Five pictures had been sold at the private view (‘An auspicious start’ and much nodding from Donald MacIntyre), and her parents had bought one the next day, but there is absolutely no reason whatsoever to imagine that she could have sold any more. They weren’t exactly cheap, nor were they pretty-pretty, easy-to-live-with vases of flowers (‘Yours won’t jump off the walls, but they do get under your skin. People will come back to buy once they’ve seen them,’ pronounced Donald). However, the gallery is hardly out of her way at all. Besides, it is near the better fishmonger, so it makes sense. She rephrases it in her head to prevent probable disappointment: she ought to pick up some fish from the good fishmonger and, while she is passing, she might as well poke her head into the gallery.
There are two of her paintings in the window: one small one, the first she had painted, of the woman holding herself, and a larger one, based on her first drawing of Will, which she had finally worked into a painting. It shocks her afresh to see them there, her own work. It is like entering a clothes shop and suddenly coming across a rail with the contents of your own wardrobe. It is slightly embarrassing in a way; she half-expects people to come up to her and say, ‘We know you now. We’ve seen inside your head. It’s no use trying to hide.’ She looks at the Will painting, as if she is seeing it for the first time. The set of his head on his shoulders there, that is really very Will-ish, better than she’d thought. The stone of the wall beside him – she could almost reach out and stroke it; his face, half in shadow; the light falling behind.
‘Hey there,’ says Fiona, ‘come to check the sales tally?’
‘No, no. Just passing by.’
‘Uh-huh? Don’t be embarrassed. If it were my stuff, I’d be phoning in every half-hour to see if I’d sold anything. Coffee?’
Bella does a tour of the exhibition, checking the red spots. There are eight on her pictures. It doesn’t seem like a lot, but she knows that it is good, better than she has a right to expect so early on. Still she tells herself that she can’t count the ones bought by Viv, Seline and her parents, so it’s really more like five. She surreptitiously counts up the spots for the other three exhibitors. It’s not a competition, she tells herself, counting anyway. One artist has sold six, another has three red badges of honour, while the last has none. How awful, but it was hardly unusual. She’d have given Viv the money to buy one if that had happened to her.
Fiona is flicking through the sales book.
‘Nine. That’s pretty good. Very good in fact. You should do well next time when you have your own show.’
Next time.
‘Nine? I only made it eight.’
‘Did you count the one in the window?’
Had the little one sold? That would be good, the very first one she had painted.
‘No, the bigger one. Actually, I was going to call you anyway. I couldn’t see a price for it, but I assume it’s the same as the others that size. Chap put a deposit on it yesterday morning. It’s my favourite, I think. I love the way you can sort of almost see what the man’s thinking, but not quite. It makes me go quite shivery.’
The bigger one? Not the one of Will?
‘There must be a mistake. That one’s not for sale. I told Donald before it went up but he said he wanted it in the window anyway because it would draw people in.’
‘Oh-oh. He didn’t tell me.’
Fiona reaches into the window space and lifts the painting.
‘See, no sticker.’
‘Oh, shoot.’ She plucks something from the floor and holds out her finger with a small white sticker on it: NFS.
She cannot apologize enough. Is there any chance Bella would reconsider?
It’s only a painting, she tells herself. What’s the point of clinging onto it? It’ll only make me miserable if I have it hanging about the house. But, but -
But it’s all I have of him.
‘Well, I really …’ she starts to say.
Fiona interrupts her. She will try calling the customer, explain the situation. Maybe he’d buy another one instead and they wouldn’t lose the sale altogether. She’ll see if there’s a daytime phone number for him if Bella doesn’t mind waiting.
‘Hello. Oh, good morning. It’s Fiona at MacIntyre Arts here. Is that Mr Henderson?’
Mr Henderson. Oh my God. Will.
‘… if you still definitely wanted it?’
Will.
‘… bit of a mix-up …’
Will.
‘… any chance you might reconsider …’
Bella waves at Fiona and gestures for a pen, scribbles on the top sheet of the memo pad: LET HIM HAVE IT.
‘Er, sorry, Mr Henderson. Apparently it is OK. Yes. Completely my fault. So sorry to have taken up your time.’ She laughs. How many times had he made Bella laugh on the phone? ‘Yes. Sorry again. Yes. Any time after the 18th. Thank you. ’Bye.’
‘Phew,’ says Fiona, shaking mock sweat from her brow. ‘Nice bloke, but didn’t sound keen to let go of the painting. Thank you so much for changing your mind. Donald would have done his dour John Knox face at me for the whole of next week otherwise.’
Bella is just leaving when Fiona asks if she has had a look at her comments as well. Comments? What comments? Fiona hands her the visitors’ book. There is the date of the private view, where the guests had signed in. Some had added a brief note: Viv – ‘Stunning! Should be in the National Gallery.’ Nick – ‘Buy now while you still can.’ Jane – ‘I may not know much about art but these are fabby.’ Seline – ‘Haunting and atmospheric.’ Anthony – ‘Beats Vermeer into a cocked hat.’ Even her parents, her father’s minute writing, detailing his proud views, her mother’s exquisite script: ‘Magnifico! A new diva of the art world.’
There are a few others, written by people she doesn’t know; real actual people had taken one or two minutes out of their own lifetime to write something about her pictures, things she had created. It is an extraordinary feeling, as if she had trailed through all her life like a ghost, her presence registering no more than a wisp of a breeze, then suddenly she is physical, here, incandescent and alive, and everyone has turned to see her. She scans the comments, wanting to note them down so she will remember them but feels too embarrassed; she blinks her eyes closed at each one, as if photographing them, committing them to the vault: ‘Unforgettable and exciting’, ‘Brooding, mysterious’, ‘Like a dream, a fantasy’, two more ‘Atmospheric’s’.
She flicks forward to yesterday’s date. Will Henderson. The feel of the page beneath her fingers, the slightest indentations where he had leant his pen to write. Even his signature makes her want to cry. She moves her finger along the line, tracing his words: I still love you.