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‘I’m almost ready,’ she said breathlessly, leaving Will in the hallway while she went into the kitchen to pick up her bag. She should have changed everything into a lighter bag, she thought, picking up the canvas one she used every day. But it was too late now. This one held her phone, wallet and keys, and she didn’t want Will to see her fussing around like a mad thing
‘I arranged to meet Coop and Ailsa at the gallery,’ Will said, when she had settled into his van and fastened the seatbelt.
By the time they reached the gallery and found a parking spot, Cleo had begun to calm down. How difficult could it be to pretend to be Will’s partner for the evening? But it would be different to the evening they’d spent in the club. Tonight, they’d be in full view of everyone who was at the gallery opening – all of the locals who were Friends of the Gallery, plus those who took the opportunity of the occasion to be seen. No doubt the local paper would have a representative there, too.
‘Okay?’ Will asked, helping her out of the van, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze.
Cleo nodded and stole a glance at her companion to see a tightness around his eyes and mouth.
‘It’ll be fine,’ she said, realising he was as nervous about being seen in public together as she was. She remembered Ailsa telling her Will hadn’t looked at another woman since his wife died. Cleo felt guilty. She had been so caught up in her own concerns, she hadn’t given any thought to how he might be feeling.
‘There they are,’ Will’s voice interrupted her thoughts. He was gesturing across the room to where Martin and Ailsa were standing beside an older man with white hair wearing a pair of half-moon spectacles. Still holding her hand, Will pulled Cleo through the crush of people milling around the gallery till they reached their friends.
They barely had time to greet Martin and Ailsa and be introduced to the man with them who proved to be John Baldwin, the gallery owner, when a waiter appeared with glasses of champagne. Cleo accepted a glass, immediately taking a gulp of the sparkling liquid. Then she turned to listen to what John Baldwin was saying. It seemed most editions of Martin’s photos had already been sold, leading to an explanation from Martin of how several copies of each photo had been printed and these were called editions. It was all new to Cleo.
She suddenly realised Will was still holding her hand and, embarrassed, slipped it out of his grasp, only to feel somewhat bereft.
‘Let’s have a look around,’ Will said, taking her by the elbow and gently steering her along till they came to a section of pastels which managed to clearly show the movement of both the waves and the surfers. ‘These are by Ted Crawford,’ Will said. ‘He’s another former surfer, an older guy who retired back here and took up painting as a hobby.’
‘Not so much of a hobby,’ Cleo said. ‘These are amazing, and I know who he is. I’ve met Grace, his partner. We’re in the same book club. But I wasn’t aware he was an artist.’
‘Bellbird Bay is a haven for artistic types,’ Will said. ‘Artists and writers. Some drift here to make a fresh start, others are native sons who’ve chosen to come home to retire. Ted is one of those.’
‘And he’s another of you surfers, isn’t he?’
‘He sure is. You’ll have seen the mural on the stairwell in the club honouring his contribution.’
Cleo hadn’t. But vowed to take more notice next time. She expected, if she and Will were to see more of each other, she’d be going there again. It seemed to be his second home.
There was the squeal of a microphone, and John Baldwin’s voice called for attention. The noisy chatter gradually ceased, allowing him to welcome everyone and introduce the artists. Then he handed over the microphone to Martin who said a few words, followed by an older man with a thatch of thick, white hair who spoke more lengthily. When he finished, Cleo saw her book club friend, Grace, smile warmly at him and applaud vigorously.
A wave of emptiness flooded Cleo. She might be here with Will, but it was all a pretence. She had no one to care for and to care for her, the way Ailsa and Grace had. It took her by surprise. Since Stan died, she’d prided herself on being self-sufficient, of not needing anyone.
The rest of the opening passed uneventfully. Cleo made her way to where Grace and Ted were standing and congratulated him. Will introduced her to so many people she couldn’t remember their names. And the red-haired woman she remembered from the surf club as Joy Taylor, glared at her from across the room, sending shivers up her spine.
Finally, people began to drift off, the room emptying.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Will said, steering Cleo towards the door, Martin and Ailsa following, their progress halted by people congratulating Martin on his photographs.
Cleo was glad to get out of the crowded room and breathe in some fresh air. She was sure half of the town now thought she and Will were a couple. But it seemed the evening wasn’t over.
‘Martin said Ailsa is keen to try the new cocktail bar that’s opened in the flash hotel across town,’ Will said. ‘We’re to meet them there.’
‘Oh!’ This was the first Cleo had heard of this part of the plan. Surely being seen at the gallery opening was enough. Joy Taylor had been there along with most of Will’s friends. All she really wanted to do was go home, slip her shoes off and lie down. But she’d agreed to do this, so said, ‘Okay.’
They had just parked the car and were about to walk into the plush entrance to the hotel when Will’s phone pinged with a text.
‘Better get this,’ he said with a frown.
Cleo waited while he read the message. When he looked up, there was a strange expression on his face.
‘Bad news?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he said, slowly. ‘It’s from Coop. Seems Ailsa’s not feeling well and they’ve gone home.’
‘Oh, then we can go home, too.’ Cleo let out a sigh of relief.
‘Afraid not. They want us to let them know what it’s like. Sorry.’ Will met her eyes.
