‘Yes,’ said Becky, hoping to convince herself as much as Phoebe. The girl’s smudged eyeliner was only slightly darker than the shadows beneath it. Poor kid. She had worried enough about her mother to make herself ill and now she had fretting about her dad to keep her awake at night. ‘I’ve had more difficult cases.’
‘Really?’ Phoebe brushed the hair out of her eyes and returned to picking her nails. ‘Like what?’
‘Businesses bordering on bankruptcy, collapsed marriages, runaway kids, various addictions … Real life coaches help their clients fix their own problems. The people I work with need someone to do some of the fixing for them.’ She rolled her eyes at her continued inability to make her job sound convincing. ‘Basically I sort stuff out however I think best and apologise later.’
‘Good.’ Phoebe nodded. ‘But can you get him painting again?’
It was Becky’s turn to be surprised. ‘He’s stopped completely?’
‘I don’t think he’s managed anything the past couple of weeks. It’s been really bad since the New Aesthetics article came out last month.’
She got up and stood by the door, her head tilted towards the stairs. Apparently satisfied they were still alone in the house, Phoebe closed the door, lifted her mattress and retrieved a magazine.
‘Page twelve,’ said Phoebe. ‘Although the bit about Dad is towards the end. It’s mostly about the Comptons. You know, the usual stuff about the Whitehalls coming here and South Compton becoming a haven for Britain’s famous artists.’
Becky flicked through the pages and recognised postcard shots of Compton High Street, images of several local galleries, and paintings by Sheila and George Whitehall. There was also a black-and-white photograph of the Whitehalls in their studio dated 1852.
Phoebe dropped back onto the bed and continued, ‘But then the writer’s tried to be clever. He’s contrasted the new interest in the artistic history of the area and the success of its galleries with Dad’s problems.’
As Becky scanned the final paragraphs of the article she realised Phoebe was avoiding speaking the harsh truth: this was a hatchet job. The author’s first mention of Charlie was promising: how serendipitous that one of the nation’s most successful contemporary artists had made the fertile artistic region of the Comptons his home! A brief round-up of the first two decades of Charlie’s career followed, charting his growing critical and commercial success. But then, five years ago, a show in New York, expected to be his best yet, was a disappointment. Two more solo exhibitions had followed, each more derivative and dull than the last. And in the last two years Handren’s work had only appeared in group shows, where it was overlooked at best and derided at worst.
‘The end of that paragraph is the worst,’ Phoebe said, wrapping her arms around herself, drawing the T-shirt close to her thin frame. ‘He basically calls Dad a recluse and hints he might be losing it. Aunt Lauren says we’re lucky they used a photo of Dad from a few years ago and not one from the past few months.’
‘If it’s not too personal a question …’ Becky winced, no one said that unless they were about to ask too personal a question. ‘When did your dad start on his current … look?’
‘You mean what Aunt Lauren calls “beardie-weirdie chic”?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘It was before Christmas. Soon after the last time he exhibited anything.’
‘I’m guessing that didn’t go well.’
‘It was only one painting and it didn’t sell. And it didn’t get a mention in the reviews either. Although compared to that’—she jabbed at the magazine—‘I think I’d prefer to be ignored. Read the last sentence of that paragraph.’
Becky dragged her finger down the page and read aloud, ‘While the reinvigorated Compton region continues to thrive and sparkle, the increasingly insipid work of its current artist-in-residence appears to have doomed him to obscurity.’
‘And now that’s in Dad’s head. Or part of it. I don’t think he read the full article.’ Phoebe shuffled to the edge of the bed and dropped her feet to the floor. ‘I mean, he was pretty pissed off when he saw they gave his age as fifty-four in the opening line.’
‘Ouch.’ Becky cringed in sympathy. According to Lauren, her brother wasn’t coping well with the idea of turning fifty the following year. With her own fortieth birthday approaching more swiftly than she would have liked, Becky could imagine the pain of being saddled with five unwelcome extra years.
‘I know, right?’ Phoebe flicked her hair again. ‘I hoped he wouldn’t see the worst bits. But the local press picked up on them and we get the paper delivered …’ She scowled and, for a moment, the look in her eyes was so fierce Becky was certain those responsible for writing and printing the article should fear for their lives.
‘But anyone who knows Dad will know they’ve twisted everything.’ She got to her feet. ‘Come with me. There’s something you should have.’
Becky trailed Phoebe down to the study, marvelling again at how fast the girl moved on such spindly legs. As the teenager checked her father remained outside and began to scour the bookshelves, Becky wondered if Lauren’s concerns about whether her niece was eating properly were well founded.
The décor of the room further emphasised the fragility of the teenager’s frame. Open-mouthed, Becky took in the pair of open-fronted bookcases framing the fireplace and the other set covering the opposite wall. The custom-made shelving, in rich golden oak, stood on carved plinths and heaved with books. And Becky hadn’t thought it possible to be any more jealous of Charlie’s home.
‘Here it is!’ Phoebe prised a book off a shelf by the hearth and offered it to Becky.
Becky read from the cover, ‘John Charles Handren by Melanie Bradley.’
‘It came out when I was eight. That was when Dad was about as big as he got.’
‘Your mum literally wrote the book on your dad?’
‘Mum and Dad met because she did an article on him for the student newspaper. Later she worked as an arts correspondent. She covered different shows and wrote exhibition catalogues too. Take it, it might help.’
‘Thanks,’ Becky said, cradling the book. She stroked the cover, preparing to broach what was often the most sensitive aspect of a potential client’s situation: money. Lauren’s frustration with her brother had been clear when explaining her brother’s lack of concern that his meagre teaching salary would barely cover the bills once his dwindling savings ran dry. His paintings had always sold, leaving him free to focus on his art and forget about the money it generated.
She cleared her throat. ‘Sorry, I have to ask: your aunt said there might be some money worries?’
Phoebe nibbled her nails. ‘This place is almost paid off and his teaching brings in a bit, but for the last few years we’ve been living off savings. I’m going to uni soon and he wants to cover my tuition and living costs. If I can’t talk him out of it and he doesn’t start painting pieces people want to buy, he might have to sell the house.’
Phoebe’s voice faltered and her eyes glistened. ‘My parents fell in love with this place. I was born here. His studio would get converted into flats or torn down.’ She sniffed, crossed her arms and shivered. ‘Things may be bad now, but that would be the end. He’d never get over it.’