by Ali McNamara
Ali McNamara attributes her overactive imagination to one thing – being an only child. Time spent dreaming up adventures when she was young has left her with a head bursting with stories waiting to be told. When stories she wrote for fun on Ronan Keating’s website became so popular they were sold as a fundraising project for his cancer awareness charity, Ali realised that writing was not only something she enjoyed doing, but something others enjoyed reading too. Ali lives in Cambridgeshire with her family and beloved Labrador dogs.
To find out more about Ali visit her website at:
www.alimcnamara.co.uk
Follow her on Twitter and Instagram: @AliMcNamara
Or like her Facebook page: Ali McNamara
Also by this author
From Notting Hill with Love … Actually
Breakfast at Darcy’s
From Notting Hill to New York … Actually
Step Back in Time
From Notting Hill with Four Weddings … Actually
The Little Flower Shop by the Sea
Letters from Lighthouse Cottage
The Summer of Serendipity
Daisy’s Vintage Cornish Camper Van
Secrets and Seashells at Rainbow Bay
Copyright
Published by Sphere
ISBN 978-0-7515-7434-0
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Ali McNamara 2020
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Sphere
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.littlebrown.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
Also by Ali McNamara
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Acknowledgements
This is the first full novel I’ve written since my M.E. diagnosis, so I’d like to dedicate it to all my fellow ‘Spoonie Warriors’, their families and those who care for them.
Keep fighting and believing. We’ll get there in the end.
One
‘I don’t get it?’ my daughter says as she stares up at the huge, brightly coloured canvas on the wall in front of us. ‘It’s like something I did when I was little, and you stuck on the fridge for everyone to see.’
I have to agree with her but, wary of where we are, I choose my words carefully.
‘It’s called modern art,’ I whisper, ‘Not everyone gets it.’
‘Do you get it?’ Molly asks, still in a voice a little too loud for my liking. ‘And more to the point, do you think it’s any good?’
A few people standing nearby turn their intense gaze away from the artwork in front of them towards our direction.
‘Molly, you need to keep your voice down,’ I whisper again, not answering her question. ‘Art galleries are a bit like libraries – people don’t want to be disturbed while they study things.’
Molly folds her arms. ‘In a library people actually want to take the books home. I can’t see anyone wanting to take a series of blue blobs home again and again, can you, Mum?’
I open my mouth to agree with her, but a refined female voice speaks first. ‘As a matter of fact this painting is one of our most popular exhibits. Our shop sells more postcards, prints and bags reproduced from this one work of art than any other in the whole gallery.’
I look at the woman standing next to us. I’ve seen her around the town from time to time, flouncing about in brightly coloured scarves and layers of mismatched clothing.
‘You obviously work here,’ I reply politely. ‘I thought I’d seen you around St Felix.’
‘I’m one of the curators at the gallery,’ she replies self-importantly. ‘I’m in charge of the new Winston James exhibition. I assume you’re here for the opening tonight?’
She looks us up and down as though she’s wondering if we’d been wrongly invited.
‘Yes, we are,’ I say, pulling the invitation from my bag.
The woman takes it from me and examines it carefully. ‘Ah,’ she says knowingly. ‘Local business, are you? That makes sense.’
‘Yes,’ I say, snatching back the invitation from her. ‘I own Kate’s Cornish Crafts on Harbour Street. We sell art and craft supplies,’ I emphasise when she looks blankly at me.
‘Mmm,’ the woman says, quickly losing interest in us as some more people arrive through the main gallery doors. ‘The party is through there.’ She points vaguely in the direction of some heavy glass doors. ‘Do enjoy your evening.’ Then she scurries over towards a large man wearing a long black trench coat and a matching black trilby hat with a green feather. ‘Julian! How wonderful you could make it!’ she gushes, air-kissing the man on both cheeks.
‘Come on,’ I tell Molly as she grins with amusement at the eccentric group of people following Julian through the door. ‘The sooner we get this party over with, the sooner we can go home.’
‘Kate!’ a young woman calls with delight a short while later, as Molly and I stand awkwardly with our complimentary drinks gazing at the people around us. Some of them we recognise as fellow St Felix residents, and some of them seem to be distinctly different from the usual out-of-town visitor yet seem to fit in extremely well with the art gallery surrounding.
‘Poppy!’ I call back, pleased to see one of my fellow Harbour Street shop owners. ‘How are you? I haven’t seen you in a while.’
‘I haven’t been in the flower shop much lately.’ Poppy grimaces. ‘Morning sickness,’ she explains, patting her tummy.
‘You’re expecting again?’ I ask with delight. ‘How wonderful.’
‘I certainly am!’ Poppy replies looking pleased. ‘Hopefully now I’m past twelve weeks I should start feeling a little better like last time. ‘Hello Molly,’ she says, spotting her. ‘Having a goo
d time?’
Molly shrugs. ‘It’s okay.’
Poppy grins. ‘You remind me of my stepdaughter Bronte. She would have said something similar at your age, being dragged somewhere like this by one of her parents.’
Molly looks awkwardly at Poppy.
‘It’s wonderful news about the baby, Poppy,’ I tell her. ‘I didn’t know you were expecting again.’
‘Jake and I are only just telling people now it’s safe to do so. Actually I think it’s taken Jake all these weeks to get his head around the fact he’s going to be a father again.’
‘This will be his … fourth child, won’t it?’
‘Yup, second by me. The first two are hardly children any more now. Bronte is twenty and Charlie is twenty-two.’
‘Bronte is at art college, isn’t she? I think she popped in to buy a sketch-book from us once, but I don’t think she was very impressed by our somewhat limited range.’
‘You can’t stock everything, can you?’ Poppy says pragmatically. ‘Most of the shops are pretty small in St Felix. You’re lucky you have that extra basement to trade from. I’m sure Bronte found something in your shop that she could use – she never stops sketching.’ Poppy leans in towards me. ‘Her stuff is a lot better than most of the so-called art hanging on these walls. It’s a bit … childish, isn’t it?’
‘I guess, but it’s better than some of the pieces in the other rooms. It looks like someone has just thrown paint at some of the canvases through there. At least you can tell what these paintings are.’
‘That’s true,’ Poppy agrees. ‘I’m only really here to show support for the gallery tonight, aren’t you? It’s great they’ve got it back up and running again after all the renovations. We always see an upsurge in visitors when this place is open. It seems there are a lot of people who appreciate modern art more than I do!’
I smile. Poppy never minces her words and I admire her honesty. ‘It’s good to know there will be more visitors soon then. I wouldn’t really know – the gallery has been closed since I opened my shop.’
Poppy thinks about this. ‘Yes, it must have been, I suppose. I’d forgotten it had been closed so long. You came here what … twelve months ago?’
‘Eighteen. They’d just closed the gallery for renovation when I first arrived.’
‘Gosh, that long? How times flies.’
There’s a clinking sound of someone tapping a wine glass with a spoon, and the room hushes as we all turn towards the noise.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ It’s the woman from earlier. ‘If I could have your attention for a few moments, please.’ She waits for the entire room to quieten before she begins. ‘Thank you. My name, as most of you will know, is Ophelia Fitzpatrick and I am Chief Curator here at the Lyle Gallery. As you know our magnificent gallery has only just opened again after our extensive, and if I may say, rather fabulous refurbishment, so I’m sure that this is the first time some of you have visited us since then. I’m certain you will all agree that the renovations have been more than worthwhile, and the gallery is now even more stunning than ever.’ She gestures at our surroundings and there’s a small ripple of applause. ‘I’m sure you will also concur though that a gallery, however architecturally amazing, is only as good as the artwork it contains and, as many of you will have seen tonight, we have some incredible works of art on permanent display here.’
‘Incredible isn’t the word I’d use,’ Poppy mutters next to me, and Molly grins approvingly across at her.
‘But I am simply overjoyed,’ Ophelia continues, ‘that our very first special exhibition to be displayed here in the Lyle Gallery is by a local artist who lived and worked here in St Felix in the nineteen fifties. I’m certain you’ve all been appreciating and admiring his many works of art that we’re proud to be displaying on our walls, but if you haven’t because you’ve all been too busy enjoying yourselves, then I urge you to allow yourselves to be captivated and enthralled by them before you leave us tonight. But before you all rush off to do just that, it is my immense pleasure to introduce to you someone who can tell you much more about both these wonderful paintings and the artist himself. May I welcome to the stage someone who knew Winston James better than most – his son, Julian!’
Ophelia breaks out into enthusiastic applause, and the room joins in with a slightly more muted response as the same man we’d seen outside earlier wearing a hat and coat, now sporting a tailor-made navy-blue suit, pale blue shirt and a cravat with white polka dots, springs up on to the tiny temporary stage next to her. He kisses her extravagantly on both cheeks and then confidently takes the small microphone from her tight grip.
‘Thank you, Ophelia!’ he says, gesturing for her to step down from the stage, leaving no one in any doubt that it was now his turn in the spotlight.
‘Greetings, friends!’ Julian James calls out enthusiastically to the room.
I glance warily at Molly, but she’s already grinning and holding her phone up that little bit higher so she can record this.
I put my hand over the camera lens.
‘Mum!’
I shake my head at her. Scowling, she lowers her phone.
‘May I call you friends?’ Julian enquires, a concerned expression falling over his chiselled features. ‘My father was so very much a part of life here in St Felix for so many years that I feel you are all his friends and family, and therefore mine too.’
Poppy snorts next to me and hurriedly takes another sip of her orange juice to conceal her amusement.
Julian seems to sense some dissent in the crowd and looks with concern in our direction. A disarming smile is immediately cast my way.
I smile politely back.
‘You’re in there,’ Poppy mutters, nudging me.
‘I hardly think so,’ I say, pulling a face. ‘I do have some standards.’
‘He must be loaded though,’ Poppy whispers with amusement. ‘Now the painter dad isn’t around any more the dough must all be his. If you can get past the silly facial hair and the dodgy voice, it’s all yours.’
‘Stop it!’ I hiss, trying not to laugh.
‘St Felix was such a huge part of my father’s life for so many years,’ Julian continues, ‘which is why he loved to paint it in his own unique way.’ He gestures to one of the paintings behind him. ‘So I know how utterly thrilled he would have been to know that all his St Felix paintings are being displayed here at the Lyle Gallery this summer for both you, the locals, and all of St Felix’s many visitors to admire.’ We raise our hands to applaud but Julian continues: ‘In fact, I’m sure many of you small business owners will very soon be thanking my father that there will be even more visitors to the town this summer as a result of this exhibition, so I ask you to raise your glasses in appreciation of the genius that was, and still is, Mr Winston James!’
‘He almost had me there,’ Poppy says, as we half-heartedly raise our drinks, ‘but then he told us how grateful we should be, and while I agree that the visitors are a bonus for all of us, he’s a bit pretentious, isn’t he?’
‘He does seem very full of himself,’ I say, looking around for Molly who seems to have slipped off somewhere.
‘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.
Where has Molly gone? I think again, looking around me. It wasn’t like her to wander off.
Actually I have to admit to myself, it was more 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 Dusk it 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.
