The irony that this new life had been funded by the sale of ‘Dancer’ had not been lost on him. He had found he could no longer look at the painting without almost unendurable memories of Sunny surfacing so, in one of his moments of resentful anger, he had put it in a gallery in London and it had sold before he had had time to change his mind.
He decided he was glad to have it gone, out of his life, and he resolutely gave no thought to who might have bought it. So when the payment cheque came with the name of the purchaser at the bottom of the paperwork, he had thrown it onto the kitchen table with all the other pieces of paper that were collecting there. It was just another annoying piece of paper to add to the pile.
The accompanying cheque however was substantial and he had swiftly deposited it in the bank knowing it would help to keep him afloat for a while, but he could not allow himself the luxury of feeling the pleasure that selling a painting usually gave him. So he simply tried to forget about it, to forget about his once-special painting, the best work he had ever done in his life.
Each day, just after dawn, he had continued to throw on his paint-spattered work clothes and, with a mug of coffee in one hand and his habitual roll-up in the other, had drifted off to his studio to work until mid-afternoon, stopping only when the pangs of hunger became too insistent to ignore. The finished paintings had stacked up against the studio walls until he could hardly walk between them. Or at least they did until the arrival of the purchaser of ‘Dancer’ who was about to become an avid, and influential, collector of his work.
It was a face Sunny had never expected to see on the television. The unexpectedness of it gave her heart an unexpected spasm and she was thankful Edward was not there to see her reaction. He’s thinner, she thought, too thin, but the wolfish grin was just the same as he answered the questions the female interviewer asked him.
The eye patch suited him, it gave him an air of menace, of mystery, with nobody in the art world knowing whether it was an affectation or not. The interviewer was noticeably wary of him. As the latest ‘enfant terrible’ of the art world Jimmy Fisher was known to have a reputation for being sharp and unpredictable and not easy to interview.
His left eye gleamed with a secret, cynical mischief as he looked towards the glossy young woman who was asking him about his work and Sunny was relieved to see that although he was thinner he looked well and seemingly at ease with his new lifestyle.
In truth, it was something more than ease and she could see he was genuinely enjoying the attention in his usual, mocking way. Watching him as he led the girl into making increasingly confused and pretentious comments, she wondered if he really was the same old Jimmy. Could he have changed? She had no way of knowing for sure. Could he still, with one of his cruel and satirical comments, utterly crush the ego of the breathless young woman opposite him?
She found herself willing him not to be unkind to the girl, not to walk out of the interview on some artistic caprice or to make some obscure point. Kneeling in front of the television and putting her fingers against the screen, she absorbed every contour of his face, only gradually becoming aware he was talking about the painting of her, talking about ‘Dancer’.
‘Yes, Hermione, that is true … it did all start with ‘Dancer’. Having that piece achieve the sort of recognition it did, did kick-start my career. Twenty-five years of blood, sweat and tears and I become an overnight success.’
Hermione smiled politely, not quite catching the joke and waiting for him to say more. Suddenly he was serious, letting his smile fade, deliberately allowing the mask of flippancy to slip and his vulnerability to show.
‘When I painted ‘Dancer’ I, like many painters of beautiful women, was in love with my subject. Perhaps that was what showed, perhaps that’s what made it special.’
‘So, will we ever know who the subject of ‘Dancer’ is?’ the girl asked with a coy smile.
‘No, no one will ever know who she is. She would not want that.’ His answer was blunt, uncompromising. ‘It is enough for me to know she exists somewhere in the world ... and I would hope she knows I still love her ... ’
His words were spoken straight to camera, straight to Sunny, as if he knew she was watching him, as if they were the only two people in the world. The interviewer smiled with relief, knowing further questions were unnecessary, he had given her the perfect sound bite on which to end the interview.
Sunny watched as Jimmy’s face faded from view, smiling at his final audacity as the closing credits raced up the screen. She had loved him, did still love him, but she knew now he had never really been a suitable man for the sort of love that lasts a lifetime. Now, at last, she knew herself to finally be at peace.
She rose and went to find Edward, suddenly eager for his company.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Angela Jardine lives in an ancient cottage in Cornwall with her husband and a rescued ginger cat. She has an abiding love of the coast and countryside of Britain and a distinct fondness for village life.The Catalyst is her first novel.
She can be contacted through her website ‘Sleeping with the cat …’ at www.angelajardine.com
The Catalyst Page 24