AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“When can I see the collection, Olivia? I am in New York tomorrow. How about I call in? What time is good for you?”
“I’m not sure I’m ready to let anyone see anything just yet, Mrs Peabody.”
“Nonsense, my dear.”
And that was that. I didn’t have a concrete argument to counter her request, so I suggested a time and she agreed.
The following day I buzz Mrs Peabody in when she rings my doorbell. My stomach is tied in knots. Anxiety about not being good enough crashes over me and I am concerned about revealing too much of myself and my lost teenage love. But she doesn’t know anything about Gianni, so her interpretation of the images won’t be colored by my emotional backstory. I prepare myself for some good harsh criticism. No one has been permitted to see my work yet. Not even Desmond and Sandy. I’m so nervous. However, if my paintings are not up to standard, I want to know sooner rather than later.
I stand silently to the side, out of the way, as Mrs Peabody slowly paces around my lounge space studio. Having another person in my home highlights how mad it all looks. The sofa is in the bedroom to maximize the floor space. All furniture and floor are covered with plastic sheeting to protect the surfaces from paint splatter, charcoal dust, and general mess. Mrs Peabody doesn’t say anything but prowls, lion-like, peering at each picture and torn piece of sketchbook page. Finally, she steps back to the center of the room and performs a mini pirouette.
“Here’s the thing,” she says, twisting her mouth to the side as if she’s chewing her cheek. She is suddenly serious. “This is a good beginning.” She nods sagely and paces some more. “I see where it’s going. We’ll need to work quickly on getting a venue; media; website; creating a buzz.” Mrs Peabody’s eyes gleam as her hands check boxes in the air. Then she winks. “Leave it to me… You, my darling, just concentrate on what you were born to do.”
She sits on one of the two mismatched chairs and takes out a large leather-bound diary.
“I’m old-fashioned. I like paper,” she says when she sees me staring, open-mouthed. Mrs Peabody retrieves her glasses from her bag and puts them on, then opens her diary at a page showing a week to view six months from now. She runs her finger down the page. “We’ll aim for here, shall we?” I must look blank. I close my mouth then open it again, codfish-like, to say something, but Mrs Peabody cuts me off. “The show, my dear. Your solo exhibition.”
“Mrs Peabody. I don’t know what to say. Ummm.” A million thoughts are released in my head a buzz around like a swarm of bees. “But the cost of everything. How am I going to…”
“Call me Gloria.”
“Gloria. Ummm,” I’m searching for the right words but find none.
“I’ll fund everything upfront and recoup costs from the inevitable sales of the work. Plus, I want first pick for my personal collection.”
I’m stunned. “I don’t know what to say, Mrs Peabody, umm, Gloria.”
“Listen. Olivia. People need art. Beauty is a driving force and you are making beautiful art. What you are doing is not only decorative but necessary,” she says emphatically. “It speaks. Each picture has something to say. So,” Mrs Peabody gets up and makes her way to the door. “Let’s have regular weekly catch-ups, okay?”
I’m still dumbstruck by what I’m hearing. “Sure,” is all I manage.
“We have a lot of work to do.” And with that, she is gone.
Contessa, who has been asleep on the bed the entire time, raises her head, stretches and yawns then curls up to sleep some more.
“What? No comment?” I ask my cat. “No encouragement or congratulations?” I listen for a response, but Contessa has already dozed off again.
Chapter 28
Gianni
Luisaisbackatschool and I’m at the New Amsterdam Hotel sorting out sales of the latest shipment. I bought some rare and very fine Franciscan religious icons. Artist unknown but they are similar to Fra Angelico in style and paint application. Nigel has a shortlist of interested buyers lined up for the auction next week. I am certain these items will command the price tag I’m hoping for. I am making the most of the buoyant market although mindful as we don’t want to flood it.
The promo photos on the gallery website look great. I allow myself a moment’s relaxation and sit back to look out of the window at the skyline opposite. It’s a nice day: bright and sunny. I feel like walking. I feel like going outside and wandering around. I don’t feel like going to the gallery. It’s a reminder that Olivia isn’t there anymore.
Olivia. Libby. The two images of separate people overlay like photo negatives in my mind. They are the same person. Ten years apart, but the same.
The thought takes me back to the bridge in Florence. I was so cocky then. The world was at my feet. I had just been signed to the regional team and talent scouts were offering deals left and right. I was the golden boy. Then, one day, on the bridge, I notice an angel.
She is sitting on her coat on the hard ancient stone so immersed in what she is doing, she doesn’t notice me at all. I walk up and down trying to get her attention and nothing. Then, I bounce my soccer ball and she scowls at me, How dare you?
“Mi dispiace. I am so sorry,” I say, although I’m not sorry at all. The angel’s eyes soften and hold my gaze. I feel as if I am in a dream. Cupid drew his bow and shot an arrow right through my heart.
“You should be more careful,” says the angel before turning her attention back to her sketchbook. She holds the stub of a soft pencil in one hand, a grubby eraser in the other.
I am transfixed by her. Thinking quickly, I offer to buy her gelato as an apology for my carelessness. I tell her I know the best gelato shop in town, and to my delight, she accepts. She packs up her things and we walk together side by side. She tells me her favorite flavors and I buy her a triple scoop.
“Oh, my! Grazie mil,” she says, smiling shyly as I hand her the over-flowing cone.
