by June Gadsby
As the strains of a piano tinkling somewhere in the background grew closer, I hoped that the great celebrity was in a more than tolerant mood and that he would be kind to an increasingly nervous non-celebrity artist.
Mrs. Andrews came suddenly to a halt and I almost collided with her. She hunched her shoulders and lifted a finger to her mouth, indicating for me to be quiet. I blinked at her in the gloom of the dark passage and waited for her whispered instructions.
“You have to understand the mood swings of dedicated musicians to be married to a man like Callum. Normally, this part of the house is sacrosanct. Nobody…nobody…is allowed in here without his specific invitation. He had the conservatory built on to the house so that he could compose and practice his music in the right atmosphere, away from all interruptions.”
“In that case,” I whispered back, “I feel very honoured that he’s agreed to see me in there.”
She nodded enthusiastically. “Well, if you’re to paint the great man at his work, it’s the only place to be, really, isn’t it, dear? Now, if you’ll just hang on a moment, I’ll make sure he’s ready for you.”
She opened a heavy oak door, which swung back on silent hinges, and crept almost on tiptoe into the room beyond. She left the door open, so I could peer into the bright space after her. From where I stood I could only see a small part of the conservatory. It seemed to be mainly glass and looked out onto greenery and patches of blue sky. The floor was composed of shining antique ceramic tiles and there were semi-tropical trees growing healthily in huge wooden barrels. The air that drifted from the room was warm and vaguely perfumed, yet not overpowering, for which I was thankful. I would hate to have to sneeze my way through such a long and important session.
Now, all I had left was to be ‘overpowered’ by the man himself, for I was by now quite sure that he was the type of man who could be daunting to anyone not used to dealing with someone of his importance. I was out of my comfort zone and I hoped fervently that I would not appear to be a quivering idiot in his presence. And even more fervently, I hoped that I was not going to be dreadfully disappointed in my subject, though his photographs showed him as being a rather pleasant looking man with good bone structure. From the little I had learned about him so far, I was already fascinated and anxious to know more.
The clear, bell-like tones of the piano faltered and fell silent.
“Callum, dear? Is it all right to come in?” There was a kind of holy reverence in Hilary Andrews’ voice as if even she too was awed by his fame.
“Where the devil is this artist-woman? She’s late.”
The words weren’t exactly bellowed out but spoken with soft impatience and with the very slightest Scottish lilt. I remembered that he had been born in Orkney but had moved down to north-east England many years ago, where he had married and stayed. It was one of the surprising things about him, that his success had not given him the desire to live in more ostentatious surroundings. The south of France, perhaps. Rome, New York. Instead, he had come from a wild Scottish island to a wild part of Northumbria, or at least the edge of that moorland county.
“She’s right here, Callum. Her name’s Megan. Now, you be kind to her.”
There followed a hastily muttered exchange of words, then Hilary Andrews reappeared in the doorway and beckoned to me.
“Come in, my dear. I’ve explained to Callum that it’s all my fault that you’re late.”
I frowned down at my watch and saw that it was at least ten minutes after my allotted appointment. But, as she had said, it was all her fault, plying me with wine and hors d’oeuvres and introducing me to her ladies.
“Come in. The slightly tetchy call came from inside the glass room. “Hilary, you can go back to your ladies now. And before you ask, the answer is no. I do not wish to come and say a few words to them. I’m far too busy.”
“Yes. All right, dear. I’ll explain and give them your apologies.” She patted my arm and gave me a sympathetic smile. “Do go in, dear. He won’t bite. Honest.”
The heels of my shoes, as I walked uncertainly into the conservatory, resounded unexpectedly on the tiled floor, which immediately made me feel self-conscious.
“Ah. There you are. Well, come right in. I’m not the ogre my wife makes me out to be, you know. I think she does that to put people off. You’re not put off, are you?”
He was standing by the large baby-grand piano that graced the centre of the magnificent conservatory. I suppose I gaped a little like an uneasy teenager in the presence of a pop idol, not that I was all that familiar with the great artist who stood before me at that moment. He looked older than his CD cover, but younger than I expected. His height surprised me. I had somehow envisaged a smaller man. A mistake made probably in the light of his tiny wife. He looked relaxed, but there was nevertheless a certain upright pride and elegance in his stance. As he came forward he was smiling affably, hand outstretched to grasp mine. And he grasped it firmly while looking at me directly without blinking. It was an unnerving experience that sent a bolt of lightning right through me.
His eyes were almost as dark as his thick black hair and twice as shiny. The sunlight was on them and they seemed to twinkle. But not quite. As his smile widened, his lean cheeks creased into two long and attractive indentations. He had a wide, generous mouth, the corners naturally upswept, the lips finely chiselled in a face that could have been sculpted by one of the great Renaissance masters.
“You appear to be in some form of shock, Mrs. Peters,” his voice came to me from afar and I gave myself a mental shake, which made me blink. Which was when I remembered my turquoise eyes and the fact that I had left my sunglasses in the car, not realising that Callum Andrews’ conservatory would be filled with sunshine.
“I…er…You’re so much younger than I thought.” It was a stupid thing to say, but all I could think of to break my silence.
He gave a short laugh and finally remembered to release my hand, which had remained captive for so long I was feeling a hot flush of embarrassment creeping up from my midriff to my cheeks.
“I look even younger on most of my CD covers,” he said grimacing.
“Yes, you do, but better looking in the flesh.” I flushed hotly. In the space of a few seconds this man had put me completely off-guard. I cleared my throat and gave him a rueful smile.
“Thank you for that.” He turned away from me abruptly and started sorting out a pile of sheet music that had been scattered over the top of the baby grand piano. “So, do you like classical music, or are you of the generation who prefers rock and rap?”
“Er…not exactly… I must admit I’m not too familiar with your work. I’ve heard of you, of course…and a friend loaned me one of your CDs and…”
“And?” He was looking at me again and he had such an intense gaze that it hit me like a blow from a laser beam.
“Well, yes…yes, actually. I enjoyed it…it was very good.”
“But not your taste? What sort of music do you like, Mrs. Peters? I’m sorry, I can’t remember your first name. Sign of age or something.”
“Megan. It’s Megan, Mr. Andrews.”
“Call me Callum please. Mr. Andrews makes me feel too fatherly.”
Anything less fatherly I had yet to see. He was, admittedly, quite a bit older than I was. By about ten years, I estimated at that time, though it turned out to be closer to twelve. I discovered his age later, by delving into Greg’s computer notes on the musician’s biography. For all that he was the most well-preserved mature man I had ever come across.
Compared to my own sluggish husband who ate and drank and smoked too much, and undoubtedly indulged himself in other unhealthy activities that taxed his heart, his strength and his marriage, this comparatively quiet, sedentary man was in top physical form. He had a leanness that was muscular rather than slim and it showed through the fibre of his well-tailored clothes.
But there was something more than that. There was a certain refreshingly healthy power exuding from him
. Mingled, I had to admit, because it was impossible not to notice, with an overpowering, if subdued, sex appeal. No wonder women of all ages fell beneath his charismatic spell.
“Callum,” I repeated, my voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. The very taste of his name on my lips did something strange and wonderful to my insides. I cleared my throat noisily and repeated it for good effect. “Callum. It’s a nice name.”
He narrowed his eyes and looked at me, saying nothing.
Chapter Seven
“You have more talent than I expected.”
Callum had spent a great deal of time with the contents of my portfolio spread out on a large worktable. He went from one to another, then back again to this one, then to that, scrutinising them up close; and again, from a distance. I could not take my eyes from his hands. If I were to look at his face and see his expressions I might see distaste and be sorely disappointed.
He had wonderful hands. Long, artistic fingers, yet masculine and quite broad, portraying strength as well as dexterity. They must look good, I told myself, as they ran up and down the black and white ivory keyboard. The mental image of his short and dumpy wife, so motherly and domesticated, flashed through my head and I frowned suddenly, wondering how their marriage had survived. She was plainly older than he was and, although charming, did not give the impression of ever being physically attractive. But then some marriages were not based on physical attributes and did not hang together on the strength of the sexual repertoire between husband and wife. I heaved a disconsolate sigh that just forced its way unexpectedly to the surface.
“Am I taking too long?” Callum’s head lifted, and his dark, intense gaze pinned me, back to the wall.
“Oh, goodness, no…I’m sorry.” There I was blushing like a schoolgirl and being angry with myself, which turned me an even uglier shade of red. “I was…thinking of something else.” I swallowed hard and bit on my lip before lying to him. “Nothing to do with you. Just a passing thought.”
“And one that you found unpleasant, eh?” His eyes and his half-smile were mocking me.
“You could say that, yes.” I was trying to sound all grown-up and indignant and I was failing miserably because something was giving way and melting inside me as if I was no more solid than a block of butter left out in the midday sun. How pathetic, I told myself. A thirty-year-old woman going on thirteen as the Americans would say.
“Well, Mrs. Peters…Megan,” he looked back at the samples of my work, rested a hand on them, returned his gaze to me. “There’ll be no time for unpleasant thoughts while you’re working here with me. That’s the kind of thing that wastes time and has disastrous effects on the quality of the work.”
I don’t know exactly what my face registered at that point in time, but my brain was racing at breakneck speed as I went back over his words and decided that he must like what he had seen.
“Does that mean…?” I faltered and licked my lips, wanting him to say the words that would be so much easier to understand. Did I have the job?
“You can start on some preliminary sketches right now,” he said, as if reading my mind. “If I like them, we’ll set up some working sessions over the next few weeks.”
“Oh…yes, I see.” There was a sudden silence between us that was so loud and long it was embarrassing. “I thought…well, actually, it was suggested…that I would come at the same time as Greg…my husband…you know…”
“No, that wouldn’t suit me at all. I’d prefer to keep our sessions separate. I wouldn’t be able to relax answering questions while posing.”
“Oh. I just thought it might be a bit like killing two birds with one stone, so to speak. I know how dreadfully busy you must be.”
“Busy, I am,” he slowly gathered my sketches and returned them neatly to their black leather portfolio while he talked. I watched the tension of his sweater as the muscles of his broad back worked with every movement. “I’m always busy. But right now, I’ve hit a bit of a blank patch. Your husband would undoubtedly call it a writer’s block, though I’m not sure if that also applies to musicians. What do artists call it?”
He had spun around and was facing me again, challenging me with his question.
“I don’t know,” I said easily because we were speaking of something about which I was passionate. “Quite honestly, I’ve never had that kind of block where my art is concerned.”
“How lucky! For both of us.” He was handing me my portfolio and indicating a chair and table near the huge plate glass window that looked out onto rolling lawns, conifers and evergreen shrubs with just a touch of colour dotted here and there. “I thought if you sat there, I could continue to work without it being burdensome to either of us. But you must tell me what you, as the artist, have in mind.”
“At the moment,” I told him honestly. “I don’t know you or your surroundings well enough to have anything particular in mind. I’ll do one or two quick sketches to begin with. Nothing too substantial. A head only portrait and perhaps one of you at the piano. Otherwise, I’d like to familiarise myself with your working space. After that I’m sure the ideas will come more readily.”
“A wise decision, Megan.”
And since he was still standing there staring at me and I at him, like a couple caught in the spotlight of a ‘statues’ dance, I found myself blurting out: “This is a beautiful conservatory. I’ve not seen anything quite like it before.”
It thankfully broke the spell. He dragged his eyes away from me. Or did I avert my own eyes.
“I’m glad you like it. It’s something I’m quite proud of, since I designed it myself. Though I must admit that I’m not home very often, so I have to employ someone to come in and look after the plants.”
“Doesn’t your wife look after them for you?”
He laughed at that. “Hilary? Goodness no. She’d kill everything in sight. My wife, Megan, makes excellent jam with the fruits I grow and is a dab hand at arranging flowers, but gardening in any way, shape or form is not her forte. She does potter so to speak in the front, which she considers to be her patch, but that’s the extent of her gardening prowess.”
“I’m sure she has other attributes that make up for it,” I tendered, and he answered me with a warm smile and a slow nod of his head.
“Well.” he said after another short pause. “Shall we get started? Don’t be afraid to order me about if necessary. And don’t get upset if I snap at you because I’m in what Hilary calls one of my ‘artistic temperament moods’.”
“I understand all about those,” I assured him, thinking of how I had learned to be strategically tactful in dealing with Greg over the years.
He nodded again, this time even more thoughtfully, then went to his piano, sat down and started scribbling on a blank score sheet. By the time I had organised myself with sketchpad and pencil he was picking out one or two notes on the keyboard with the fingers of one hand. Some notes fell discordantly, and I heard the soft mutter of what I assumed was an expletive, though it was not loud enough to mean anything to my ears.
This was an entirely new experience for me, this drawing of a moving subject, for he was surprisingly active, even though he never once left his place on the piano stool. It was certainly a challenge to a talent I wasn’t sure I had enough of. However, after a couple of false starts I found myself fully absorbed in my work. As absorbed as Callum Andrews was in his.
From time to time I recognised the beginning of a lilting theme, which he kept repeating and improving. It was the music around that theme he seemed to be having difficulty with and I heard a few exasperated gasps and saw his hands thrown up in the air before returning to keyboard and score sheet.
Finally satisfied with my first sketch of the musician at work, I moved in closer, carrying my chair up to the piano. I saw him glance fleetingly in my direction and there was a faint frown creasing the wide space between his black, sweeping brows.
“Please just ignore me,” I said, my pencil already busily drawing in the conto
urs of the face I would soon come to know better than my own.
“That, my dear, is more easily said than done.”
His black ebony hair, which he wore short and neatly trimmed, showed no signs of receding or thinning, though there were flecks of distinguishing grey at the temples. Above his right eyebrow he had a tiny brown mole and, through the left, a trace of a scar, probably a boyhood injury. His eyes were large and widely set apart. Black, scintillating orbs with curved lashes, longer than usual for a man. The cheekbones were tremendously high and gave him a foreign look, together with his dark complexion. His nose was symmetrical, neither too thick nor too thin. His mouth….? His mouth was perfect.
I was suddenly aware that my pencil was hovering in limbo while I concentrated a little too intently on those lips that opened and closed minimally as he worked. My own mouth was so dry that I found it difficult to swallow and I had a sudden desire to cough, which I did.
Callum glanced at his watch, frowned and threw down his pencil.
“One o’clock,” he said, flexing his shoulders stiffly and rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know about you, Megan, but I’m ready for a break.”
“Oh, yes…I’m sorry.” I exclaimed, quickly stuffing my pad and my pencil into my bag and jumping to my feet. “I didn’t realise it was so late.”
“Sit down,” he motioned with his hand, went to the door and called out: Hilary.”
“Oh, please…I can see myself out…”
“Sit down!”
I sat.
Hilary Andrews’ voice could be heard answering her husband, then her footsteps echoed down the corridor and she finally appeared carrying a tray.
“Enough for two?” Callum asked her.
“Yes of course, dear! Has it gone well? Is he a good model, Megan? I hardly think so with his restless spirit. I bet he couldn’t sit still for more than a minute.”
“He did very well, Mrs. Andrews,” I said in Callum’s defence and he pulled a face at me, which endeared me to him immediately because it made him seem so human.
