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“Jealous?” I ask, and it’s my turn to raise my eyebrows.
A charming blush spreads across Caitlin’s cheeks, and all of a sudden, I want to recreate on paper how her freckles pop against the pink.
“I mean, she was so pretty. I shouldn’t be jealous, it’s not anice trait. But she was really pretty.”
“That she was,” I agree.
“Why didn’t you ask her to marry you?”
“Well.” I cross my arms and try to find the right words. “I did broach the topic of both marriage and children to Rosemarie, but whenever I mentioned it, she said she wasn’t ready. If I tried to push it a bit, she would scream that I was trapping her and, um… Yeah, it never went down well. I guess we were at different stages in life. Not only that – we were too different in general. It would have been a huge mistake tying myself to her for life.”
I hadn’t noticed how high Caitlin’s shoulders were until they drop on silent exhale. “And you haven’t found anyone since.”
“No, haven’t found anyone who will give me a child. Why? Will you give me one?” I wink at her and her pearly laughter fills the room. I love the sound of it – love that I can make her laugh. “Will you give me a little girl with ginger hair and freckles, or a little boy who never lets go of the pencil in his hand?”
“Well, if you ask very nicely,” she grins.
“We would make beautiful babies.” There’s a sharp stab of longing in my stomach, but I bury it under a chuckle and get up from the desk. “Before you can give me a baby, there’s something else we would need to do.” Her laughter hitches as I bend down and remove the pencil fromherhand. “Let’s go.”
Another woman may have been disappointed if I brought her to the National Gallery instead of the hotel room that she have expected, but not Caitlin. Her beaming smile lights up the entrance hall as she shakes the summer rain out of her ginger curls. We spend a solid two hours walking through room after room, discussing old and new paintings. She marvels at myknowledge of art periods and symbolism while I marvel at her understanding of the use of techniques.
How can her parents – Finbar in particular – not see her passion and talent for the arts? She has blossomed the last weeks when she’s been allowed to explore her artistic side and got the right encouragement and guidance.
“Why jewellery design?” I ask as we walk through a room with modern paintings. “Your talent stretches much wider.”
Her back straightens at my praise. “I don’t know, probably because I always wanted to get involved in the business?”
“Don’t sell yourself short – explore. Tell you what,” I nod to an abstract painting, “Vivi Doyle, the artist, she’s a friend of mine.”
“She is?” Caitlin gapes at me as if I said I knew Taylor Swift.
“I’ll arrange for us to go for drinks this week and you can discuss different artforms with her.”
* * *
I shake my head in disbelief – I’ve caught myself whistling but continue on the eighties tune as I sketch on my pad. Yes, I’m drawing.
On paper.
What appears on the sheet is a form that doesn’t have any trace of religious, Irish or Celtic symbolism.
The creaky floorboard outside my office warns me that someone is coming, and the smile on my lips slips as Caitlin enters. It’s late, I thought she had left already. I made her spend the afternoon upstairs in the workshop, practicing techniques of how to physically make the jewellery. Although I’d like to show her the ropes myself, I let Angelique teach her. I’m manenough to admit that the French woman is more talented than me with metal work. I also know that Angelique is into men – based on the many times she’s unsuccessfully tried to seduce me – hence I don’t have to worry about her influencing Caitlin in any wrong ways.
Unlike Vivi Doyle.
I brought Caitlin to Grogan’s to meet Vivi last night. The free-spirited middle-aged woman’s eyes were greedily eating up the sweet little treat in front of her. Caitlin was beyond happy when Vivi invited her to come visit her in her working gallery. I’ll be damned if Caitlin goes on her own. I’ll be there – her chaperone protecting her honour from any bad influence. I’ll be theonly onecorrupting the ginger fairy. As I did in the car before I left her home. Her petite body was made for riding cock in the front seat. I’m not sure I pulled out in time. I need to be more careful, I tell myself, again. But her tight heat is too magnificent, and her sweet gasps of surprise at every new angle and sensation – it makes me forget.
But now the ginger fairy’s eyes are red rimmed.
“What’s wrong, love?”
“Fin did his photo shoot today, and they’ve gone out to celebrate.” She sniffs, fisting her sea green skirt that I wish was half-a-dozen inches shorter.
“Who?”
“Dad and Fin.”
“Okay?”
