Christmas at the Dancing Duck

by Daisy James

  James Bradbury Art had been Esme Bradbury’s dream project, set up to show the artwork of young, fledgling artists as well as more established painters. She had displayed a wide spectrum of canvases – from realism to abstract, Old Masters to contemporary geniuses, home-grown talent to the internationally famous and everything in between. Sadly, she had enjoyed her dream for a measly five years before the evil scourge that was breast cancer had snatched her away from her family two years ago.

  The Bradburys were still reeling from the shock. Benjamin had point-blank refused to set foot in the gallery, declaring that he couldn’t bear to come when his mother was no longer at the epicentre of its success. James had wanted to sell up straight away and retreat to his house in Guildford to nurse his agony away from the public eye, but Sam had persuaded him to keep it open as a monument to his mother’s talent for interspersing more serious, renowned artists, photographers, and sculptors with debut and avant-garde artists.

  Once a year, the whole gallery was turned over to a local high school’s A-level students who dreamed of a career in the art world. The creator of the exhibit that garnered the most votes was given a stipend in Esme Bradbury’s name to see them through college or university, and any profits from the exhibition were split between the school and Cancer Research UK.

  James had stipulated that if they were to keep the gallery open they would need a manager. Evie had been overjoyed to secure the job and she had been given free rein, with James only dropping by when he absolutely had to. However, in recent months, he had become increasingly irritated with the amount of time and effort the business stole from his already very busy schedule as a sought-after criminal defence barrister hoping to take silk.

  ‘You know, perhaps you’re right, Evie. I actually think Dad would be happier if I spent all my time defending tax dodgers like Ben does! Maybe I’ll grab my brushes and paint palette and join you in front of that bonfire of broken dreams. So, no thanks. If you don’t mind, I won’t take you up on your offer to stay for the opening. If you get a minute later, would you remind Dad that he’s promised to meet me here after the show?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Evie watched Sam slip out of the side door without a backward glance at his father. She knew she was lucky to have parents who were incredibly supportive of whatever decisions she made. All they had ever wanted was for her to be happy and she struggled to understand why James refused to support his son’s desire to follow in his mother’s footsteps, consistently blocking all of Sam’s pleas to allow him to exhibit his work at Bradbury’s. However, whilst she was saddened by his stance, she had no intention of arguing Sam’s case. There was no way she was getting involved in family disagreements – she couldn’t afford to lose her job.

  James wrenched open the front door and forced a smile on his handsome face – his palm outstretched, every inch the esteemed West End gallery owner. Evie knew he was performing the role under sufferance, utilizing acting skills more befitting of a West End theatre production, but then, wasn’t that one of the must-have attributes of a successful barrister?

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, a very warm welcome to James Bradbury Art. Tonight we are honoured to be showcasing the debut exhibition of an emerging young artist, Jaxx Benson, entitled Twisted Infinity. Please indulge in a glass or two of champagne and take your time to linger and enjoy the paintings. I think you will agree with me that Mr Benson is a creative star in the ascendant. Evie Johnson, our knowledgeable gallery manager and the curator of the exhibit, is available to answer any questions you may have, as is her assistant Pippa Newton-Smith. Now, it gives me great pleasure to declare this exhibition open!’

  There was a smattering of applause immediately interrupted by the inevitable enquiry.

  ‘Will Jaxx Benson be making a personal appearance?’ demanded a stout woman with magenta hair teased into spikes over her crown and sporting a pair of bejewelled spectacles on a string at her chest. Evie recognized her immediately as the editor of a specialist contemporary art magazine.

  With great difficulty James managed to maintain his composure. He had been asked the same question many times since they had announced the exhibition and his patience was clearly wearing thin.

  ‘I’m afraid not, madam. This way please. Can I offer you a glass of champagne?’

  Evie saw a flash of irritation in his expression as he welcomed the next VIP guest who asked the same question. She smiled to herself as she stepped forward to join the welcoming committee, just in time to see Sam disappear around the corner at the end of the street. A spasm of annoyance shot through her veins. Couldn’t he have stayed to help his father deflect these questions?

  Within minutes the gallery was buzzing with activity as the privileged invitees studied the artwork and discussed its merits. Evie’s opening night jitters evaporated as the comments grew ever more complimentary and the little red dots more numerous.

  ‘It’s going really well, don’t you think?’ cooed Pippa, holding a glass of champagne aloft as she bent forward to whisper in Evie’s ear. ‘I just want to give you a heads-up, though. Avoid that guy in the yellow cravat studying the bronze. He’s just admitted to me that he’s the local bore. I mean, how sad is that!’

  ‘Who? Do you mean Jules Verbier, the celebrated art critic from Nice?’

  ‘That’s Jules Verbier?’

  Evie burst into laughter, expelling the last vestiges of her anxiety. ‘Oh, Pippa, I do love you! He’s not the local bore as you so eloquently put it! He’s a locavore.’

  ‘A locavore? What’s that?’

  ‘Someone who only eats food that has been produced locally.’

  ‘Ah. Ooops!’

  Still giggling, Evie slotted her arm through Pippa’s and together they made their way towards the canapés. She had just popped a tempura roll in her mouth when there was a loud agonized cry from the front door.

  The whole room turned in unison to see who was causing the commotion, expecting to witness a ticketless Fires of Fury devotee being forcibly evicted from the gallery into the downpour beyond by the burly doormen.

  But it wasn’t a disappointed fan.

  There was a sharp, collective intake of breath as the audience realized that despite his vociferous denials, Jaxx Benson had decided to attend his exhibition after all. For a brief moment, shocked silence reigned until it was punctured by a shrill, anger-infused voice.

  ‘What the hell is that monstrosity doing in my exhibition?’ screamed Jaxx, his handsome, instantly recognizable face devoid of its usual colour, his lips twisted in anger.

  Evie followed the line of his index finger to the magnificent canvas that hung centre-stage and was attracting the most accolades. She could have sold it ten times over, despite it being priced at quadruple the cost of the others.

  ‘It’s a bloody insult! What exactly is going on here? Wasn’t my art good enough for you upper-class, pompous, so-called art aficionados? I’m getting my lawyers onto this. By the time I’ve finished, James Bradbury Art will be history!’

  Evie exchanged a look of confusion and horror with Pippa. A slab of concrete took up residence in her chest and squashed the air from her lungs. She took a step towards Jaxx but James beat her to it.

  ‘Mr Benson, if you would follow me into my office, I will ensure the unfortunate error is rectified immediately.’

  ‘I demand that whoever is responsible for this slur on my artistic integrity be dealt with in the strongest way. Where is Evie Johnson? She’s the one who is supposedly in charge of my debut. How could she let this catastrophe happen? The buck has to stop with her.’ Jaxx, his bleached blond eyebrows raised in question, swung his gaze around the silent gallery seeking her out.

  At Jaxx’s insistence, every communication in the lead-up to the opening night had been dealt with over the telephone or via email, but as the avid audience’s eyes swung in unison towards Evie he was able to march straight over to where she was standing, his finger jabbing at her chest like a missile.

  He
at flooded her body and surged upwards to her cheeks until she was aflame with mortification. It was starting to dawn on her what had happened, but she had no idea how or why.

  ‘How dare you humiliate me like this? Who does that painting belong to? Why have you substituted it for “Muswell Musings”? Wasn’t it good enough for you? Are you an art critic in your spare time? Or has it been painted by one of your friends, maybe? This is totally unacceptable. It’s …’

  Fortunately, James succeeded in interrupting his monologue of ardent objection and guided the livid rock star, and his gobsmacked agent, into his office at the rear of the gallery and closed the door.

  The all-consuming silence suddenly broke into a cacophony of excited gossip.

  Chapter Three

  Evie wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole. For a moment, she remained motionless, her frozen brain cells unable to send the required signal to her legs to follow James into his office and make the appropriate apologies to Jaxx. But what explanation could she give? Why did the centrepiece of the exhibition not belong to Jaxx Benson? Contrary to Jaxx’s accusation she was not incompetent. She had checked the paperwork attached to the painting and James Bradbury had correctly endorsed it.

  Her senses began to clear and she took a step towards James’s office, but before she could go any further Pippa reached her side and placed her hand on her forearm.

  ‘Evie, hang on …’

  ‘I’ve got to go in and explain …’

  ‘Explain what though? Do you even know what has just happened?’

  ‘No, but …’

  ‘Then what are you going to say in there? Trust me. You’ll be walking into a war zone. Did you see Jaxx Benson’s face? He was furious! Give James a chance to calm him down and find out what’s going on first. It’s just an unfortunate mix-up that could have happened in any busy gallery. That canvas must have been for the Garth Maddox exhibition next month. We both thought it was painted in a completely different style to the others in the Twisted Infinity collection, didn’t we?’

  ‘But it’s my fault, Pip, not James’s. I’ve got to go and apologize.’

  Before Pippa could stop her, she sidestepped the milling crowd – most of whom were contemplating the canvas that had attracted such a reaction in a fresh light – took a deep breath, and pushed open the door into the office.

  All eyes swung towards her. Her knees weakened and when she attempted to calm the raging cauldron of emotions whipping through her body, she felt light-headed. Her heart hammered against her ribcage in objection to her suppression of the fight-or-flight instinct and a large pebble-like object had become lodged in her throat. After a few seconds of silence, she managed to find her voice, but it sounded alien to her ears.

  ‘Mr Benson, please accept my …’

  ‘I have never been so humiliated in my life. Have you any idea how important this exhibition is to me?’

  ‘Of course. I …’

  ‘I thought this was a professionally run art gallery. I thought you understood what I was trying to say with my artwork. Instead, I arrive to find you have had the audacity to replace my best work with one of your own selection. Clearly my work is not good enough for you. If I hadn’t changed my mind and decided to attend my debut at the last minute, would the VIP guests have been ignorant of this switch? I demand an immediate explanation.’

  Evie opened her mouth to speak but found she had no words. She had no idea how the substitution of the centrepiece had happened. Meanwhile, Jaxx was scrutinizing her reaction, his face a mask of fury, his eyes bulging from his now less-than-handsome face. A fleck of spittle had lodged at the corner of his mouth. He certainly bore little similarity to the famous rock star image that adorned the cover of the show’s glossy programme.

  ‘Please rest assured that the circumstances surrounding this unfortunate event will be investigated immediately …’ began James in his best conciliatory advocate’s voice.

  ‘Tell me this. Who is responsible for this whole fiasco?’ demanded Jaxx his eyes boring into Evie. The scorch of anger was so intense that she was forced to look away. But she knew Jaxx had every right to be outraged at what had happened.

  ‘As the owner of James Bradbury Art, the ultimate responsibility is mine,’ replied James, refusing to glance in Evie’s direction. ‘Now, if you would let me organize the removal of the …’

  ‘Hey! That’s my painting! Over there! “Muswell Musings”! Discarded like a used dishcloth.’

  Jaxx pointed to the canvas that had been temporarily relegated to the office after the last-minute arrival of the new one. Evie met his eyes, ready to extend her profuse apologies once again, but shrunk from the venom she saw written in their depths.

  ‘I want her fired! If you don’t fire her right away, I’ll make sure this inconsequential little outfit never trades again. I’ll sue you for every penny you own for sabotaging my career before it has even begun!’

  ‘Mr Benson, there’s no need to …’ began James, holding up his palms to pacify the young artist’s mounting rage.

  ‘Do it! Do it now! Or I go out there and give an immediate press conference. The paparazzi will be just gagging for something like this.’

  Jaxx Benson stood facing James, with his legs apart, his hands on his hips, and a challenge etched across his expression. A wave of nausea whipped through Evie’s abdomen and tears threatened to gather on her lashes. But she knew what she had to do. There was no other alternative.

  ‘It’s okay, James. Mr Benson, please believe me, I have no idea how this happened and I’m so, so sorry. You have every right to be angry.’

  ‘Evie, don’t …’ interrupted James, taking a step towards her.

  ‘No. What has happened is completely my fault and for that I have no alternative but to offer my resignation. There is no need for Mr Benson to give his threatened statement to the press. Perhaps you can begin to rectify the situation by exchanging the canvases and moving on with the rest of the evening. I hope if you explain that what has happened was totally my error, and that I have stepped down from my position with immediate effect, then if not the opening night, the rest of the exhibition can be salvaged.’

  ‘Evie, you don’t have to …’

  ‘Yes, she does,’ said Jaxx’s agent, a beanpole-thin man in a tightly fitted Savile Row suit, sporting a bouffant hairstyle, which he patted sporadically as he spoke. ‘It’s the only solution. Perhaps if Ms Johnson were to leave the premises this unfortunate situation can be defused and we can get on with the point of the evening, which is to sell as many of Jaxx’s canvases as possible?’

  Evie stared at the man and could swear she saw pound signs rolling round his eyes like a rampant fruit machine. Clearly his fifteen per cent was at risk. She offered James a tight smile.

  ‘I’ll leave straight away.’

  She turned on her stilettos and made for the door. As she wrenched it open she came face to face with a pale-faced Pippa who had been loitering just outside.

  ‘You can’t resign, Evie! You love it here. It’s your dream job. And there’s no way I can run the gallery without you – and, more to the point, I don’t want to. Please, go back in there and grovel, do whatever you have to do, just don’t go!’

  ‘I don’t have a choice, Pip. If you listened in on the whole conversation, you will have heard Jaxx threatened to sue, to close down the gallery, to damage Bradbury’s reputation. I can’t do that to James – but most of all, I can’t do that to Esme’s memory and all the struggling artists who rely on her generosity to display their work here. I can’t have that on my conscience. I have to get out of here before I bite someone’s head off, but I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  Evie strode with as much dignity as she could muster to collect her handbag and make her way to the rear exit where she slipped out – unnoticed by the animated throng – from the gallery that had been her whole world for the last two years. Devastation, mortification, and anger gnawed at her abdomen in equal measures and she rued
the fact that the compassionate director of her biopic was clearly missing in action that evening.

  If you enjoyed this wonderful story from Daisy James, why not explore her other fantastic books with HQ Digital!

  Loved Christmas at the Dancing Duck? Take a look at HQ Digital’s other wonderful stories, where more romance can be found …

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2017

  Copyright © Daisy James

  Daisy James asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © October 2017 ISBN: 978-0-00-823913-8