“Oh dear, too old for you?”
I didn’t answer.
“Shame. Well, I’m sure he wouldn’t want to get rid ofyou, darling.And even if he does”—she looked pointedly at my artwork hanging on every wall—“it’s not like it’s your life’s vocation, is it?”
I glanced around the room. Some of my pictures were as old as the pink-and-blue fitted valance above the kitchen window. She’d even framed one I did when I was eight—a blobby felt-tip princess with a castle and a herd of cats, my name scrawled underneath it in childish print:Alexandrea L. Jones. I’d used my full name on my art ever since I was a kid.
“It pays well, Mum,” I said. “I need the money. And the job’s okay. Really.”
She’d never understand why I worked in sales. Nothing had felt stable since Dad died. The house had been paid off, but Mum had never had a steady job—I couldn’t imagine the unease I’d feel in her shoes.
“Pfft. If you’re happy with the slow death of your soul,” she said, then softened. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, sweetie. And what about you, Lizzy? Have you decided what sort of lawyer you’re going to be yet?”
My sister shoved a huge scoop of guacamole into her mouthand tried to talk anyway. “Not really, no. It’s not exactly… well. I don’t have to decide yet, anyway.”
“Dominic says family law is very lucrative, if that’s your thing?”
“It’s not.”
“Oh. Right. Well. I’m sure you’ll be marvelous, you always had such a way with words. You’ll be a wonderful lawyer, darling.”
Eliza rolled her eyes.
Mum turned back to me. “And have you been painting, darling?”
“I don’t have time, Mum. Full-time job.” I gave Eliza a look while Mum pulled something hot out of the oven. How the hell did she think my sister would make it through college without some stability behind her? It was hard enough for her to focus on her studies as it was, without worrying about money too.
“Oh, Andy. You mustn’t give up your art. It’s your calling. Whatever happened to your winning picture, by the way, sweets? I caught up with Christian Lange last week, and he said the touring exhibition was almost over.Faces of Now, wasn’t it?”
The portrait was one I’d painted of Eliza in my final year at uni for the Montclair Portrait Award. She always said I’d made her look fat, but everyone else called it breathtaking. I put winning the young artist category down to Eliza herself being breathtaking—the painting hadn’t come out as polished as I’d wanted.
“The commercial rights were transferred to the sponsor, Montclair Global, remember?” I said. “Part of the prize terms for having it in the exhibition for four years. It’s being sold at auction soon.”
“So you don’t even get tokeepit?” I could almost see her anti-establishment fire igniting.
“I did get five grand prize money, Mum,” I said. “Plus five hundred pounds for every year it’s been touring. And I get seventy percent of the sale proceeds, too.”
Even if it sold, it wouldn’t go for much. Art wouldn’t pay the bills for long.
“Well.” Mum clapped her hands. “When’s the auction? It’s not the big thing in Chelsea, is it? Ooh, I hope it is—it was advertised on Facebook. We should at least go and watch. Great way to network, too. All sorts of wealthy art connoisseurs and investors.”
Thank God Eliza hadn’t told her about Liam Roth—he’d tick every box Mum had for appropriate suitors. Red flags be damned.
Would he be there?He certainly ticked the wealthy investor box…
“I don’t actually know—”
But Mum was already texting.
“Christian will be across it, darling, don’t worry. Did I tell you, he’s closing his gallery in Gloucester? Said he wants to travel Asia again.”
“Oh my God, Asia? That’s my dream.” Eliza clapped her hands to her cheeks and looked at me. “Christian’s so cool. I can’twaitto talk to him about it.”
Christian. Another member of Mum’s man harem, along with Dominic the lawyer, Bruce the mechanic, and now, Murray the cricketer. Even the optometrist had been sending her follow-up texts trying to arrange a date. She was catnip for silver foxes.
“Ooh, darling!” Mum’s eyes were bright. “He’s sent me a link—look!”
The website popped up on her screen:
