfolios of two promising artists who would like to exhibit, both incredibly talented, both so young and clearly going to make their mark, so that was exciting. Sometimes, the gallery will send me work, and my heart sinks. I wonder if I just don’t get it or if it truly isn’t up to scratch or maybe my expectations are too high, but it’s stood me in good stead all these years, trusting my instinct. My friend taught me that. So today was a joy in that regard, two fabulous new artists to display!’
‘I think you’re very fortunate when your work is also your passion.’ He spoke as if this was something he understood.
‘Is your work your passion too?’
‘Yes!’ His reply was emphatic. ‘Yes, absolutely.’
‘What is it you do?’
Please don’t say gangster, career criminal, mobster, hitman ...She figured she could cope with anything other than these, although it would explain his rather dapper suits and suave air.
‘I’m a very dull businessman.’ He gave an awkward laugh. ‘Can’t make it sound any more glamorous than that. I am in business to make money, and I have a knack for it. Which is lucky, as I have no education to speak of, no degree scrolls framed on the walls and no trust fund to fall back on. My dad worked at Billingsgate Market, man and boy. Mum was a tea lady at the Trebor factory in Forest Gate, kept hundreds of workers topped up with tea.’
‘A happy childhood?’ She guessed the answer by the warmth with which he spoke about his parents.
‘Very, a close family. I have three –hadthree – sisters; one has passed on now’ – he swallowed – ‘and a whole raft of nieces, nephews. Growing up, there were countless aunties, uncles and cousins, all round my nan’s of a Sunday to listen to the gossip, eat cake and play the old Joanna!’
‘It sounds lovely.’ She felt the ache of loss that her family had been so reduced, her mum cutting it to pieces on the day she left for a life with Derek Manners. Just her and her dad at the kitchen table, eating quietly with Vivaldi in the background.
‘It was. No matter how tough things got, and there were times’ – he paused and changed tack – ‘walking through my nan’s front door was like stepping into a warm hug. I still miss it, even now, and I’m an old bloke. But it was the only place I spent time and felt like everything was going to be all right. Those few hours were like a shot in the arm that could get you through the week.’
She liked the picture he painted, liked the fact he was comfortable sharing it with her even more.
‘Mine was quiet, really. Just me and my dad for most of the time. I adored him. He was always patient with me. He loved music, art, books, and had a sense of adventure – he’d go walkingfor miles! I thought it was because he wanted to travel, but I think, now I’m older, he was probably trying to clear his head.’
‘I can understand that.’ He gripped her arm with his. It felt nice.
‘Oh, I know what else happened today. I’ve had it confirmed that two young people who I feel have the power to make each other very happy might just be building a bridge to each other. Isn’t that lovely?’
‘That is lovely. We do love love, right?’
‘We do,’ she echoed. ‘One of them is in the wrong job, but that’s a whole other story.’ She pictured Joshua Vaughan and Clodagh, hoping it might develop. They rounded the bend on Nine Elms Lane and saw the power station lit up and in all its glory, slowing to take in the view.
‘You haven’t captured that river yet, then?’ he teased.
‘No, not yet.’
‘It must be a daunting prospect.’ He faced her then.
‘What?’
‘Knowing that, one day, you’ll look up at your canvas and realise that you’ve done it, got the painting just right. Finished your mission.’
‘Daunting, why?’
‘Because it’s what you do! It motivates you, keeps you busy. What would you do with all that time you got back?’
‘Are you suggesting I’mafraidto get it right, to pack away my brushes, easel and my rather comfy camping stool that I fear might give way every time I sit on it?’ This time, she squeezed his arm against hers.
‘No, I am not suggesting that, I’m stating it, very firmly and decisively. I think you must be scared about what comes next.’
‘Wow!’ She took a beat, and was put in mind of something Clodagh had said earlier:he doesn’t know me ... it felt a bit too bold ...‘I wouldn’t sayscared.’
