‘What I don’t understand is: your father has all this great art on his wall. There’s Klimt and Monet, Picasso and Matisse and then this. It’s got me beat why anyone would pay good money for it.’ A long finger flicks at the frame. ‘It’s not a particularly skilled piece.’
If that statement is designed to capture my attention, consider me bound and gagged. I blink slowly and draw a deep, steadying breath.
‘Go on then, Neil Buchanan, what’s wrong with it?’ I fold my arms over in challenge. I’m ready.
‘It’s just so clichéd.’ He points to the offending parts of the small photo. ‘I mean, the framing is all wrong. There’s part of a tree in the foreground and the small fence keeps guiding my eye towards the bloody foliage. At least I think it’s foliage. It’s hard to tell because it’s so out of focus, and I’m sure the selective black and white disappeared with the early Noughties. It’s just such a postcard, isn’t it?’
‘Well, shit, I’d really love to read your master’s thesis on the use of focal points and acceptability to modern art.’ I look at him. ‘Have you brought it with you? It’s a long drive home, so reading it would give me something to do.’
The house is silent. Around his shoulder and down the hall, I can see my dad give me a thumbs-up. I turn my attention back to Kit, who’s still staring at my photograph, the briefest hint of pink crosses the tips of his ears.
‘Anyway, what if that’s all it’s meant to be?’ I ask. ‘Personally, I love receiving postcards. It means someone’s thinking enough about me to want to share something with me. Above that, it says they’re willing to put those words out in public by sending them through a postal service where everyone gets to read them on their journey. They’re intensely personal.’
He turns his gaze to me, and something in his eyes trips my tongue over itself.
‘Some would even say they’re romantic,’ I continue, trying to keep the lightness in my voice.
‘If that’s all it’s meant to be, then it’s wasting space on what is otherwise an incredible wall of art.’ He cranes his neck to look at something closer to the ceiling.
I snort.
‘Who’s the artist?’ he asks.
He’s standing so close I can feel his breath tickling the tip of my nose and see the tint of paint he hasn’t been able to scrub from around his cuticles. I pull the frame from the wall and turn it over, making a show of looking for the name.
‘Oh!’ I clap a hand to my cheek and feign surprise. ‘Would you look at that? “Katharine Patterson, Scarborough Beach, April 1999”. I think that means me. Yes. Definitely me.’
It’s a photo I submitted for a school assessment. Dad decided it needed to go on his wall because it scored top marks, and he was proud enough of that.
‘Maybe,’ I say, turning to find his face slightly ashen, ‘I can start selling postcards of it. Great business idea, thanks.’
He stumbles around for the right words but comes up blank. The look on his face is a little gawping fish, a little ‘man put in place’. For the record, it’s already a firm favourite in my limited experience of his facial expressions.
‘I’m aware that it’s not the most artistic piece.’ I’m only prepared to give him a minor concession, God knows why. He doesn’t deserve it. ‘But it seemed to resonate with my parents which, forgive me if I’m wrong, might be what art is all about.’
‘Ah.’ The corner of his mouth rises just so as he looks away with something like a nod. ‘That explains that.’
There’s no logical reason for wanting to impress him, it’s nothing more than my competitive streak. After yesterday, I feel a desperate need to prove people wrong, so I offer up the camera roll on my phone. Among the selfies, food photos and the inappropriate photos of John I hide the screen for, are other photos I’d taken, ones I’d wanted to show Dad or Adam without having to lug prints around.
‘I’ve taken plenty more photos since.’ I shove my phone under his nose.
Though his eyes move around the screen as I swish left and right, pinching the pictures in and out, he stays resolutely, frustratingly silent. He’s Shania Twain and I’m Brad Pitt, because nothing I show him impresses him much. Would it be right to say I’d love to strangle him right now? Instead, I bite my lip to stop me swearing and count backwards from ten in the echo chamber of my mind.
‘What about you?’ I try. ‘Where’s your artwork? Are any of your masterpieces hanging on the wall today? Oh, that’s right, I don’t recall seeing any.’
‘I dabble.’ He offers a bashful smile, and his entire face changes. It softens as light spills forth and changes the tension of the room almost immediately. I can only imagine what laughter would do to him. He’d likely combust. He returns to where he was only moments ago looking at a life drawing.
‘Oh, you run an art school and you dabble, do you?’ I ask. ‘Well, I’m going to look you up, Mr Kit.’
‘Why? You’re going to exhibit my work in your museum?’ he says. ‘Sorry, gallery.’
‘Now, that’s a very clever way of asking. Five points for that.’ I waggle a finger at him as I retreat to the kitchen and pick up the whisk. ‘But isn’t the old saying “Those who can’t do, teach”?’
He follows close behind. ‘Oh, I didn’t say I was asking.’
‘Aren’t you?’ I crack another egg into the mixing bowl and toss the shell into the sink. I wonder if Fiona would mind so much if I threw one at him? ‘Certainly sounds like you are.’
‘And what if I was?’ He leans against the counter and folds his arm over. If I want to leave the kitchen right now, I’d have to crash tackle him on my way through. For what it’s worth, that’s not beneath me.
I grin at him. ‘I would tell you no.’
‘Without even listening to a proposal? Or seeing my portfolio?’ he asks with a disbelieving laugh.
I check him over my shoulder. ‘Correct.’
‘You know, that’s hardly fair.’
‘Is it?’ I ask. ‘Because I don’t decide the exhibits we run. I simply curate them.’
‘You make it sound so fancy, Miss Patterson.’
I smile and shake my head and hope he can’t see my face in a reflection.
‘Is that seriously what you want?’ I turn to him. ‘Gallery space?’
‘Is that what you’re offering?’
Against everything running through my mind right now, the shock and irritation and, hell, the sheer audacity of him, I smile. ‘I’m not offering anything.’
‘No?’ he asks, head tipped. ‘Why are we talking about it, then?’
‘You’re very tenacious, aren’t you?’ I ask. Frustration sifts through me and I take it out on the mixing bowl.
‘Hardly.’ He shifts and presses his palms against the bench. ‘It’s a no, then?’
‘It’s a no,’ I say as sweetly as I can. ‘I can’t authorise anything, especially in my father’s kitchen on a Saturday afternoon. Mr Webster would have a coronary, which wouldn’t be the best look for me, given he already had one last year.’