They paused as they reached the nearest end of the building. An ordinary-sized door nestled within the giant frame of the original wooden gates.
‘We’ll go through the small door on the south side.’ He set off down the small strip of shade along the east side of the studio.
‘Why can’t we use the door here?’
He rolled his eyes. Without turning back, he raised his voice and arm to beckon. ‘Come on!’
Moments later she was back at his elbow. ‘What did you do to the roof?’
‘It had all but fallen in. We took what was left away and put up a roof with two slopes. At first the sides go up steeply.’ He held his hands up, palms facing, and tilted his fingers together. ‘Then the pitch changes and the slope is much flatter until the two sides meet at the apex.’ He let his fingers drop until the tips touched.
‘Why?’
He unlocked and opened the door. With his hand resting on the handle he turned back to her. ‘You’ll see,’ he said and stepped inside.
Not many people had been inside the studio, but the happy few had been impressed. Two-thirds of the building formed a single open space. Currently furthest from Charlie and Becky, the height of the final third was divided in two by a mezzanine platform, which gave access to a floating gangway running along the long sides of the studio. Panels of grey-tinted glass acted as a safety barrier, reducing the risk of anyone taking a ten-foot drop to the floor. Sunlight poured through skylights in the higher roof panels and a series of windows in the north wall above the platform.
Charlie watched as Becky drifted like a sleepwalker to the middle of the building. She paused alongside his battered brown leather sofa and tilted her head back to examine the upper galleries. God alone knew what Lauren had told this woman. She had blabbed about Mel leaving and had probably laid it on thick: my brother, the sad, desperate loser.
Becky wandered to her right, stopping by the old card catalogue. She lifted her fingers towards one of the brass drawer handles and Charlie winced in anticipation of her touch. The large oak chest had been another of Mel’s projects. A university somewhere in the south-west was digitalising its records and the beautiful piece of furniture had been bound for the scrap heap when Mel swooped in to save it. She spent the best part of a month sanding, varnishing and telling Charlie how much trouble he’d be in if he got paint on it. Hours crouching in a fine layer of wood dust, her dark hair pulled back in a high ponytail, smiling to herself as she worked. The memory was sharp and bright, and he was surprised by how much it stung.
In his pocket, his phone vibrated and a muffled voice shouted, ‘Dad! You’ve got a message!’
Charlie swore and rooted out his phone. ‘My daughter. Messing around with my phone again. She thinks she’s funny.’
‘Don’t worry. My son can already work my mobile better than me.’ Becky pulled her phone out of her pocket. ‘This is more photo album than phone anyway. I must have hundreds of pictures of Dylan.’ She beamed as she cradled the screen and scrolled. ‘There’s a brilliant one from last week here somewhere. I’ll show you …’
‘No. You don’t have to.’ He held up a hand and shook his head.
Her smile faded. ‘Oh. ’Kay.’ She put her phone back in her pocket and spun away from him, giving the top of the card catalogue a light pat before returning to her inspection of the building.
Charlie frowned. Had he been rude? He didn’t want to offend her, but nor did he want to extend her visit by spending hours looking at photos of her kid.
Charlie sighed, turned the phone to silent and read the message.
Is she there? How’s it going?
Bloody Lauren and her meddling. It must be the middle of the night in Auckland, but apparently nothing, not even thousands of miles, could stop his big sister sticking her big nose into his business. He huffed and tapped his phone against his chin, pondering how to deal with the female conspiracy moving against him. Of his various options, his first instinct seemed best: be civil to this alleged miracle worker while saying as little as possible. Hopefully she would take the hint and leave sooner rather than later.
Becky was still strolling about, pausing occasionally to glance upwards and tuck dark blonde wisps behind her ears. The rest of her fine, straight hair was drawn back in a short ponytail so loose Charlie half expected it to slip free of the black band resting against her nape. As she turned into the light from the windows above the mezzanine, he studied her high forehead, even brows and straight nose. Taken together with her bright hooded eyes and slightly prominent chin, she reminded him of one of Botticelli’s subjects. A classic beauty, just not in this century. Her clothes were a good choice for her shape too. A fitted blouse in striking French ultramarine flattered her proportions and kept drawing his gaze away from her black trousers, which gave definition to her long, powerful legs.
Her wide eyes and parted lips suggested she was suitably dazzled by his sanctuary, although this gave him little satisfaction. As she strolled over to the bank of grey metal shelving and perused his jumble of folders, books and magazines, he worried she was making herself too much at home. Besides, he would have preferred to show off an active, chaotic space featuring work in progress. Instead, all his benches and trolleys were tucked against the walls and the painting supplies they carried had been used little recently.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
Becky glanced up from the books. ‘It’s … Wow!’ She winced. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just so bright and big.’ This time she cringed. ‘Again. I’m sorry. I think I’m in shock. I’m usually fairly articulate. Honest.’
He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Don’t worry. You’re right. It’s a large space.’
‘And warm, although so white.’
‘Because it’s not white.’
‘Is this one of those things where a bridal dress isn’t white, it’s ivory or eggshell?’
‘Exactly. This is a warmer white than pure brilliant white. And the wood floors and the underfloor heating stop it feeling cold.’
‘What are these?’ She pointed to the left where small canvases covered the wall.
‘They’re some things for my classes. Sometimes I ask students to make copies. It’s a way to understand and practise different techniques.’
‘And these are all yours?’
He nodded. He wasn’t proud of them, but they were passable. ‘Do you recognise any of them?’
‘I think you can be sure nearly everyone would recognise these.’ She swept her hand past replicas of some of the most famous paintings in the world, including The Last Supper and Guernica.
‘In that case, do you have any favourites?’
She scanned the whole collection. ‘The two by Monet. I like the Impressionists and especially the water lilies series. I like the colours and they’re peaceful.’
Charlie nodded again. Another honest answer. Her tastes were predictably mainstream. And she wouldn’t win any awards for art criticism. How could this woman revive his career when she knew less about art than the elderly ladies in his evening classes?
His phone vibrated. Another message from Lauren.
She’s there now, isn’t she?! What do you think?
Charlie was halfway through composing a reply when Becky, who had returned her attention to the gallery of copies, said, ‘Now this isn’t a copy, is it?’ She pointed to a pencil portrait of a girl with long wavy hair and a crooked, cheeky smile. ‘She’s cute.’