Page 4 of Putting Down Roots

I don’t get any further before a wave of nausea and panic washes over me. I push the tablet away, my head in my hands. I hear a mug being plonked onto the table and then feel a hand on my back, rubbing, soothing. Anna—my oldest, and probably my only genuine, friend.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she soothes. “It’ll all blow over soon enough. The art world knows your connection with Claude, and he has been photographed with that new boy of his recently, so they’ll just see it as a jealous outburst.”

I really hope so.

I reach for my phone and switch it on.

It beeps as message after message comes in. Are they from Claude saying he’s sorry?

“Darling, it’s Rueben from Claverdale Gallery. Cynthia says, considering the . . . err . . . you know what . . . we can’t display your work, just for a bit. You know how it is. Sorry. Anyway, ciao.”

Beep.

“Luca, it’s Gavin. Sorry old chum, but you’re not trending right now. I’m going to have to take your pictures down. You understand, don’t you?”

Beep.

“Mr Winterton, it’s Mr Graves, from the Beauchamp Gallery. We’re sorry to say that we cannot sell your work anymore.”

Beep.

Fuck! Fucking Claude!

I throw my phone across the room.

“I’m finished, Anna.” I put my head in my hands.

“No.” she rubs my back again. “It’ll blow over, you’ll see. You’re a brilliant artist. The galleries will come round to that soon, hang in there.”

Was I though?There was more than a grain of truth in Claude’s assertion that he had made me. He was the one who had noticed my art in a small gallery, not long after I was fresh out of college. His glowing review had attracted attention, and other galleries soon requested my work. I was able to rent my own studio and had held several exhibitions in the last six years.

I had often wondered if his review wasn’t so much about my artwork, but more about me. He’d taken me to dinner that first day—the first of many—and it had ended with me becominghis lover. I thought boyfriend once, but Claude didn’t have boyfriends—but he did have a type, and I knew I fitted that perfectly. Every time the worry that my career was based on my relationship with Claude reared its head, my motivation to create left me, so I’d pushed it to the back of my mind, behind a locked door. Now that door’s been bombed open. My art’s nothing, and that’s worse, way worse, than being dropped by the galleries. Of course they dropped me. I couldn’t create a piece of art if my life depended on it. My success wasn’t because of my art. It had been dependent on Claude and now he’s crushed it.

Anna’s phone beeps.

“Shit, shit, sorry Luca, I have to run. I’m already late for my photoshoot. The room alone cost a thousand pounds to rent for today and the photographer, model, and make-up artist, are all there waiting for me.”

I wave her away. I know how much this means to her. She’s a costumier, specialising in recreating historical garments. She’s been working on this collection for months and the shoot is today. Out of it, she’s hoping to get work with production companies, on a period drama.

“Thanks.” She leans in and kisses my cheek. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t do anything stupid.” She takes my spare key and leaves in the same style of whirlwind as she entered.

Don’t do anything stupid.I’m not going to do anything at all—except sit here and mourn my lack of talent and lack of career. Well, not do anything except reach for my coffee. No, that wasn’t doing it for me. Maybe if I add some whisky? Perhaps just the whisky for now.

Anna did come backand stay with me, only going out to work when she needed to. She made me coffee and brought food, but I didn’t taste any of it. When the alcohol ran out on the third day, she refused to get me anymore.

“If you want any, you’re going to have to fetch it yourself.” I think it was her way of getting me to leave the apartment. It was a good effort but I couldn’t do that. Oh, I tried, but every time I got to the door, I felt dizzy and couldn’t breathe.

I managed to go to the studio once. Anna had insisted, and she was a hard woman to defy. She said it was like falling off a horse and I needed to get out and create something. But the muse isn’t like that. If it’s gone, it’s gone. I had stood looking at the blank canvas for a long time, going through a range of emotions—mostly that I was a fraud and no good. Then the fear set in that I would never create again, and then disgust at myself for not realising sooner that I was no good as an artist. I don’t remember throwing the canvas across the room. But I must have done so, because that’s where it was when Anna found me hours later, curled up and shivering on the sofa I kept in there for days when I worked late and didn’t make it home. She led me home and didn’t suggest it again.

I keep my phone off and can’t bring myself to go online. My world shrinks to the four walls of my apartment, and I want it that way. There’s a part of my brain which knows I’m being ridiculous, but the rest of it is very good at denying any say in what I do. One day—I lost count of which one—Anna comes back from work with a smart gentleman in tow.

“I found him hovering outside,” she announces.

“I’m from Claythorne and Parma,” the gentleman opens with. He’s thin and very fair, blond eyelashes framing watery, blueeyes, which are quite startling to look at. But the name doesn’t ring a bell with me.

“The solicitors,” he continues, obviously and correctly seeing I need a prompt. “Executors of Ms Winterton’s will.” Ah Great Aunt Frances—thatissomething I remember. Her funeral was a month ago. She had been my legal guardian in my teens, and I’d loved staying with her at her beautiful house in the countryside. Now she’s gone and I have no family left at all. I don’t need a reminder of how sad my life is.

“We’ve been trying to call you Mr Winterton,” he says looking around, and I see the apartment through his eyes. I can see it’s a mess—that I’m a mess—and it isn’t like me. I sit up a little straighter.

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