by Daisy James
‘I love you, Gabriella Sofia Andrews.’
‘I love you, too, Max.’
Over his shoulder she met her father’s eyes and saw the pride, happiness and affection reflected in their depths. When she looked back at Max, those same emotions were written in his eyes and she knew she had to be the luckiest woman in the world. She kissed him, then hugged him and kissed him again before seeking out her father to include him in their celebration, enjoying the swirl of joy that rippled through her body.
When Clara and Owen’s farewell committee dispersed back into the marquee, Gabbie made to follow in their wake, but Max held on to her arm.
‘There’s something else I want to give you.’
‘There is?’
She scoured his face, loving every part of it, especially those cute dimples that were currently highlighting his wide smile.
‘Follow me.’
Gabbie linked his arm and followed him to the car park at the rear of the pub where she stopped in her tracks, her eyes widening in disbelief, her heart pounding out a concerto of surprise and delight.
‘Oh my God! Oh, Max! It’s…’
Words failed her. Waiting patiently in a sun-drenched corner was the Triumph Stag, completely restored to its former glory, its chrome-work sparkling, the roof rolled down, identical in make, model and colour to the one her parents had driven away in on their honeymoon.
‘Max, I’m…’
Gabbie swallowed down on the lump in her throat and reached up to kiss him, to try to tell him in that one intimate action all the things she needed him to hear. When they broke apart, she saw from his eyes that he understood what his gesture had meant to her.
‘Come on! Jump in! I’ll take you for a spin.’
Max revved the engine and drove slowly to the front of the pub, where he paused. He met Gabbie’s eyes and indicated over his shoulder. She turned her head and her heart soared when she saw her father, crouched low, his old Pentax raised to his eye.
‘Jeff’s carried that camera around all day just to get this one shot, Gabbie.’
Her thoughts scooted back to the framed photograph on her bedside table, taken thirty years ago to the day, of her parents setting off on their new life together, looking over their shoulders and beaming into the camera, just as she and Max were doing now. She hoped they would be just as happy as her parents had been and resolved to make sure the photograph her father had taken was given pride of place on her mantlepiece, so she could, one day, pass it on to their own children.
Acknowledgements
Huge congratulations to Jennifer McLean, who made the winning bid in a Women’s Institute charity auction to have a character in The Summer House of Happiness named after her.
Daisy James
Letter from the Author
Thank you for reading The Summer House of Happiness. I had so much fun researching and writing Gabbie and Max’s story and I hope you enjoyed reading it just as much. As part of the research process, I sourced a whole host of different aromatherapy oils to sample so that I could really experience what each fragrance actually smelled like and describe it as accurately as possible. I learned a great deal in the process, too. For instance, I had no idea that rosemary oil has been credited with assisting memory. (University of Northumbria).
One of the best things about writing is hearing from readers. If you enjoyed The Summer House of Happiness, I’d absolutely love it if you could leave a short review. Getting your feedback is fabulous and it helps to persuade other readers to pick up one of my books for the first time.
You can also follow me on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/daisyjamesbooks/ and Twitter at https://twitter.com/daisyjamesbooks. I’m on Instagram too. I’d love to hear from you.
Love,
Daisy
Turn the page for an exclusive sneak peek of Sunshine After the Rain, another uplifting romance from Daisy James…
Chapter One
‘Oh my God! Please tell me this isn’t happening!’
Evie stalked to the front door of James Bradbury Art and grabbed the envelope attached to the front of an enormous canvas wrapped in a protective coat of bubble wrap that had just been delivered by special courier.
‘Calm down, Evie! Just watching you flap is giving me palpitations!’ Pippa giggled.
‘How can I slow down? This is the most important exhibition the gallery has ever handled. In less than an hour, all the great and the good of London’s venerable art world will be descending on our little corner of the capital expecting to be bowled over by the creative genius of Britain’s newest contemporary artist. Everything has to be perfect!’
Evie slid her scarlet fingernail along the flap and withdrew the unwelcome missive before scanning the contents. She opened her mouth to object but no words tumbled forth. Her brain had temporarily disconnected from its modem and was refusing to register what her eyes were seeing. She felt a heavy fist of shock ram into her solar plexus, stealing her breath away, and a ripple of nausea threatened to overwhelm her.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake! This really is the final straw. The arrogant, self-centred …’
‘What’s the matter? What does it say?’
‘It’s from Jaxx Benson, our esteemed debut artist. It looks like we’ve got just over fifty minutes to swap this canvas – which he has helpfully labelled “the centrepiece of the whole exhibition” – with that one over there, which we spent the best part of yesterday positioning as the previous so-called “star attraction”. Quick! Antoine, could you and Pierre take the “Muswell Musings” canvas down and hide it in James’s office for the time being, then come back to help me and Pippa hang this one in its place? Hurry!’
As Pierre and Antoine rushed off to do as bid, their black waiters’ aprons flapping at their waists, Evie felt a surge of panic twist through her veins and sparkle out to her fingertips. A flush of perspiration gathered beneath her breasts and along her upper lip. She sent up a quick thank you to the gods of Estée Lauder for the staying power of her foundation and mascara.
She crouched down to tear away the cardboard armour from the late arrival, cursing the audacity of Jaxx Benson – heart-throb and lead singer of one of the hottest bands in the country who had decided to turn his hand to painting – for thinking it was okay to demand such a late substitution. She allowed her thoughts to whirl back over the hectic past few months during which she had spent twelve hours a day at the beck and call of the art world’s latest sensation until her nerves were frazzled and frayed.
She kept telling herself, and anyone else who chastised her for her workaholic tendencies, that once the opening night was out of the way she would take a break. However, at that moment, as she had single-handedly curated the whole exhibition, she couldn’t risk anything going wrong. This was her one big chance to show James Bradbury what she could do, but the stress of pulling off such an important show was taking its toll. Every night she had lain awake chasing the ‘what if’ demons down blind alleyways until her exhausted brain could take no more. All she wanted to do now was crawl into her bed and sleep until Sunday.
‘Thanks, Antoine. Pierre, can you help me get rid of all this packaging, please? It’s making the place look untidy.’
When Bradbury Art had taken delivery of the first of Jaxx Benson’s paintings to be revealed to his adoring public, the excitement in the gallery had been palpable. Evie had unpacked the artwork with the reverence demanded of a collection of Monets or Renoirs. But when she and Pippa had stood back to admire the canvases lined up in military precision along the West End gallery’s ice-white walls, they had been stunned into silence. Neither of them had wanted to be the first to comment, but Evie had eventually managed to ask how on earth the young musician had attracted such critical acclaim.
Whenever she considered any piece of art – whether it be a painting, a sculpture, a photograph, or an installation – she wanted to experience a thrill of emotion, any emotion. But Jaxx Benson’s artwork did nothing for her. It was clear to her expert
eye that the singer had received no formal tutoring – his chosen subject matter was a collision of random splodges of black, taupe, and grey paint selected from a limited spectrum at the depressing end of his artist’s palette. The canvases lacked any kind of perspective or complexity in their composition. There was no use of symbolism or, as far as she could ascertain, any hidden meaning or energy beyond the surface.
Clearly Jaxx’s musical fame had preceded him and there was nothing she could do about it. It was up to her to deal with the shock and make the heart-throb’s debut into the art world as noteworthy as possible. Nevertheless, she could already envisage the art critics’ disdainful headlines printed on a loop of ticker tape coiling around her brain and she cringed. She had longed to show James what she was capable of, that she could curate a successful exhibition of this calibre, but tonight would not be that occasion. It was going to be a disaster; she could feel it in her bones.
She checked her watch again and began clawing at the bubble wrap. ‘Jaxx Benson really is the most unprofessional, egotistical, irritating person I have ever had the misfortune to …’
She was forced to pause in her character assassination when the new piece of artwork was unveiled in all its technicolour glory. Unlike its drab companions that hung on the walls around the gallery, this late arrival depicted a vibrant landscape – possibly of Devon or Cornwall – and was a complete departure from the other pieces in the exhibition.
‘Wow! That’s amazing!’ declared Pippa, coming to stand next to Evie with her arms folded as she studied the last-minute substitution. ‘No wonder he wants the canvases switched. Come on. Let’s get this beauty on the wall before the guests start to arrive.’
‘I have to agree with you, Pip. In fact, I might just have to reassess my initial opinion of Mr Benson’s artistic prowess if this piece is representative of his new stuff.’
Between the four of them they lifted the huge canvas onto the back wall. In unison, they took a step back and allowed their eyes to linger on the new leading lady. The canvas’s inclusion had lifted the rest of the collection from dull and mundane to quirky and almost interesting in a light, uplifting sense of contrast. It was as though the sun had appeared from behind a bank of bruised clouds to illuminate the whole space and a wave of relief surged through Evie.
She acknowledged for the first time that the feeling in the pit of her stomach had been one of dread. She had believed that the patrons of the art world who had been invited to the opening that evening would, like she and Pippa, consider the collection to be subpar; that they would arrive at the inevitable conclusion that James Bradbury Art had lost its edge or been blinded by the celebrity of the musician-turned-painter and had chosen to overlook the fact that he had little talent.
She needn’t have worried. Now she could genuinely dedicate herself to an evening of conversations in which she could happily wax lyrical about the artist’s indisputable talents.
‘Do you think this means Jaxx Benson has changed his mind and decided to come to the opening night now?’ asked Pippa for the hundredth time that day, her chestnut eyes sparkling with hope.
‘You know he won’t. One of the criteria for him agreeing to hold his debut exhibition at Bradbury’s was that we wouldn’t insist on him attending in person to publicize it. His agent made sure the stipulation was written into the contract. Even James Bradbury himself couldn’t persuade him to change his mind. So, Pip darling, you can put your autograph book and camera back in your handbag!’
Evie held her tablet aloft and took a succession of photographs of the spectacular canvas to upload to the James Bradbury Art Gallery’s Facebook and Instagram pages later.
‘Well, I don’t know how he can stay away. If this were my exhibition I’d be here soaking up the compliments, explaining the road to my inspiration, talking up the prices and smiling for the photographers. Don’t look at me like that, Evie. You would too!’
‘Ah,’ she sighed, rotating her aching shoulders and massaging her temples with her index fingers to soothe away the stress headache that was threatening to overwhelm her. ‘But that’s not likely, is it? I haven’t lifted a paintbrush in months.’
‘Well, whose fault is that?’
‘You know I’ve been too busy with the gallery to think about painting, Pip. And on the rare occasions when I do get a day to myself I’m just too exhausted to drag out the easel and my paint box. Anyway, you can hardly compare my artistic pulling power with that of Jaxx Benson. You’d have to press-gang people into attending an exhibition of my watercolours.’
‘You shouldn’t belittle your work, Evie. It’s true – Jaxx doesn’t need any extra publicity for this to be the must-have invitation of the month. But, if I was forced to choose between one of your watercolours and one of those moody, abstract landscapes over there, then I would choose yours every single time.’
Evie smiled at the enthusiasm in her friend’s voice and opened her mouth to thank her for her support, but Pippa hadn’t finished her lecture.
‘You should still make time to paint. It’s what you love the most, isn’t it? Why don’t you take a few days off next week? Go home to Cornwall and take your easel with you? Start chasing your own dreams instead of other people’s! You know what Sam says. We all have to be prepared to “carve out the time to coax our passions from their slumber”,’ quoted Pippa using her fingers as speech marks. ‘And don’t forget that “creativity is a muscle that needs to be exercised to keep it in tiptop condition.”’
‘Yes, well, not all of us are as fortunate as Sam “Silver Spoon” Bradbury. When you have a lucrative career as a newly qualified barrister to fall back on, you can spend as much time as you want on “flexing your creative muscles”!’
Evie hoped the envy in her voice wasn’t as apparent to Pippa’s ears as it was to her own. Everything her friend had said was right of course. She suspected that shelving her dream of becoming a commercially successful artist was the real cause of her recent melancholy and insomnia and not the stress of organizing Jaxx Benson’s debut.
When she had taken on the role of manager and curator for one of the hippest independent art galleries in London’s West End two years ago, she had reassured herself every time she surveyed a fresh exhibition with the ‘one day this will be mine’ mantra. But the leather portfolio under her bed had become a comfortable colony for dust bunnies that even a ravenous Dyson would struggle to evict.
She refused to admit it to anyone but she was now frightened to revisit her canvases in case the unbridled passion she had possessed at university had been shipwrecked on the sea of necessity to pay her rent. Even Pippa, the most positive person she had ever encountered, had downgraded her constant barrage of encouragement to weekly instead of daily. It was just the evening’s events that seemed to have reawakened her friend’s indignation that Evie was concealing her ambitions under a veil of workaholic mist.
‘And, whilst we’re on the subject of self-interested creatives, what’s happening with you and Dylan?’ asked Pippa, holding Evie’s gaze so that she wasn’t tempted to avoid the subject. ‘Why isn’t he gracing us with his presence tonight? What can be more important than being here to support his girlfriend?’
‘I told you, his band’s got a gig. It’s been such a long time since the last one, I couldn’t expect him to turn it down. This could be the breakthrough he needs to get his career back on track.’ Evie hoped her optimism wasn’t as misplaced as it had been many times before and that his refusal to come to the exhibition before the gig was not yet another symptom of the fizzling out of her relationship with would-be rock guitarist Dylan.
‘You can’t keep defending him, Evie. You deserve better.’
Evie flashed Pippa a grateful smile but before she was able to respond, her colleague erupted into a volley of excitable squeals.
‘Look! Look! Oh my God, I don’t believe it! The paparazzi have arrived!’
Evie took time out of her frantic list-checking mode to glance at the violet-ting
ed street beyond the huge, plate-glass front window. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the uniformed doormen – straight from central casting as extras in a Mafia movie – hired by James Bradbury to guard the entrance in case of gate-crashers from the Jaxx Benson Fan Club intent on getting a personal audience with their idol. It would be a fruitless wait but that never seemed to deter the most ardent of admirers.
It was almost seven o’clock and twilight had started to tickle the rooftops and send shadows skipping across the pavements. All day the sky had presented a canopy of darkening clouds but the expected rain hadn’t materialized – yet.
Pippa was right – a gaggle of photographers had set up camp on the opposite side of the road where they jostled to secure the best vantage point for their long lenses and stepladders in a misinformed fit of optimism over reality. Jaxx Benson had made it abundantly clear via his Twitter and Facebook accounts that he had no intention of attending the gallery that evening. He had declared that he had hung up his microphone and shunned his addiction to the limelight to concentrate on his first love – not the creation of music but of art.
The pop star had stated that his life as a rampant exhibitionist – which necessitated the tossing of chairs from third floor balconies of Knightsbridge hotels – was all in the past. He had gone on to report that, now he had succeeded in evicting the stimulants provided by Messrs Jack and Daniels from his life, he was able to feel his creativity flow through his body once more and it was liberating. He professed to prefer his self-imposed isolation at his farm in South Wales and had stubbornly refused all of James Bradbury’s attempts to cajole him into appearing at his opening night, even for ten minutes.
When Jaxx had reasserted that he no longer craved publicity to justify his existence, Evie had laughed. If that were true, why then had he ordered a full-colour portrait of himself at the height of his fame to be splashed across the front cover of that evening’s glossy brochure? What was the point of the life-sized billboards flanking the entrance?