‘I’m going to the art shop.’
‘Well, no problem with taking Bella in there.’ He winks. It spells danger. ‘Take care.’ He starts to stride off before I get a chance to think of a reply. Bella whines.
‘Hey, I’ve started to do a picture of the boathouse, would you like to see it when it’s done?’ I shout after him on impulse, wanting to let him see Bella again, wanting to see him myself again if I’m honest – but by arrangement.
He half turns. ‘Love to! And don’t forget our date.’ That word makes me blush. ‘Walking day tomorrow!’
‘How could I forget an offer like that? It isn’t going to be too adventurous though is it? Just a walk? Stroll?’ I say hopefully.
‘Well, a bit of a clamber.’ The corner of his mouth twitches. ‘Not up for the challenge?’
‘Of course I am!’ Damn. I’m doing it again. Why can I never admit to not being up for a challenge? I think I need to be at least a little bit honest. ‘Though these hills are a lot steeper than I’m used to, I’ve got a bit knackered following Bella up them. Just a bit—’ a lot ‘—out of condition!’
‘I can always put you through your paces again, give you some more of my special SAS training, another bootcamp session if you fancy, then we can see if you’ll survive the walk! Up for it?’
‘No way!’
Inside, he’s laughing at me, I know he is. He’s not going to let me off the hook for the SAS comment the other day in the garden. Well, I might have told Bella I needed a fast track to fitness, but this is not what I’m after.
‘You can give me some tips, but that’s all!’
‘Sure! See you tomorrow morning then! Six o’clock okay, before it gets warm?’
‘Ace.’ Six o’clock? Is he mad?
‘And you can let me know how the painting is going.’ He gives me a thumbs-up and blows Bella a kiss. ‘See you later, babe.’ I’m not sure if that is directed at the dog or me (the dog I think), and whether it’s a promise or a warning (I’m going with the second).
Or it could just be an innocent reference to the fact that he’s looking forward to seeing my painting.
‘I’ll message you!’ I know I should probably add ‘no need to pop by without an invite’ but I wouldn’t mean it.
Chapter Thirteen
The village is smaller than I remember. I suppose most places are when you grow up. When I was a child, it seemed massive. A maze of narrow, winding streets flanked by old cottages and gardens overflowing with heavily scented honeysuckle and riotous colour. A stream meandered around the village, cutting between the fields before it emerged at the foot of the hills – the starting point of many of our long (competitive) walks.
It’s prettier than I remember though. Grey stone cottages adorned with rambling roses, smart houses and B&Bs mingling with more modern, white-painted buildings adorned with bright hanging baskets, the stark white softened by fading wisteria and ivy that creeps up, fanning out as it reaches the slate roofs.
The narrow roads widen out intermittently into green-grassed spaces that are studded with benches and bordered with bright flowers. Stone walls, just the right height to sit on, flank the buildings, protect them from the road and busy pavements.
The art shop is easy to find. I’m fairly sure it was an old-fashioned newsagent’s and general shop last time I came here. It nestles between a busy café with outdoor seating, and an ice-cream shop that is positively shouting my name. It seems to be a Bella favourite as well; she’s straining at her leash and I’m quite sure if I tied her up outside, she’d happily sit begging and trying to accost people coming out all day.
Not that I’d tie her up and leave her. Not for one second.
‘Art first, ice-cream after, Bella. You’ve got to earn it before you spend it you know!’ She doesn’t look convinced. Bloody hell, I’m beginning to sound like my parents. I reckon I rolled my eyes at them in the same way she’s now doing at me.
‘Well, well, if it isn’t our brilliant artist and my favourite dog!’ David Simons appears the moment we walk through the door. He gives Bella a biscuit from the jar by the till, and links his hand through my arm, all within a couple of minutes. ‘I was wondering if you’d come!’
‘I would never miss the chance of looking round an art gallery, Mr Simons!’
‘Call me David, call me David. Now I wouldn’t label my humble little shop an art gallery, I’m sure it’s nowhere near as grand as the shops you’re used to, but I know what I like, and I know what sells in our neck of the woods, or should I say lakes, haha?’
I smile back at him as he leads me through the front of the shop. It’s surprising how big it is once you get inside – it widens out and must run along the back of some of the other, smaller shop fronts.
‘Now, Becky, what do you think? I would rather value your opinion, as a proper artist.’
‘Wow, these are beautiful!’ The big open space flooded with natural light is the Lake District encapsulated on canvas. There are watercolours, sketches, graphite and oil. Large canvases, small ones, mountain vistas, lakes and individual portraits of the animals and birds that inhabit the area. From woolly sheep to curious cows, from predatory falcons swooping in for the kill to timid red squirrels in their glorious colours. Expensive originals sit side by side with limited-edition prints and mass-produced prints, something for every price range but all carefully selected by somebody who knew what they were doing.
David beams at me. ‘I know each and every artist, you know. Many of them are local, some just regular visitors, but I do think that if you truly love a place then it shines through, don’t you?’ I nod. ‘The best pictures come from the heart, created with love, or for love. Passion, love, joy, it’s all there, isn’t it?’ He walks closer to one picture, his head on one side as he studies it.
‘It is. It’s such an inspiring place, it’s the colours, the light is just different here.’
‘The view is different every day, even though you’re looking through the same window.’
‘Exactly!’
He beams at me. ‘Oh I just knew we’d be on the same page, talking of which, have you thought…?’ He leaves the question hanging.
All of a sudden, I know. Before, I was still dithering a bit, but now I know I have to follow my heart, my instincts.
I want to do some pictures for his shop, just like I want to do the Magic Pony illustrations for the whole series of books.
I will take back control of my career. Because I know which path I want to take. And if it proves to be the wrong one, then I’ll double back and try again.
I don’t need somebody like Teddy telling me which choices are best, I need to believe in myself – because if I don’t, then nobody else is going to, are they?
‘I’d love to see my pictures hanging here, if you think they’re good enough, that is.’
Teddy used to get cross at me for what he saw as false modesty. But it isn’t that, I’ve just been brought up thinking art is fine, as a hobby. But as a career? Even now, with a steady income and a list of contributions I’m proud of, it doesn’t feel quite real.
Imposter syndrome looms large every time I’m asked what I do.
‘Oh, I’d be delighted at anything you’d push our way. That picture of little Bella was delightful, they sell very well, pictures like that, you know. Very in demand. I have to admit to a little bit of googling, and your animal portraits are extraordinary. You capture something, even with your line drawings. Top notch!’
I blush and smile, then reach for my rucksack. ‘I’ve had a few ideas, I thought you could look through, see if any appealed.’
‘Oh wonderful, splendid! I think we need a coffee, don’t you? Then we can have a proper chat. Come through and make yourself comfortable in my coffee corner! Bella knows where to find the water bowl and there’s a bell on the door, we’ll hear if anybody comes in.’
‘Oh goodness.’ David puts his cup down, and I glance up with alarm when the saucer clatters and I realise his h
and is shaking. He wipes one finger under his eye. ‘Excuse a silly old man.’
‘You’re not, I mean… I hope… I’m sorry. Are you alright?’
His smile is slightly strained. ‘I’m fine dear, don’t worry.’ He pats my knee, then props up the picture he’d been looking at, leans in for a closer look while he gathers himself and then moves back to arm’s length. When he speaks again his voice crackles with emotion. ‘This is so wonderful, it just, I’m sorry…’ He takes a deep breath, swallows, then continues with a stronger voice. ‘It brought back memories. I really didn’t think anything would have the power to hit me like that these days.’ The half-smile is wistful. It makes me want to reach out, hold his hand. ‘It took me quite by surprise.’
I glance down at the picture. I don’t think I have ever made a grown man well up before, well, not with my art. The dreamy watercolour that he’s staring at is of a glade on the banks of the stream, not far from the spot where I originally bumped into him a few days ago.
‘This—’ he taps the picture ‘—is the exact spot where I proposed to my wife.’
‘Oh, wow.’ I don’t quite know what to say. I can’t even begin to imagine a man falling for me so completely that he’d propose, let alone get so emotional about the memory of it afterwards.
‘I always think good art is like a good book, the artist forms the structure, makes it real enough for the reader or viewer to want to be a part of it. Pictures can mean so much to us, can’t they? They speak to us, give back what we put into them as artist and simple admirer. You imbue the picture with a part of yourself, the part that needs to be satisfied; familiarity, or hope.’ He pauses, and I find myself blinking back my own emotions. ‘Memories. I have many good memories of my beautiful wife, but they’ve not risen to the surface quite so abruptly for months. My goodness me, my dear, what have you done to me!’ He squeezes my hand, but his gaze is fixed on the picture. ‘During that first year after she died, they were there every day, but they fade, you know. They fade, however much you want to hang on to them. But this is splendid!’ Luckily, he has brightened up. I never know quite what to say when somebody is upset, grieving. There don’t seem to be any right words, do there? As much as I want to express sympathy, I’m totally relieved he’s cheered up. ‘This, my dear girl, is spot on!’ He glances up at me. ‘You are talented enough to create the window people can look through. Well now, what else have we got here?’
David slowly slides the picture to one side and stares at the next one.
The kingfisher (blue not brown!) had come alive in my bright oil pastels and I have to say that even though it is more a first outline than a finished product, I’m really chuffed with it. ‘Incredible.’ He taps the edge of the paper with a fingertip. ‘Such amazing little birds.’
‘They are, I love them. I was so excited to actually see one!’
‘My wife loved them too, she had just the same reaction as you! She was a real nature lover, but this little chap was by far her favourite. You’ve captured it so beautifully, Becky. It’s a shame she’s not here, she’d love it.’ We sit in companionable silence as he looks through my drawings and paintings before pausing and pulling another one out so he can study it properly.
‘Ahh, little Bella! Little Bella makes me happy because she comes as part of the parcel with dear Ash. Lovely pair, aren’t they? Wonderful.’
Oops. Awkward. David seems to think Bella and Ash come as a package. You’ve got one, you’ve got both. Although he has got a point – wherever I go, Ash seems to pop up, intent on taking advantage of any opportunity to take the dog.
Strangely enough though, David has not mentioned Georgina at all.
‘He was a rock for me when my wife passed, a veritable rock. I’m not quite sure what path I would have headed down if he hadn’t been there. A strong man, but he understands.’ He nods. ‘He doesn’t always open up much, which isn’t surprising, is it dear?’ Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to expect an answer to any of his questions about Ash, all I have to do is nod. ‘But he knows the right things to say when he does. He knew who to turn to when he needed somebody, right?’ We share a smile, but I’m a bit confused. I suppose he must mean Georgina – and assume he knows more about their relationship than I do. So, I just nod back and finish my coffee.
‘Well well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you’re busy and have got much more important things to do than listen to me blithering on!’
‘You don’t blither!’ I’m not quite sure what that means. ‘It’s been fab to chat to you, and I love the shop so much. But I have got rather a lot of work on, and Bella is dying to have a dip in the stream.’
‘I’m sure the little ragamuffin is! Well, I can’t tell you how much I’d love to add some of your works to my modest display.’
We spend a happy few minutes talking terms and I promise to complete a picture of the glade for him to buy, plus do a couple more for display in the shop.
‘Give my regards to young Ash when you see him! Off you go young lady, get painting!’
‘I will!’ I grin back at him as he stands waving in the doorway. ‘Come on then Bella. You heard the man! We’ve got work to do.’
And I need an early night in preparation for my walk tomorrow with Ash.
Now I’m here, back at my desk, and Bella has been fed. I’m looking out of the window but not really seeing the view as it is now. I can only see the boathouse.
I glance down at where I’ve recreated it on canvas. I’m actually really pleased and quite proud with how the painting is going. It’s nearly finished, and it gives me the warm and fuzzies. Which is excellent. David was spot on when he talked about emotional investment.
Create with love, or for love, he’d said. But I’m not quite sure what the hell my heart was playing at when it led my hand on this one.
Maybe part of the reason it makes me feel so good is because, deep down, I’ve been doing it for Ash.
Responding to the raw emotion that showed in his face, his voice, his whole body, when he talked about it.
Intense, moving, a hint of the real man that lies beneath the teasing exterior. I’ve never been one to write down words, describe with metaphors. I’ve always wanted to translate feelings into brush strokes, always aspired to painting some kind of artwork that speaks to people – whether it’s a Magic Pony that transports you in your head to somewhere wonderful and mystical, or a grounding landscape with the depth of memories. I sometimes wish I could do portraits justice, really show a person’s life in their features, their skin, the sparkle in their eyes. But I can’t. Not yet.
I lost that for a while, I realise now. But it’s coming back.
David could see something in my pictures, Ash could. And I think I’m starting to again.
It’s early evening, dusk will be rolling in soon and the view is hauntingly beautiful. The long-gone boathouse is a bit of a mystery – like Ash. Slightly brooding, full of secrets.
I feel like I want to know more about it – not just that he once loved the boathouse and is annoyed it isn’t there anymore. In the same way he’s annoyed he can’t get his hands on Bella.
Pictures mean things to people, David said, and I guess this view – the boathouse – means something to Ash, but I don’t know why yet. And the more I look, the more I want to know.
I’ve tried to paint it through his eyes, tried to put his emotions into it.
Which is ridiculous. I hardly know anything about him or his life. All I know is that he’s been hurt, that Georgina doesn’t want to let go of him, that he’s funny, sexy, that he plays by the rules.
Luckily my phone bleeps with an incoming email and I’m distracted from my thoughts.
Unluckily it is from Teddy.
B,
* * *
Spoke to Ben. Am frankly horrified – think there has been confusion, mixed messages.
No mixed messages, mate.
Teddy always writes emails and texts, and sometimes speaks, like this. He’s an editor who
never uses complete sentences. Or words sometimes. He’s also quite often ‘horrified’ and things are ‘appalling’ and ‘outrageous’. Jerk.
Haha, I just thought of him as a jerk! Why hasn’t that occurred to me earlier?
You can’t seriously turn down commissions I rec’d you for.
Yup, I can!
This is an act of pure selfish abandon and reflects on my own judgement.
Pompous prick! I am not selfish; this has always been more about him than me and he’s just proved it.
Will tell him you’ve reconsidered.
Don’t you bloody dare!
It carries on in much the same vein, high profile, blah, blah, portfolio, blah, blah, damaging my rep as well, blah, blah, need to get back to London and reality, blah, blah, see a therapist to put you back on track.
Argh! That last bit really annoys me. And I mean really. I can feel myself bristling. I’ll give him therapist!
Bloody hell, how did I ever fancy him, let alone sleep with him? Eurghh!!
Draft email below for you to fwd to Ben, cc me in.
* * *
Rgds. T
Draft email? See, this is what I was blind to before. He moved from being just a bit bossy to become totally domineering and controlling. Right down to telling me when, to whom, and how I should apologise and backtrack! What a total pretentious plonker. What right does he think he has to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do?
Especially now.
What do they say? Never mix business with pleasure. And he’s not even pleasure anymore! Was he ever though? Actually, now I think about it, it was never actually fun. I’ve had as much, no, more fun with my dog-protection plan than I ever did with him.
I am not letting him spoil my evening. I’m going to finish my painting.
The Dog Sitter: The new feel-good romantic comedy of 2021 from the bestselling author of The Wedding Date! Page 14
