We trundle down the hill towards a small wooden hut in the first paddock. The sound of summer grass swishes about my calves, seeds clinging to my jeans. A group of people dithers about in the field, phones in hands, deep in debate.
‘They like my class because it’s so lax and you can’t fail,’ he says. ‘Not really.’
‘What do you do? Is there, say, a set curriculum, or do you work on something different each week?’
He shakes his head. ‘This is the first year, so I’m still feeling my way, but I like classes to be more student driven, which is code for I have no idea what I’m doing. If they want to paint or draw or whatever, then I’m happy to offer advice as they go. I know it’s not structured, but I don’t think one size fits all when you’re dealing with people of different skill and interest levels.’
‘That makes perfect sense.’ Everything in my arms tumbles onto the bench. I clear a space so I can sit.
‘Am I allowed to see your portfolio now?’ The bench seat moves under his weight as he gets comfortable beside me.
I slap the black folder into his hand and watch nervously as he flips through the pages. There are the early university architectural photos, moody dark buildings against sharp bright skies, Peak District sunsets, mock advertising campaigns I had to submit for grading, and the occasional portrait.
I find myself apologising for the quality of some of the older stuff, telling him what I’d do differently now. It’s the defensive position of someone desperately hoping to impress, especially after his first assessment of my work. If I explain it, he’ll understand. I recognise it from phone calls I’ve had in the last few days. Now, here I am falling into the same validation trap. It’s true, I want him to be impressed.
‘Stop apologising,’ he says, turning the page. ‘Oh, I love this shot.’
I look across at the photo. It’s mossy grass and an icy reservoir surrounded by an orange and grey sunset at Bamford Edge.
‘That was an end of year camping trip with some other arts students,’ I explain. ‘A heap of us packed up cameras and oils, canvas and pencils, and took off for some inspiration and motivation. Not too long before I started at Webster.’
‘Did you enjoy it there?’ he asks. ‘At Webster, that is.’
‘I thought I did,’ I say quietly. ‘Now, I’m not so sure.’
‘You’re better off out of the machine.’
‘It was worlds away from what I’m trying to do now,’ I consider, though his words floor me. They’re supportive in a place I didn’t expect to find them. ‘There are things I loved about being there. Access to the big names, surrounding myself with beautiful art, and all under the bright lights of the big city.’
‘On the other hand?’ he asks.
‘It was quite a boys’ club in the end. No matter how much I worked, it never seemed to be enough.’ I sigh. ‘As busy as I am now, I’m enjoying being my own boss. There are days where I’ve been pottering all day, painting or whatnot, I look at the clock and realise it’s evening, but it hasn’t felt like work at all. I care so much about it, about getting it right and doing it for me, that I keep going until I’m satisfied.’
‘That’s how I feel about this place.’ He waves at the world beyond the hut. ‘I get to paint and sell my work and maybe pass on what I know to other people without trying to impress people or chase fame or any of that.’
I frown at him.
He leans across and whispers, ‘No offence.’
‘Except that it was me pursuing you.’
‘Don’t worry, I noticed,’ he says with a laugh as he places my portfolio on the bench and shuffles closer.
‘Can you give me some advice on an idea?’ I fold myself over and lean into his line of sight, batting my eyelids like a flickering candle.
He swats at me with his pad of paper. ‘Considering I’ve spent the last few weeks trying my best to chase you away, my advice is probably the last thing you need.’
Another compliment. Today has been a tiny victory, but one I’m grabbing with both hands. I’ll save the gloating for next time I see Lainey; it’ll make one hell of a story. For now, I take a photo of Christopher as he sketches out something beside me.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks, peering up at me.
Looking at him from behind the safety of my phone, I feel as if it’s him who’s seeing me for the first time. The hardness in his face is barely registering, replaced by something gentle in his eyes. He’s really quite lovely when he’s not trying to push people away.
‘We have an exhibition to announce,’ I say. ‘And I need a slightly more cheerful photo than the one on your website.’
He rolls his eyes but says nothing.
Over the next few minutes, sketches and histories are forgotten as we scribble down and refine the small, seemingly insignificant announcement post. Sure, it feels like a huge thing for me, but I don’t want to assume I’m going to move mountains just yet. Frustrated sighs give way to revisions and, eventually, we come up with something we both agree on.
‘This may sound like a silly question,’ I begin, slipping my phone and our new announcement back into my pocket.
‘You’d be surprised what counts as silly around here,’ he says.
‘How did you end up here?’
I watch as he looks off into the distance. His mouth shifts and he sighs once or twice. I suspect he’s trying to work out exactly how much to tell me.
‘Originally, Claire and I were living in this tiny flat in the middle of town. I’m talking the living room doubled as the dining room, the studio, and entertaining area. What we really wanted was somewhere with sprawling views, room for a family and a studio, all that fluffy stuff. So, when this place popped up, we slapped down the deposit and popped the champagne. About a week after that, she died.’
I cringe. ‘I’m so sorry she didn’t get to move in.’
‘Me too. Anyway, in the aftermath of that, I didn’t want to do the art thing anymore. I blamed her for anything that went wrong in my life for the next twelve months. Forgot to pay a bill? Claire, art, boo. Car broke down? Claire normally booked it in for a service. Go to make dinner but find I’m out of ingredients? Claire was the list-maker and shopper. So, when I moved out here about two months after the funeral, I boxed everything away and forgot about it.’
‘How’d you feel after that?’ I ask.
‘Strange. For a while it was nice to walk inside and see nothing but a regular house. It’s that old adage out of sight, out of mind, right?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘But time does its thing, you get past the big milestones; one month becomes six and friends pull you aside to remind you that life goes on. It was around that time, I found I wasn’t so much sad, but I was angry and frustrated. Actually, your father has talked about this with me before, along with the dumbing down of conversations. People start talking to you a little differently, slower. “Are you okay, Kit?”, “How are things going with you today, Kit?”, “Is today a good day or a bad day, Kit?”, “We’re all here for you.”’
‘I remember those days,’ I say. ‘“How’s your heart today, Katie, would you like to talk to me about anything? It’s okay if you don’t, but just know that we’re all here for you.” Which, of course, they’re not because at some point people lose patience and disappear back into the bushes and figure you’ll eventually work it out yourself.’