‘OK.’ He sat back and put his fingertips together. ‘Assuming you can get me this solo exhibition. When would it be?’
‘Ideally the first Thursday of the new year.’
Charlie bit the inside of his cheek. She had no idea of how unrealistic her timescales were. ‘I used to have one solo show a year, max.’
‘Yes, but you often had a couple of group shows too. And you were prolific for some of those solo shows. In one in Sydney you exhibited almost fifty pieces.’
Oh. Maybe she had done her research after all.
She continued, ‘And for this show I was thinking of more like twenty to twenty-five. I think it’s doable.’
He groaned and dropped his head back against the sofa, then raised it and let it thump down.
Becky sighed and took a seat next to him. Charlie stared up at the skylights and muttered, ‘Impossible, totally impossible.’
‘No, it’s not, Charlie.’
It was the first time she had called him by his first name. It was a little odd but, somehow, it sounded right.
He rolled his head towards her. She smiled and used two fingers to tap him on the knee. ‘It’ll be a lot of hard work, but not impossible.’
He pushed himself upright and raised his voice as he said, ‘And are you going to produce these paintings? Have you forgotten I only paint dull and uninspired pieces?’
‘Now that,’ said Becky, raising a finger, ‘is a matter of opinion, not fact. I, for one, believe you can do this. Phoebe and Lauren do too.’ She shrugged and tilted her head from side to side. ‘Maybe not tomorrow, granted. But we’ll get there.’ Becky jumped up and flicked over to the next board. ‘Which brings me to the next section: the commitments I need from you if this is going to work, and what you can expect from me.’
Once she got past number one—provide the art for the show—the rest of her requirements were straightforward and involved him sticking to his existing routines, including exercising and teaching. However, the final stipulation was considered so important it had its own board.
Tapping the two words in capital letters in the centre, she said, ‘And now for the hard part.’
‘Now for the hard part?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled at his disbelief. ‘I need you to trust me.’ She underlined the words on the board with her finger as she said them. ‘Sometimes I’ll only tell you what you need to know. Other times you won’t know anything about things I’ve done until you experience the results. But I’ll always act in your best interests and I’ll never lie to you. And as far as everyone else is concerned, I’ll be working with you on your show as your agent or publicist or whatever title you want to give me. The rest will be as confidential as you decide.’
Charlie sighed and rested his chin on his hand. So he actually got to make some decisions in all this, did he? That was big of her. Then again, he’d made all the decisions in his life over the past six years and that hadn’t got him far.
It was pie-in-the-sky madness. But could it hurt to let her try? The last week had been one of the most eventful for years. If nothing else, having Rebecca Watson around might prove a welcome break from the emptiness of a life without inspiration. Not to mention that Lauren and Phoebe would be delighted.
Becky was exhausted. She had expected some resistance, but Charlie was doing a decent impression of an immovable object.
‘And finally,’ she said, as Charlie sighed and rested his chin on his hand, ‘this won’t be easy. My experience is that clients find my meddling annoying. But we’ve worked things out and they’ve all been happy with the results.’
She dropped her arms to her sides. Not the most professional presentation, but she guessed Charlie would appreciate its brevity rather than being appalled by her handwriting.
Charlie turned his attention from the wall to the easel and narrowed his eyes. ‘And, if I were to agree to this plan of yours, what would it cost me? Because you’ve said my soul isn’t of interest.’
Becky was relieved to see her audience and his sense of humour were still with her. ‘You’re right. Which brings me to the last section of the presentation.’ She flipped to the final board. ‘You would give me twenty per cent of the gross sales from your exhibition. And I expect there will be some expenses along the way.’
‘Hmn. I won’t be left with much if you take twenty, the gallery takes forty—’
‘They’ll take twenty as well.’
‘Huh. You seem very sure about that.’
Becky resisted the urge to smile. ‘Trust me.’
He tilted his head and crossed his arms. ‘Do I have to start that already?’
She mirrored his body language and volleyed his smart question with one of her own. ‘That depends. Are you hiring me?’
She could see him weighing his options, although, from what her sources told her, he had few. In the days since Becky had come to Phoebe’s rescue, Charlie’s daughter and sister had waged a war of attrition against his scepticism and reluctance, slowly twisting his arm until he agreed to give Becky’s proposal a hearing. And now he had complied with their first demand, Charlie had to know the women in his life were unlikely to give him any peace until he hired Becky. Moreover, as she worked on a commission basis, the fallout from turning down her proposal was certain to be worse than giving her a chance. He had nothing to lose.
‘Ah … What the hell!’
He pushed himself to standing and extended his hand. Becky grasped it and, smiling, said, ‘That’s your way of saying you’d like to hire me, right?’
‘Yes. Sorry. You’ll notice I’m not good with words. Although …’ He kicked the sofa. ‘I haven’t been that great with paint lately either.’
‘Think positive, Charlie. This is a new start. It’s all going to be—’
Her phone buzzed. Apologising, Becky fished it out of her pocket and scanned the message. Oh crap. Was that today? She glanced at her watch; she could make it, but she would have to leave immediately.
‘If you’re wondering what happens next,’ she said, gathering up the boards, ‘it tends to seem anticlimactic at first. I’ll be busy for a few weeks getting your exhibition venue sorted, but I’ll be in touch and probably meddling too.’
She looked at her watch again. Twenty minutes. It would be enough time if Phoebe could drop her and Dylan at the clinic. She couldn’t miss the appointment: Clarice would be in a state anyway, and if Becky were late she might find her under a waiting room seat, curled—appropriately enough—in the foetal position.
‘I’m sorry to run away like this, but I promised to go with a friend to the doctor.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘Well, yes and no.’ She winced. ‘I’m sorry, you may have to get used to that sort of answer.’
He escorted her to the door and held it open as they said goodbye. Becky clung to the boards and added a skip to her step as she made her way across the garden, not caring if Charlie were watching.
Her mind was in a whirl. Apart from the potential to earn her enough to pay off her mortgage—a delirium-inducing prospect in itself—one project tended to lead to another. This might be her last chance to avoid twenty-five more years of frustrating, make-do work and worries about how she would find the money to give Dylan the best future.