The original painting depicted a bright Parisian park on a Sunday afternoon; Charlie’s version showed the dimly lit ballroom of Compton Hall as energetic revellers embraced, laughed and shook hands, celebrating the new year. As in Renoir’s painting, the band was a distant blur and most of the dancers were darkly robed shadows. A group of milky-skinned figures sat in the right foreground. Some were sipping champagne and talking, while others gesticulated towards the other side of the canvas, and the viewer couldn’t help but search for whatever had attracted their interest.
To the left of centre, the couple were transfixed in a kiss. Her dress was white; he wore black. Their attachment to each other detached them from the bustle of the surroundings as a glimmer of gold and silver sparkled over them, falling softly and silently into their little world.
A nasal bray brought her out of her reverie. Becky closed her mouth and licked her dry lips as she tuned into an energetic argument between the three self-appointed art experts to her right.
‘I’m telling you, the title is a reference to these figures in the foreground. A bargain is being struck—’
‘No, no, you’re wrong. They’re mere bystanders. Nothing but filler. It’s obviously a nod to this group. It’s a play on something from Shakespeare, isn’t it?’
‘Probably a bastardisation of the bard, yes. But you’re both being too literal. The title tells us the piece as a whole is a satirical comment on society.’
‘Not society. Artists. It’s a blatant jibe at artists who pursue Impressionism for commercial gain …’
They waddled away, still arguing, but Becky had long since stopped listening. She had seen the label next to the painting and knew they were all wrong. Her pedantic literary reflex was screaming ‘Marlowe, not Shakespeare, you idiots!’ Although that was a minor point. They never stood a chance of guessing the meaning and intention of the painting. How could they hope to understand such a private message? One that was printed on a piece of white card in red letters—the red of fresh blood—congealed into the six words of the painting’s title: Faustus gives to Mephistopheles his soul.
Becky inched back, keeping her eyes on the canvas as if retreating from a tiger. Mesmerised, she barely heard the grumbling of the other guests as she bumped into them and forced them to shuffle aside.
A few paces from the wall the painting came into sharp focus. She paused and, as she explored its details, was transported back into the midnight scene. The chimes of Big Ben, the tickle of confetti … Charlie’s warm smile. As she sank deeper into the memory, ambient sounds of chatter and footsteps faded and the overhead lighting seemed to dim, leaving the couple in the picture alone in a soft glow.
A warm hand brushed the small of her back and, for a moment, she was uncertain if it were real.
‘You should sit down.’ Charlie had placed a seat behind her. It was angled so she would be facing the painting square on.
‘Oh, thanks.’ She lowered herself onto the chair and watched as he stepped away to grab another and place it to her right. As he took a seat, the tops of their arms brushed against each other, causing them both to mumble apologies and shift towards the edge of their chairs.
Glancing about, Becky realised they were alone in the semi-darkness: the lights at the front of the gallery had been turned off and only those surrounding the painting in front of them were on. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘The guests left and everyone else went to Sweet’s. Virgil has a couple of bottles of champagne on ice there. Ronnie led the charge.’
They shared a smile and shuffled in their seats until they were sitting staring at the painting in front of them, deliberately not looking at each other, like two strangers on a platform bench.
After a few more awkward seconds, Becky said, ‘So your opening’s over. I believe it went well.’
‘Very well. Everything sold or will sell. Rachel wants to leave things open for a few more days to see if any better offers come in. But you can look forward to a generous commission cheque.’
‘After you deduct the advances.’
A mocking glimmer flashed in his eyes as he waved a hand and said, ‘Of course.’ He shifted in his chair, turning towards her. ‘I guess this means your contract has come to an end.’
‘Yeah.’ She mirrored his movement, twisting to her right so their knees were a few inches apart. ‘You’re a free man again. No more pushy Becky. Whatever will you do with yourself?’
The sparkle faded from his eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, his voice flat. ‘Try to keep working, I guess.’
Her heart sank as his face fell. ‘You’ll have to try because from what I’ve seen tonight there’ll be no shortage of demand.’ She pointed towards the painting. ‘And this one seemed popular. How much did it go for?’
Charlie sniffed and pushed the bridge of his glasses back up to the top of his nose. ‘The last offer was around seventy-five thousand.’
‘What?’
He laughed and the happy sound joined the echo of Becky’s shrill surprise as it ricocheted around the empty room. She felt light-headed, and she couldn’t tell if the cause was shock at such an insane sum of money or the delight on Charlie’s face.
‘I’m as surprised as you,’ he said. ‘Rachel’s disappointed though. The offer makes it the highest value piece here and vindicates many of her mother’s opinions about abstract art.’ He swayed towards her and nudged the top of her arm with his. ‘What do you think of it?’
Becky raised her hands towards the picture. ‘It’s … it’s … wow! It’s …’ She was making a windmill motion with one hand and something resembling a chopping action with the other. What was wrong with her?
In an effort to stop her physical, if not mental flailing, she dropped her hands to her knees. ‘I mean, it’s great. It’s just so …’
What she was struggling to say, in a way which didn’t sound stupid, was that, not counting Dylan, it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen and the best surprise she’d ever had. He was a genius. A frustratingly hard to read, evasive bastard, but a genius nonetheless. Not to mention a hopeless and marvellous romantic.
He brought her struggle to an end by laying his left hand over her right. The simple gesture pulled her focus down to her buzzing fingertips and wiped her mind clear. He smiled as he moved his hand back to his own knee. ‘I’m glad you like it.’
She swallowed. He was fixing her with that steady, unwavering stare of his. Under its weight her breath came quickly and she raised her hand to check her buttons were fastened properly, then became more flustered when she remembered her dress didn’t have any buttons.
‘Who’s the lucky buyer?’
‘No one. It’s not for sale.’
‘Oh?’ The question had come out as a squeak. A niggling suspicion started to come into focus, making her palms itch. ‘How come?’
‘It was never on sale.’ He kept his eyes fixed on the opposite wall as he said, ‘I painted it for you.’
Her stomach flipped. A short laugh escaped her. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘No. It’s yours. If you want it.’
She searched his face for the smallest sign of a joke, although she knew he meant it. The unseen hand reappeared at her throat, but this time its squeezing brought tears to her eyes.