After a mere eight days rather than the promised five, the DAMP was done, the walls replastered and painted, and there was no excuse for her not to return home. Bella repacked her clothes into her holdall, took her dress, her tops down from the hangers in Will’s wardrobe, retrieved her underwear from the drawer. She knew now that she shouldn’t have stayed with him, how much worse it was bound to make her feel.
Will watched her as she retrieved her bits and pieces from the bathroom, as she zipped up her toilet bag with a final flourish.
‘Come on, sweet pea. I feel like we’re getting divorced or something. You don’t have to take every little last thing with you. Leave some stuff. Here – ’ He started shoving aside his own deodorant and shaving foam. ‘Let me clear you some more space.’
She laid a hand on his arm.
‘Thanks, Will. Really. But it’s not necessary. I need to have my things around me at home.’
‘I – well – I thought, maybe …’
She stretched up to reach him, silencing him with a kiss.
‘Come and stay with me this weekend. I can spoil you for a change. I want to paint you anyway. And you can help me unpack the dreaded boxes.’
‘If you really want to spoil me, will you do that duck thing again? With the sauce?’
‘You’re squishing me. Yes, you can have the duck thing, but you’ll have to do extra box duty.’
‘It’s a deal. And don’t forget your promise.’
‘I won’t. Which promise?’
‘I knew you’d do that. About the galleries. You said you’d take in your pictures.’
‘I will. At some point. There’s no rush. Don’t go on.’
‘There is a rush. Life’s short, you know.’ He saw her eyes flicker. ‘Sorry. But you must … otherwise I’ll be forced to suck your toes until you beg for mercy.’
‘So?’ asked Will, manically raising and lowering his eyebrows at her when he met her from work on Friday evening.
‘What?’
‘Did you go and see any galleries?’
She kept it brief. Yes, she had, so could he please now stop nagging her about it. She had tried to arrange appointments but two places said just to turn up on the off chance; the third had said they weren’t looking at any new artists at the moment. At the first gallery, the manageress had said they were certainly ‘well-painted, very well-executed, but slightly disturbing’; they preferred still lifes, landscapes, more conventional interior scenes. At the second, the decision-making person had turned out to be away for a week and she couldn’t see why they hadn’t just told her that on the phone because she had dragged out of her way to go there; they said she was welcome to leave a couple of paintings for him to see on his return, but she had declined and said she would call again later.
‘Did you go to that Mackie one, what’s it called? The top one?’
‘MacIntyre Arts. No, I didn’t. What would be the point?’
Will shrugged.
‘Can’t see what you’ve got to lose. Don’t be so negative. They’ve got to hang somebody’s stuff on their walls – why not yours? We could go there now, just for a look.’ He stopped in the street, blocking the narrow pavement.
‘No we couldn’t. Why have you stopped? Can’t you walk and talk at the same time? Does it run down your batteries?’
‘Yes it does. I stopped because I like to see your face when you talk. Can I see any of your paintings yet, by the way?’
‘Nope.’
‘Just one?’
‘No.’
‘A little, tiny one?’
‘Good grief. What are you like? OK, but no smartarse comments.’
‘But these are stunning.’ He held a small canvas up to the light to see it more clearly.
‘What’s the “but” for? No need to sound quite so surprised.’
‘Don’t be annoying. I’m not surprised that they’re so good, Paranoid Person. But I can’t believe that anyone could produce anything so beautiful and – and powerful and want to keep them under wraps. I love the colours. I’m glad I nagged you to try the galleries now. You’re bonkers.’
‘Thank you for your support.’
‘You have to try that top gallery. You know that, don’t you? If you don’t, and you exhibit in some ordinary, run-of-the-mill place, you’ll always know you settled, that you didn’t go for what you really wanted, never even tried to see if you could have it.’
‘It doesn’t bother me that much. Anywhere would be wonderful.’
He blew a raspberry.
‘Yes, dear. I believe you. Now look at this one—’
‘Yes, I’ve seen it. I painted it.’
He ignored her.
‘It’s almost creepy – in a good way. It feels hushed, something about the light and this shadow over here. I feel I should whisper, the woman looks so sad. No, not sad exactly. Bereft.’
Will pointed to details.
‘… and these flagstones, the dip there where it’s been worn by footsteps. Is that the cathedral? Odd. Bits of it look like the cathedral, but it feels like somewhere else, like in a dream.’
‘Full marks, boy. It’s a fusion, innit? A synthesis of reality and imagination. All paintings are to a degree, anyway – because the way you see the world is never quite the same as the way it is.’
‘You mean you can paint what you see inside your head?’
She nodded.
Monday lunch-time. She stood looking in the window for a long time. Good stuff, very good: a first-rate portrait of a slightly cross-looking woman in oils, rather quirkily done; two small pastel nudes; a set of four woodcut landscapes – beautifully stylized, accomplished. She tried to look beyond the window, to see inside.
‘Going in?’ A tweedy, middle-aged man about to enter the gallery was holding open the door for her.
‘No. I just—’
Why not? She was here now. Nothing to stop her from having a quick look.
She went from picture to picture, her mood swinging from elation – ‘this is wonderful’ – to depression – ‘I haven’t got a hope in hell.’ She must bring Will here. ‘Oh, look at this, and this, and this,’ she wanted to say to him. A tiny ceramic enamelled piece caught her eye, glittering like a jewel. Even the pictures that weren’t to her taste were at least well done. They would never take her work here. She couldn’t possibly ask. They’d probably laugh and look embarrassed; they’d say, ‘But you’re only Bella. Perhaps you didn’t understand: we only exhibit proper artists here.’
The tweedy man was standing by the desk, talking to the assistant.
‘So.’ He swung round towards her while looking through his post. ‘Have you come to see me?’ He nodded at her portfolio, her brown paper parcel.
‘Let’s have a look then.’ He held out his hands.
Mr MacIntyre nodded as he looked through, without speaking. Oh, God, she thought, he couldn’t even think of anything polite to say. This was awful, worse than being at school, standing there while teacher read through her story. Would she get a single red tick? A ‘could try harder’? She focused all her attention on her toes, clenching and unclenching them inside her shoes. He hovered a long time, looking at the five cathedral paintings she had brought. Were there any others? he wanted to know. Yes, several, more than a dozen she thought, and some other water-colours. Was she planning to do more? She couldn’t stop at the moment, she said.
He flicked through his calendar.
‘We’re booked solid for the next ten months or so, pretty much.’
He was letting her down gently. Good. Now she could zip up her folio and leave.
‘But, but, but,’ he said as she retaped the brown paper around the paintings. He ran his finger along the dates. ‘It’s decidedly tight time-wise, but we do have a mixed show in three months. Three artists. It was supposed to be four anyway, but one dropped out to have a nervous breakdown. You’d fit in.’ He laughed. ‘The show’s called Visions, which covers anything we fancy really. But these – ’ he patted the parcel. ‘These are visions.
‘Have a think anyway. I’d understand if you wanted to hold out for a solo show – if that’s the case, we’d be looking at next year, say early autumn and, obviously, we’d need quite a lot more. I’d like to come and see the others. Whereabouts is your studio? Give us a ring tomorrow if you can, Thursday at the latest, and we can talk about framing and so on.’
Did that mean he liked them? Had he said? Had he just offered her a joint exhibition or had she imagined it? Could she possibly ask? He’d think she was bonkers.
He smiled, his sober face suddenly bright and youthful.
‘They’re superb, by the way. Really.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Let’s talk tomorrow.’
Bella was finally ‘in conference’ with Seline, i.e. having a chat but with the door shut. She had put off making a decision for as long as she reasonably could, but Seline had finally pressed her: was she interested in the possibility of a partnership next year or not?
‘I really appreciate your asking me …’
‘But you’ve decided against it? I’m sorry but I suppose it’s not a huge surprise. Can I ask why?’
Bella explained about the exhibition and wanting to spend more time painting. Perhaps Seline would like to come? She’d love to.
‘I don’t think I’d really be able to put in more time here. In fact,’ she heard herself say, ‘I was wondering if you’d let me work part-time. Say, three days a week? So I’d have time to paint. Anthony could take more charge when I’m not here. He’s got the experience. Or I could leave altogether if you think that would be better?’
‘Don’t you dare!’ Seline clicked her pen against her teeth. ‘We’ll take whatever time you can offer. I guess we can get it to work as long as we don’t have to lose you completely.’
Now that the words had been said aloud, Bella realized that the idea had been lodged in her head for months. Now it had been spoken, it was Out There, no longer safe in silence. She agreed to carry on full-time for the next couple of months while she trained Anthony in the small but vital matter of diplomacy when dealing with awkward clients.
Bella closed the door behind her. Did I really say that? Her knees seemed to be trembling slightly but her body felt lighter, clear and fizzy, as if her veins were flowing with lemonade – was it oh-shit-what-have-I-done nerves or something not unlike excitement? She bustled through to the office kitchen, fluttered to and fro wiping down the worktop, refilling the coffee machine, anchoring herself. Standing listening to the rhythmic drip-drip of the coffee, she caught sight of her distorted reflection in the shiny curve of the kettle: a new, unfamiliar Bella.