‘So you can lie low until all the fuss about your latest exhibition dies down over there, I suppose,’ she said, tightly.
‘I’m not lying low or running away from anything, Coralie. There are far more pleasant places where I could cool my heels if I wanted to. I’m running to something. I came back because of you. And I don’t have any plans for the immediate future that don’t include you.’
He waited for her to say something, but the silence was only broken by the sound of Edith dancing around outside the glass doors, barking her head off and trying to see off anyone thinking about going into the shop. Good work, Edith.
‘Think about it. I could introduce you to some great contacts in New York,’ he pointed out and got the faintest of smiles in return.
‘You already did,’ she said, surprising him. ‘I gave Laura Schiffman a sample of my Happy Hands cream. Not only did she like it, but she bought more of it for her girlfriends, one of whom, it turns out, was rather well-connected.’
‘Go on,’ he said, smiling back.
‘She’s a buyer with one of the big cosmetic houses, though our discussions are only at a very early stage.’ She shrugged. ‘The thing is I’ve been searching for growth opportunities for the business. Involvement with a large organisation would provide marketing and research and develop opportunities I could only dream of, but I do have some concerns for Sweet Cleans.’
He nodded. ‘You think it could threaten Sweet Cleans’ natural, wholesome image?’
A shadow crossed her face and she bit her lip. ‘No, it’s back to lifestyle choices; whether to stay small in the country, or get involved with big business.’ She looked at him steadily. ‘Right now, I’m happy with the life I’ve got here.’
Gethin pushed his fingers through his hair. ‘Those kinds of opportunities don’t come round every day and you must know the risk you’re taking if you stay here.’
‘I’ve done my sums,’ she told him, firmly.
‘Yes, you’re the accountant,’ he said. ‘But you don’t know how hard it is to live here.’
‘I know it didn’t suit you,’ she began, when he rolled his eyes. ‘But there are compensations: it’s a close-knit community, there’s almost no crime, everyone talks—’
‘Oh, they do that all right,’ he shot back.
‘How can you say that? How long is it since you actually lived here? Those are outdated prejudices. You think you have moved on since you left Penmorfa, but Penmorfa’s changed, too.’
‘Not as far as I can tell.’ He grimaced.
‘You haven’t exactly given yourself a chance to find out, have you?’ Coralie tugged fretfully at the hem of the depressing black vest. ‘Anyway, surely it’s easier to ignore a bit of ignorant tittle-tattle than having the New York press trash your exhibition?’
Gethin grimaced. ‘Critics are entitled to their opinion. I’ll get over that, but I can’t live in this goldfish bowl.’
‘Well, that’s that then,’ she said, except that made it sound as if they might have had a future, when, unless he acted fast, they didn’t even have a relationship.
What if Gethin’s work had plummeted in value? Later, in the Summerhouse Café which had once more been pressed into service for the evening, Coralie wiped her damp palms together and hoped that the ordinary buyers, the ones who knew what they liked and didn’t care about critical opinion, were still out there. A good Gethin Lewis would surely still sell well? As for the artist himself? Feeling tears prick her eyes, she took a deep steadying breath and concentrated on practical matters. Coralie could feel her heart pounding as she waited to see Gethin’s painting at last. At first she’d been afraid that no one would turn up to the presentation ceremony, but Alys and the Hall Management Committee had, it seemed, been quietly drumming up interest. Kitty, and a couple of young mums hoping to resume the mother-and-toddler group again, appeared pushing buggies; the woman with the jet black hair who ran flower arranging classes took a chair at the end of a row next to her husband; and some elderly residents shuffled to the front row. All the people who would benefit when the refurbished hall reopened.
The thudding in Coralie’s chest moved up a gear when a local TV reporter and camera crew started setting up. If the piece was aired, news of the charity auction would reach a far wider audience than the notice on the Hall Management Committee’s website. It might even ignite some competitive bidding on the day. On the other hand, if anything went wrong, there was every chance that Delyth would make sure her grandson would post the footage on YouTube so that they could enjoy the sight of Alys’s humiliation over and over again.
Whatever had happened between them, Gethin had come through for the village where he grew up. Not only had he fulfilled his promise, but he’d even cared enough to arrive in person to unveil the work. For that alone, he deserved her support. She glanced up at him at last, sitting next to Alys on the raised platform, and realised with a pang how tired and drawn he was. Everyone fell silent as he stood up abruptly to make some last-minute checks, scrutinising the lighting and adjusting the level of the easel. Alys’s hand fluttered to her chest and she reached for a glass of water to wet her lips. Gethin, reseating himself next to her, gave her a small nod and Alys stood up to speak. Coralie pressed her lips together, willing herself to stay calm for a few agonising seconds more. Despite everything that was left unsaid between them, she was proud of Gethin and the very small part she had played in delivering the project. And even if she detested everything she saw when the covers came off the painting, she’d be the first one cheering and singing its praise.
Gethin felt everyone’s attention turning to him, as Alys concluded her short speech, but he was only aware of one face. Coralie looked amazing in a tasteful, slim-fitting taupe dress and a swept-back hairdo that made her look serious, sophisticated and even more like a stranger to him. The dress depressed the hell out of him and he longed for her to loosen her copper waves and become the woman he knew. Just when he thought he’d caught hold of her, she’d slipped out of reach again.
‘I hope you can all see properly,’ he said, sounding more confident than he felt. ‘I have to admit that things have changed since the night when I rashly offered to donate a painting to help raise funds for this village. I was, perhaps, guilty of believing my own myth, of thinking I was better than I was. Sometimes we all need a reality check to see where we’ve gone wrong.’
There was some nervous laughter in the room.
‘So,’ he went on, ‘I promised the Hall Management Committee a painting that would have resonance for everyone who looked at it, yet at the same time, I wanted to stay true to myself. Well, this is it …’
There was yet more nervous laughter from the audience and some shuffling from the seats beside him where the Hall Management Committee were assembled. He took a long look round the room and reached for the cloth covering the canvas.
Alys could see how anxiously Coralie was watching Gethin, although he almost seemed to be avoiding looking in her direction. Maybe, like her, he missed the old Coralie and all her vintage glad rags. This new, cool Coralie, looking very chic in a Roland Mouret rip-off, was a bit of a stranger. Alys was deeply indebted to her for going so far to get Gethin on board, but whether it had put some of her inner ghosts to rest was hard to tell. She looked from Coralie to Gethin and frowned; a palpable tension in the room had put paid to the festive atmosphere as everyone grew quiet. And then Gethin pulled away the white sheet covering the canvas.
There were shocked gasps and splutters of outrage, but when Alys dared look she saw a portrait that was so infused with raw emotions, it almost hurt. If anyone had any doubts about Gethin’s artistic ability, that he had somehow stretched remarkably little talent a very long way – which Alys didn’t believe for one moment – Girl in a Coral Dress, as he had entitled it, was proof of how gifted he was.
‘I thought you promised me I was going to see something a bit saucy?’ she heard one of the parish council members complaining to his wife, a
woman with fiercely dyed black hair who was responsible for some of the more inspired flower arrangements in Penmorfa’s tiny church.
‘And this so-called work of art is the thanks we get,’ said Delyth, folding her arms, ‘from the boy who owes everything he is today to this village.’
The one consolation was that Delyth had earned herself a reproachful look from the Vicar, who was staring at her with great sadness.
‘Mrs Bowen,’ said a reporter she recognised from the county newspaper, frantically opening a notebook. The young woman had to raise her voice to be heard in the rising noise. ‘You’re Chair of the Hall Management Committee. Had you seen the new Gethin Lewis before today?’
‘Given that the object of this painting was to raise funds for a project in Penmorfa, some of us were anticipating a work more reflective of village life,’ another reporter was shouting, waving a recorder at her. ‘Can you explain to everyone what the link is?’
‘The link,’ sneered Mair, puffing up, ‘is that Gethin Lewis has just unveiled another of his mistresses.’
‘Not that she looks very happy about it,’ Delyth agreed. ‘But then I suppose she had to wait until Alys decided she’d finished with him.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ Alys protested. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’
‘Ridiculous, is it?’ said Mair.
‘Shut your big fat gob!’ Kitty shouted, practically in tears as she pushed through the crowd to stand by Alys’s side. Jamie, in his buggy, started bawling. Poor thing, Alys registered miserably. ‘My mother has worked harder for this village than the rest of you put together. How dare you tell such filthy lies about her!’
Alys felt sick as Delyth and Mair exchanged glances.
‘I expect you’ve been too busy producing fatherless children to know about your mother’s weakness for younger men,’ Mair said, smugly.
‘You complete bitch!’ howled Kitty. ‘Take that back!’
‘Ask your mother why that nice couple who used to run the Summerhouse Café left so suddenly then. Ask her about young Jerzy,’ Delyth purred.
‘You seem to know what’s going on ladies,’ said a reporter, eagerly. ‘Perhaps you know who the woman is in Gethin Lewis’s portrait?’
‘Another floozy,’ Mair said, airily. ‘Just like the one in that Samba nonsense.’
Alys’s legs were shaking, but the words she was so desperate to find were eluding her. Then everyone took a step back. The Vicar calmly stilled the troubled gaggle with a wave of her pale hands.
‘I think you’re both letting your imaginations get away with you,’ she rebuked Delyth and Mair gently. ‘Your view of the artist as some sort of debaucher of women is quite mistaken. I can assure you that the model for Samba was categorically not involved with the artist.’
‘Charitable as ever, dear Vicar,’ Mair said, talking to the Vicar as if she were a newborn lamb with no knowledge of the world beyond a spring field.
‘No, not charitable,’ the Vicar insisted, firm but completely untroubled. She looked round the crowd making sure she had everyone’s full attention. ‘I know for a fact that the model for Last Samba before Sunset did not have sexual relations of any description with the artist.’ She paused to give a modest smile. ‘I know, because I was the model!’
Trembling with relief, Alys turned round smiling and grateful for the Vicar’s intervention, but the smile froze on her face as she caught sight of Kitty staring at her in disgust.
‘Kitty,’ she said quickly, as her daughter started pushing everyone out of the way. Everywhere was in chaos. No one was worried about Gethin’s painting anymore; all the cameras were trained on the Vicar, who was batting questions away with a promise of a full interview in due course. After a split second’s hesitation she decided to leave them to it and chased after her daughter.
‘Wait, Kitty,’ she said, catching up with her and clasping hold of her arm. ‘It’s not what you think!’
‘Isn’t it?’ Kitty tore her arm away furiously. ‘You tell me what it is then. Did you or did you not have a relationship with Jerzy?’
Alys shook her head, trying to find the right words.
‘How could you, Mam? You meant everything to me; you were the person I most looked up to in the whole world, the one I thought would keep me safe. No wonder poor Dad doesn’t want to have anything to do with you. Just don’t ever talk to me again, okay?’ Kitty pushed her away, crying. ‘You make me feel sick!’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Coralie took advantage of the tumult around her to take a few moments more to assimilate her feelings. So long as she never let her hair down ever again, there was a good chance no one would associate her with the pale-faced woman with her cascade of copper curls staring so trustingly from the painting. She lifted her gaze from her nude patent court shoes to take another quick squint at the portrait.
Maybe it wasn’t such a disaster; Gethin had summed her up in colour and emotion rather than a precise physical resemblance. Anyway, no one had come rushing up thrusting a mic under her nose yet. In fact, since someone had stuck their head out of the mob clustering round the Vicar shouting that the model in Samba had been uncovered, the members of the press had all been too busy trying to submit their stories to notice her.
And by the time he’s finished painting them, he’s sick of the sight of them. Isn’t that what Ruby had told her? It may be an intense relationship for a short time, but it’s only paint. Was that a bad thing? She considered how she felt about that night. How her body had tingled and ached, as if, for once in a long, long time, she was truly alive and her pulse rate took off just remembering.
That intense relationship had resulted in a portrait that was neither chivalrous nor exploitative. It was tender but not sentimental. If she hadn’t known better she would have said that it revealed some pretty naked feelings for the sitter. She tried to steal a glance at the man who’d made her feel reborn, but he’d been engulfed in the crowd. Then someone tapped her lightly on the shoulder.
‘Hello, Coralie,’ he said. ‘You missed our last meeting so I thought I’d come to see you for a change. It looks like I picked a good time.’
‘Selfish as ever!’ Gethin heard Delyth declare as he pushed past them in pursuit of Coralie, who he’d lost sight of whilst he’d been surrounded by the baying crowd, screaming questions at him. ‘Turning the village into a peepshow once again! You always have to bring sex into it, don’t you? I suppose the beauty of this landscape isn’t good enough for you!’
‘Poor Alys,’ said Mair loudly. ‘If only she’d listened to us in the first place. However will the poor woman cope with such a very public humiliation? All that effort spent grooming the artist only to be traded in for a younger model!’
‘Hypocritical old bat,’ Gethin snarled to himself. He gritted his teeth and walked on, knowing that anything he said to defend Alys would be wilfully misinterpreted. Besides, anyone who knew Alys would never believe their lies. Instead, he concentrated on what he was going to say to Coralie. One minute more, he thought, walking towards her front door, and she’d be back in his arms and everything would be fine again. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry and every second apart from all the softness and heat of her made each footstep feel like a mile. All he needed was to be close to the woman who’d been driving him crazy ever since she’d set her cat on him.
He was looking round, waiting for Rock to leap out from behind a bush somewhere, doing his ‘feel sorry for me’ act, when Coralie opened the door. They stared at each other for a moment. From the look on her face he needed Rock to hurry up and appear to teach him a few tricks about winning her over.
‘Oh, Gethin,’ she said at last, her sad face pale and haunted. ‘I’m so sorry but this isn’t a good time.’
Gethin scratched his head; this wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. One of his art teachers had once told him that he needed to face his feelings when emotions were running high rather than slamming the door on them. All right, it hadn’t been
easy to admit what he felt for the woman in front of him, but he’d ripped open his chest and poured his heart all over that canvas for her.
‘Hey, Coralie,’ someone called from within, ‘tell whoever that is we’re busy here. You’ve kept me waiting long enough.’
‘Please tell me that’s your brother,’ he said, feeling sick. But Coralie just shook her head.
‘I need to talk to you,’ she said, dropping her voice, ‘but this isn’t the right time.’
‘Why not? Don’t you want me to meet your friend in there? Come on, why not invite me in so we can all have a nice chat?’
‘It’s Ned Wallace, Gethin, and he’s very vulnerable right now.’
What about me? He was about to say before he realised what she was telling him. ‘The guy who killed that girl? You felt so bad about him, you got involved with him? Coralie, let me tell you that rescuing stray cats is one thing, but you just crossed the line, baby. We’re done now.’
‘Gethin!’ She reached out to try to stop him, but if he stayed there any longer he was afraid that he might cry, so he shook her off and walked away.
Alys, crouched on a stool out of sight in the kitchenette, closed her eyes and waited until the hubbub of voices in the café subsided and all the reporters had hurried off in search of phone signals. Then, when she could be certain of escaping curious glances, she made her way home.
Gethin’s portrait of Coralie was far removed from the decadent sensuality of his usual oeuvre; it was a weighty, sober reflection of a man who was either very clever or very much in love. But what did this radical new direction mean for the charity auction? Would the collectors who were still interested in his previous paintings want to buy something so untried, so raw?
Move Over Darling Page 21