‘His pomposity is spilling out of the top of his head,’ Poppy says in her usual direct way. ‘Oh, do excuse me, Kate, I’ve just seen Rita over there. I need to speak to her about some flowers we’re supplying for a wedding reception at The Merry Mermaid. Back in a bit.’
Poppy waves at Rita and then weaves her way through the crowd of attendees, many of whom now seem to be clambering to speak to Julian.
WherehasMolly gone? I think again, looking around me. It wasn’t like her to wander off.
Actually I have to admit to myself, itwasmore like her these days. Since Molly had become a teenager a few years ago she’d changed – not physically, she was still small and wiry, but in other ways. Now she dressed in jeans, heavy boots and T-shirts with bold emblems on them. However, it wasn’t really her appearance that made the difference, it was that she was becoming ever more independent.
Feeling even more awkward standing on my own with no one to talk to I turn towards the painting nearest to me and pretend to examine it closely.
Poppy is right: the style is a bit childish at first glance.St Felix Harbour at Duskit says on the little name tag underneath the picture.
Hmm…I guess it is, I think, looking more closely at the canvas. It was easy to recognise the town’s distinctive harbour with the small lighthouse at the end, and in front of that the whitewashed stone cottages that still line the edge of the harbour, now mostly shops, cafés and holiday accommodation rather than homes for fishing families as they were in the fifties. However, the perspective of the picture seemed off – a deliberate trait perhaps? Also, the artist had used really basic lines and brush-strokes to complete his work – making it look very much like a toddler’s view of the fishing village I now called home.
‘One of my father’s favourites,’ a deep rounded voice says over my shoulder.
I spin around and find Julian James standing a little closer to me than I feel comfortable with. He’s holding a glass of red wine and he takes a long slow sip of it as he waits for my response.
‘Really?’ I enquire politely, turning back to the painting. ‘Why was that?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Julian says, leaning closer to the painting and to me.
‘Perhaps you could enlighten me?’
The smell of expensive aftershave and red wine fills my nostrils as I await what I expect will be a very long reply about the quality of the light, masterful brush-strokes, depth and feelings.
‘It was one of his bestsellers!’ Julian laughs, so I turn back towards him. ‘There has been more merch made of this little beauty than any of his others.’
‘Merch?’
‘Merchandise!’ He rubs his fingers together. ‘And where there’s merchandise there’s money! Lots of money!’
‘Ah, I see,’ I reply, wondering if I could dislike Julian any more than I already do. ‘I’m sure your father didn’t ever think about his paintings being commercial when he created them though, did he?’ I look at the picture again. Next to Julian’s materialism it suddenly seems so pure and innocent. I couldn’t imagine that anyone who had created a work of art as naive as this would have been so mercenary as to anticipate the money he might make from it.
‘Are you kidding? My father was the most extravagant, reckless spendthrift I’ve ever known. He loved splashing his cash around. The more the better as far as he was concerned.’
‘You paint a fine picture of him,’ I say wryly.
‘Ah …’ Julian waves his finger at me. ‘I see what you did there. You’re quite the clever little birdie, aren’t you?’
‘I try,’ I reply politely, wishing someone would come and whisk either myself or Julian away so I had to endure his company no more. Why did no one want to speak to him suddenly? You couldn’t get near him a few minutes ago.
‘So what do you do here?’ Julian asks. ‘I believe some of the guests here tonight are local businessmen and, of course, women,’ he adds, waving his hand graciously in my direction. ‘Are you one of the aforementioned?’
‘Yes, I own one of the shops on Harbour Street,’ I tell him proudly. ‘It’s a craft shop. Kate’s Cornish—’
‘How nice,’ Julian interrupts, not sounding the least bit interested. ‘Your very own shop.’
‘I’mvery proud of it.’
‘I’m sure. Here,’ Julian says deftly, reaching into his pocket, ‘why don’t you take my card? Perhaps you’d like to give me a ring some time. We can chat business andotherthings …’ He winks suggestively and I almost vomit. ‘I’m often down in Cornwall. I have a holiday home here as well as a luxury villa in the South of France.’ He continues listing his properties as if it goes without saying. ‘Plus a flat in South London, but I doubt you get up to the Big Smoke too much, do you? It’s quite the journey from here.’
‘No,’ I reply, taking his card. I want to say so much more but I bite my tongue, I don’t want to create a scene. ‘I don’t get to the South of France much either. Taunton is usually my limit before I get jet lag.’
‘Shame,’ Julian carries on merrily, not realising what I’m saying. ‘Travelling is what I love to do most, you see … Oh … very clever! Jet lag – I get it.’
‘Julian!’ Ophelia calls, hurrying over to us to my immense relief. ‘There you are. You really must meet … Oh, you again,’ she says, not even trying to hide the disdain in her voice as she sees me. ‘Are you having a … pleasant evening?’
‘I am indeed,’ I say brightly, spying the perfect opportunity to get one up. ‘I’ve seen somewonderfulpaintings, and I’ve just been invited to stay in a luxury villa in the South of France to talkbusiness…’ I tap Julian’s card casually against the palm of my hand so Ophelia can clearly see it, while I cast what I hope is a dazzling smile in his direction. ‘I’d say that’s pretty pleasant for a Tuesday evening, wouldn’t you?’
