Charlie rested his head against the glass. The bright, cold lights of the Coulson were reflected in the dark shop fronts opposite, along with oily ghosts of the exhibition’s patrons, milling around inside the fish tank, their mouths opening and closing as they exchanged opinions.
The pavements outside were scrawled with ice and the glass was a cool hand on his furrowed brow. He should be delighted. Everyone kept telling him he must be. Perhaps delight would come when the scraping and crawling in his stomach settled down. It wasn’t hunger. Phoebe had made him a plate of pasta for lunch suitable for someone about to run a marathon and he had spent the evening hoovering up trays of finger food while doing his best to make polite chit-chat with the people who would be indirectly funding his daughter’s law degree.
‘John!’
He pushed away from the glass as Rachel barrelled down on him, followed by Virgil. Those two were inseparable. Even when they were having independent conversations they contrived to have their fingers, hips or feet touching. But at least this evening Rachel had dropped the irritating habit of shoehorning Virgil’s name into every sentence.
‘John! Come and meet the Drayslades; dear Amanda and Tim.’ She beamed at him as she grabbed his wrist. ‘They simply adore everything and want you to talk them through a couple of pieces.’ Approaching her targets, she whispered, ‘They have deep pockets and fancy themselves collectors. The woman who won the auction at the ball is a poor relation.’
The Drayslades turned out to be a pleasant couple, though distractingly horsey in appearance. And if they noticed Charlie’s gaze swinging back and forth between them and the door like a metronome, they were polite enough not to comment.
Where was she? The coven had gone to pick her up over forty minutes ago and there were only twenty until the gallery closed. He ran a finger around the inside of his collar. He hated roll-neck sweaters. Phoebe had made him wear the ridiculous thing. Made him look like a bloody turtle.
‘We would be keen for you to come up to the house,’ said Amanda Drayslade while her husband nodded. ‘We’re in the process of reconsidering our collection and feel a few specially commissioned Handrens would be just the ticket …’
She drawled on, but her voice became a faint buzz when the door of the gallery slammed open and Ronnie bowled through. Followed by Lauren. Then Becky.
His hand snapped out as a tray of drinks weaved past. Turning his back to the door, he took a gulp of white wine so dry it did little to soothe his parched mouth.
Over the heads of his future patrons he could see the painting which had robbed him of sleep the past five nights. He wasn’t entirely happy with his technique and it was beyond derivative. But time had been short and it was a necessary gamble. And if she didn’t like what she saw … At least he would have tried to show her how he felt.
Charlie emptied the glass and threw a final glance at the canvas. All he could do was hope it was eloquent enough to tell Becky the many things he had failed to. Repeatedly.
Once inside the warmth of the gallery, Becky was glad to shed her outer layers. Apparently Ronnie knew her way around; she snatched their coats and disappeared, soon returning clutching a large glass of wine.
Lauren nudged Becky and nodded to the left where Charlie was standing surrounded by a small flock of art aficionados. She squinted to bring him into focus. Like her, he was dressed in black, but Becky suspected Phoebe had taken a hand in creating what she believed would be termed a ‘look’. A sharp suit was teamed with a high-neck jumper. He hadn’t shaved for a few days and was wearing his glasses.
‘Where did you get that?’ Lauren asked Ronnie, pinging the rim of the wine glass with her nails.
‘Come with me,’ said Ronnie, taking Lauren’s arm and leading her away.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Becky.
In response, Ronnie glared at the space past Becky’s shoulder and widened her eyes. Becky followed her friend’s stare and found herself face-to-face with Charlie. He looked rather handsome, even in a daft turtleneck.
‘Hi.’
‘Hello.’
‘How are you?’
‘Fine. You?’
‘Yeah, fine. Thanks.’
She rubbed her hands together and wished she had something to hold. Her fingers, taking advantage of their freedom, flew up to Charlie’s collar and gave it a tug. ‘Nice jumper.’
Charlie laughed. ‘I didn’t choose it.’ He leant forward and whispered, ‘I didn’t choose anything I’m wearing.’
Becky had already been warm, but something about his tone made her cheeks burn. Flustered, she said, ‘Good. That jumper doesn’t suit you.’
‘I know.’
‘And you couldn’t have shaved for the big event?’
‘I would. But I haven’t had time and Phoebe said it would all add to the look so I jumped at the chance to be lazy.’ Charlie dug his hands in his pockets. ‘You look nice,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’
‘I mean … What I want to say is … That dress is great and … You, you look …’ He took a deep breath and stared down at his shoes. ‘Beautiful.’
She blinked and opened her lips to respond. But he had caught her off guard and she floundered, an unseen hand tightening its grip around her throat.
‘John!’ Rachel barked as she sallied over and seized Charlie by the wrist. She gave Becky a quick nod in lieu of a greeting, then used both hands to push him towards a waiting congregation of grey dollars and euros. He looked back and raised his hands by way of an apology. ‘Don’t leave,’ Charlie said, as Virgil added his strength to Rachel’s, pulling him into the middle of another circle of cooing and fawning.
Becky raised a hand to cover her mouth as blood thudded and sloshed through her ears. The hand around her throat squeezed. She glanced towards the exit. It was a short walk home. If she could retrieve her coat and slip away …
Taking a deep, slow breath, she began to sidle towards the door.
‘You’ll have to push to get near it,’ said Ronnie, stepping across her escape route. ‘And you’ll want to get near it, you being blind without your specs.’
Kicking her best friend in the shins, shoving her to the floor and scrambling out the door would not be the response of a rational person. But it was tempting.
‘Get near what?’
‘The last-minute painting.’ Ronnie jabbed a finger towards the crowd at the back of the room. ‘You’d think it was the Mona bloody Lisa the way this lot have been hovering round it. Let’s have a little look, shall we?’ She clamped the tops of Becky’s arms between her hands and steered her friend towards the huddle surrounding Charlie’s latest creation. When they reached the back of the group, she gave Becky an encouraging prod in the small of her back.
Becky stepped forward and cast a glance over her shoulder. Ronnie hadn’t moved. Her feet were firmly planted and arms folded. There was no going back.
She shouldered her way through to the front. The group appreciating the painting had left a few feet of space around it and, as she got closer, Becky understood why.
It made her Christmas present look like a simple card trick. This illusion was near perfect: it was as if Renoir had attended the art society ball instead of the dance at the Moulin de la Galette. Charlie had used Mike’s photos for the details of the moment, and the impressionist’s style and composition to bring it to life.