A Connoisseur of Beauty (6 page)

“Might explain what?” questioned Judy with a piercing look at Amy.

“Just that he said something about his relationship with his brother being complicated.”

“Very complicated, I should imagine
, if they were both sleeping with the same woman. But whatever the story is there, he is head-over-heels in love with you.”

“Oh really, Judy – you think everyone is in love with me. And yet, apparently, here I am all on my lonesome.”

“Not on your lonesome, but here with me. The queue of men can wait until I have ordered us both the curry.”

“But seriously,” said Amy when Judy had returned from the bar, “whatever is going on in Hunter Lewis’s private life I’m not likely to feature in it. Apparently he is flying back home.”

“Yes, I was told about that. I think his father wants him to take over Lewis Eames – his father is heavily into politics. I think Hunter has gone back to sort things out.”

“And he’s got his art galleries to run. So all in all he’s not likely to spend much time in our little village. Anyway, I’ve decided that it’s time for me to put the cottage up for sale and move off. This place holds too many memories for me, and I’ve got to start building a life for myself now my father has gone.”

“Oh, you can’t move!” exclaimed Judy. “You belong here.”

“Actually I haven’t got much choice,” admitted Amy. “I’ve no job and only the money from my exhibition and the commission Hunter gave me. I’ll be luck
y to last out the next couple of months. I may have to set the price of my cottage low just to shift it in a hurry.”

“But can’t you just do more paintings?” asked Judy.

“Not unless I get a steady stream of commissions – it’s just not a sustainable career for me. And I’m not even qualified.”

“What have qualifications got to do with art,” snorted Judy. “Your paintings are brilliant – I’ll commission you to paint the church.”

“That’s very sweet of you, but I can’t rely on the kindness of friends either. Anyway, I think I’d like a fresh start and there are more jobs to choose from in London than there are in Montford.”

Their discussion was disrupted by the arrival of lunch, and then Judy continued,

“Oh well, you can’t go until you have sold your cottage, so I’ll just have to make the most of your company whilst I can. And I will be most offended if you refuse to accept a commission from me – I want to be able to say that the painting over my mantelpiece is by the same artist that the famous art connoisseur Hunter Lewis collects!”

Amy finally accepted Judy’s commission on the basis that it was impossible to refuse her without taking the risk of being nagged day and night for a month, and because she knew that nothing would make her as happy as putting up her easel on the green beside the village church and spending a few days painting. The experience was rendered more pleasurable because the vicar, Jean, kept bringing Amy out cups of tea and pieces of cake. It was also as well that she had something to keep her happy because she saw something a couple of days after her lunch with Judy which destroyed any myth that suggested that Hunter wasn’t the father of Loretta’s child. Casually flicking though a newspaper whilst waiting to see the dentist, Amy’s heart gave a little lurch when she saw a picture of Hunter and Loretta on the gossip pages. Loretta was looking tanned and gorgeous in a revealing cropped
lycra top and jeans. The caption beneath it stated that: “Art aficionado and multi-millionaire Hunter Lewis is set to marry long-term girlfriend Loretta Swale. The couple are expecting their first child in the autumn”. So that settled that, thought Amy.

But if she thought that she could then firmly push Hunter Lewis from her mind, Amy was mistaken. The very next morning brought an unexpected reminder. She answered a knock at her door only to find Judy on the doorstep holding a letter.

“I was just about to call when I bumped into the postman; you have a letter from America – look at the stamp.” Amy snatched the letter from Judy almost crossly and ushered her friend into the cramped but cosy room. She immediately recognised the handwriting as belonging to Hunter Lewis. For some reason she had not got round to removing the note he had sent with that bunch of roses from her dressing table and had grown familiar with his style. “Is it from our Mr Lewis?” asked Judy.

“I think so. What can he want? If it is to ask me to be godmother to his child, the answer is no!” Amy tore the envelope open with slightly shaking hands.

“Well?” prompted Judy after Amy had read through the letter several times.

“What? – Oh, he is asking me to come out to America to paint a portrait of his grandmother. She’s called Marilyn Lewis. All expenses paid etcetera...”

“Will you go?” asked Judy excitedly.

Amy paused for just a heartbeat. “No,” she said. “It could be that he just loves my painting – but, honestly, it’s not as if he couldn’t commission any of a number of famous portrait artists who would love to paint Marilyn Lewis. And if there is any other reason, it is because I was the one that got away, despite his looks and his money and his charm. And if he’s engaged to be married that is inexcusable. Is he going to try and seduce me behind his fiancée’s back? It has to be no, I’m afraid.”

“Well said,” Judy observed, taking the letter from Amy’s hand and scanning through it herself. “I read about their engagement – although I stand by the fact that he was in love with you. I don’t know what his game is, but I agree that you can’t go. A pity, because it would have been a good career opportunity on the face of it. Anyway, I came bearing another commission for you – but I have to admit it seems a bit of an anti-climax after that.”

“What
is it?” asked Amy with a weak smile.

“Paula Locke wants a portrait of her cat, Fudge.” The two women looked at each other and suddenly burst out laughing.

“I will be delighted to paint Fudge,” said Amy wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. “I would happily turn down the famous mother of a famous man for Mrs Locke’s cat. And in any case, beggars can’t be choosers, and I don’t seem to be getting any interest in my cottage.”

“You will,”
said Judy, “but I will be sorry to see you go. Oh well, I’ve got a professional visit to make, but Paula and Fudge await your call.”

In the second week of June the weather turned fine. The portrait of Fudge was met with delight by Mrs Locke and was followed up by a request from one of her neighbours to have her cat painted too. These small
commissions occupied Amy’s time and helped to fill the coffers, but she still felt restless and unsure about her future. Then, the following week, three things happened almost together. The first was that the estate agent called her to say that there was a buyer for her house who wanted to proceed as quickly as possible. The second was that she was contacted by someone she had known in London. His name was James and he was a few years older than Amy, but she remembered him from their artistic social group as someone who liked a laugh and a joke with his mates but was serious about his work. He had a live-in studio in a Victorian warehouse but was struggling to make the monthly payments on his own, so he had been doing the rounds of other artists he knew to see if anyone was interested in sharing the studio. Hearing about this just after finding a buyer for her house made it seem like it was fate to Amy. She quickly got in touch with James and they made a provisional agreement by which Amy could share the use of the artist’s studio for a contribution towards the costs. James pointed out that it wasn’t really ideal for two people to live there, but she was welcome to stay until she could find a flat of her own. Amy did a quick sum in her head and reckoned she would be able to pay her way In London with the money she had left and could stay with James until her cottage was sold. All this was subject to her taking a trip up to check the place over, which she was ready to do that coming weekend.

And then something else happened to throw her into disarray again. She was out on a morning walk on the hill above
Montford, going through her plans in her head, when she caught a glimpse of the sun winking off a car that was just pulling up the drive of Wolfston Hall. Unfortunately it was at such an angle to the house that she couldn’t see who – or how many – got out of the car. Well, if it was Hunter and Loretta back she could deal with it – she would be moving off into her exciting new life soon enough. Nevertheless, when there was a knock at the door of her cottage the following morning she found herself opening it with nervous anticipation. But the figure on the doorstep was not the broad shouldered, long-limbed figure of Hunter Lewis, but a very smartly dressed, upright woman of about seventy with alert grey eyes, a pleasant smile and an air of great self-confidence.

“Are you by any chance Amy
Montford?” asked the lady in a voice with a gentle and rather pleasant hint of an American accent.

“Yes,” said Amy warily.

“Good. I would like to meet you in your village pub at...” she looked at her watch, “shall we say one o’clock? I have a business proposition for you.”

“Yes, I could be there,” replied Amy slightly nonplussed and trying to place the person.
For a moment she thought that this might be the person who was going to purchase her house, but then another idea dawned on her. “Could I have your name, please?” she asked.

“Of course,” said the old lady in a brisk tone. “I am Marilyn Lewis. I look forward to our
lunch.” And then she turned on her heels and was gone, leaving Amy feeling a mixture of confusion and curiosity.

***

Chapter Five

Amy had a couple of hours before her appointment with Marilyn Lewis to wonder what on earth the business proposition could be. Was she going to offer Amy money to stay away from her grandson or something awful like that? Amy wished to goodness that she
’d had the presence of mind to refuse the meeting, but she was too instinctively polite. And she was also very curious. As it was she dressed carefully but casually in a light summer dress, swept her thick dark hair back into a ponytail and made the short walk to the pub. She found Marilyn Lewis already seated at a table with two glasses and a bottle of white wine. “I have ordered us both the fish and chips,” she said to Amy by way of greeting. “I hope they are good here.”

“They are, as a matter of fact,” said Amy.

“And they said on the menu that they came with mushy peas – I’ve never tried mushy peas.” Suddenly, for all her smart clothes and decisive manner, Amy saw that there was also sweetness to the old lady’s personality too. She smiled more warmly and sat down opposite her. Marilyn poured Amy a glass of wine. “Of course you know why I’m here?” she said.

“Not really,” said Amy with complete honesty.

“Because you refused to paint my portrait of course! I’ve rarely seen Hunter as excited about an artist as he is about you. And I pride myself that his artistic sensibilities are inherited from me. If you are that good, I want to see what your work is like, so I’ve come to persuade you.”

“It’s a very long way to come just to have your portrait painted,” remarked Amy.
“And a long way to come if I don’t accept the commission.”

“Not if it’s really good – and judging by your paintings I’ve seen since I’ve arrived, it should be,” said Marilyn. “And I hope that the effort I have gone to will help persuade you to agree.”

“I’d certainly feel pretty mean to say no when you have come all this way, but I would also hate you to be disappointed. I’m not really a portrait painter. I prefer landscapes. The two Hunter has are both of Wolfston Hall, which is a favourite subject for mine. Mind you, my last two commissions were portraits – but they were of cats!”

“The perfect preparation for tackling my portrait,” said Marilyn wryly
. “Anyway, I have heard it said that catching the likeness of a pet for a besotted owner is easily as difficult as capturing the personality of a human sitter.”

“There’s some truth in that,” admitted Amy. And then a thought struck her. “Did Hunter tell you to come?”

“Goodness, no! I don’t let my grandsons tell me what to do; not even Hunter. No, this trip was my own idea, although Hunter knows that I am here because I am staying in his house. I hoped you would come there for the sittings.”

“As a matter of fact I am moving very soon,” said Amy, taking a sip of the chilled wine. “I thought it was time for me to try and establish a career in London. I came back here because my father was ill, but he is dead now. As a matter of fact I’ve sold my house and have arranged to share a studio with a friend.”

“Good for you,” said Marilyn approvingly. “A girl needs to pursue her dreams, and I wish you every success. But I hope you have time for my portrait before you leave.” She moved the bottle of wine and her handbag to make way for the food which had arrived.

“Yes, I do just about have time,” conceded Amy. “James is going to show me round the studio at the weekend, and as long as I’m happy with everything I can move up there in a couple of weeks' time.”

“Enough time to work on the painting then,” said Marilyn sampling the mushy peas with care. “They really are mushed-up aren’t they? I fancy that I would put a little mint in there, but on the whole I like them. I like the way you present food over here. On my last visit I stayed in a rather quaint guest house in Devon. I ordered two boiled eggs for my breakfast. When they turned up, they had little hats on – not the waitresses, the eggs! I asked why they were wearing hats and the girl gave me a funny look and said they were egg cosies, to keep the eggs warm. I’ve got a little set myself now; very sensible. So this James – a friend is he?” she continued disingenuously.