Move Over Darling (18 page)

‘But, hey, I guess when you’re a big shot, you can afford to behave badly once in while.’

Gethin breathed out. ‘I’ll send flowers.’

‘Good luck with that,’ Ruby snorted. ‘So what are you going to do about Coralie?’

‘What did you
want
me to do?’ He wrenched himself up. ‘Propose to her?’ Self-disgust was making him tetchy.

She shook her head, and the white spikes of her hair quivered. He had some sympathy with them. ‘You dragged the poor woman all this way on some flimsy pretext about painting her portrait and you didn’t even manage that?’

‘It wasn’t working,’ he said flatly. ‘She wouldn’t relax; what kind of portrait will it make?’

Ruby sneered at him. ‘Hey, you’re the one with all the talent; don’t blame the sitter. Or maybe you were so busy trying to get her to relax, that you lost sight of the fact you were supposed to be
painting
her.’

Gethin shuffled under her intense scrutiny, trying to get physically if not emotionally comfortable. ‘I tried the usual tourist stuff.’

‘Yeah, sex and the city – but not the official tour, right?’

‘I liked you before you turned into my mother,’ he grumbled.

‘Your mother would be ashamed of you!’ Ruby said, her voice shaking. ‘If you’d used your eyes last night you’d have seen how brave Coralie was being and taken pity on her. What the fuck were you thinking of? Couldn’t you see how much she was hurting? Or maybe you were
too
busy thinking about the f—’

‘Careful!’ he warned.

‘Well,’ she remonstrated, ‘anyone could tell she wasn’t like those other women, the ones who
hope
you’re going to screw them when they commission a portrait.’

‘Don’t.’ His head was hurting too much to listen to this stuff.

‘Or what?’ Ruby shook her head. ‘You’ve been running away from getting involved all the time I’ve known you. Anyone would think you’re afraid of making a commitment. Then someone comes all this way to be with you and you let her slip through your hands.’

‘The only thing I know I’ve got in common with her is Penmorfa and we can’t even agree about that! Nothing flourishes there except gossip and that includes Sweet Cleans. I’ve seen more incomers fail at their idealistic attempts to start a new life in the country than you’ve had hot dinners. I’m right about that business, you wait and see.’

‘Gee,’ she said sarcastically, ‘that’ll keep you warm at night. What’s wrong with you? You’re not getting any younger, you know. You’ll end up a lonely old man.’

Like his father. Gethin narrowed his eyes at her. ‘When you’ve quite finished chewing my ear, there’s a hot shower waiting for me.’

Ruby sniffed at him. ‘Yeah, and you could do with it, too. You’d better freshen up because it’s gonna be a long day.’

Gethin raised his eyebrows. Pamala Gray, he supposed. And a large slice of humble pie.

Ruby looked at him beadily. ‘Have you seen what the critics are saying about your show?’

In her parents’ house in Surrey, where she had broken her journey for a few days, Coralie smiled as her mother returned to the living room with a box of chocolates. ‘I must say, darling, it’s been lovely having you back,’ Susan Casey said, sitting next to her.

Coralie leaned back against the deep cream-and-gold cushions. It was a comfortable room: soft neutrals with touches of gold and pale pink, tasteful landscapes on the wall and Carol Klein’s
Life in a Cottage Garden
bookmarked on the glass coffee table. She ought to at least try to relax. A quick phone call to Alys should have taken care of her immediate concerns and staved off some close questioning. And yet … No, it wouldn’t do to dwell on what wasn’t to be. Coralie made a conscious effort to make the most of her brief respite. She watched her mother affectionately, noting that she’d added a few copper lowlights to her regular colour as a nod to what was once flame-red hair.

‘It’s been very quiet since you’ve been gone,’ Susan said, laying one hand lightly on Coralie’s knee.

‘I’m not dead,’ said Coralie, the sudden almost-tears spilling into a splutter of laughter. ‘And I’m only a drive away.’

‘A
long
drive,’ her mother said reproachfully. ‘Your dad finds the motorways tiring now. We’re neither of us getting any younger.’

‘Mum, you’re fifty-four and regularly attend Pilates classes!’ Coralie frowned at her. ‘You’re hardly a candidate for Dial-a-Ride. Besides, you and Dad are perfectly capable of tracking down obscure graveyards, so you’re not exactly housebound.’

‘You make us sound like a couple of body-snatchers,’ her mother grumbled. ‘It makes a good day out, that’s all. It’s far more meaningful to see a moss-covered headstone than simply looking online.’

Tracing their ancestry was a hobby her parents embraced with equal enthusiasm, although, thankfully, they were less inclined to regale her with blow-by-blow accounts of their discoveries these days.

‘Well,
I
think we have more time to talk now. We can speak to each other at any time of the day,’ Coralie said, hoping to avert the Too Far Away conversation or the inevitable discussion about the family tree. With so many of her cousins adding twigs to it, her mother was growing more concerned about the future of their own branch.

‘I suppose so,’ sighed her mother. ‘And we can text each other. Well, we could if you had a signal. At least we can send emails.’

‘You’re pleased with that new iPad, then?’ Coralie laughed, seeing her mother’s glance stray to her latest toy sitting next to Carol Klein on the coffee table in front of them. ‘See? There’s really no need for anyone to be out of touch. Everyone knows where everyone is these days.’

‘If you two are going to sit there nattering, you won’t mind if I go and watch the football in the kitchen, will you?’ her father said, winking at her as he rose from the armchair.

‘So tell me, is Gethin Lewis as sexy in real life as he looks in his photos?’ asked her mother, as soon as he’d left the room. Coralie’s heart, which was supposed to be convalescing, leapt into her throat, and she had to pretend to think about it so as not to leak any clues her mother might spot.

‘He’s certainly what they’d call “lush” up our way,’ she agreed, concentrating on the box of chocolates her mother had just opened. ‘But there’s an unbelievably gorgeous queue of New York women who think so, too. Hmm, is this tiramisu?’

‘Coralie,
this
is your way, this is where you’re from, remember?’ Her mother frowned, poring over the illustrated guide to the contents.

As if she could forget! Even the drive back from the airport had raised ghosts. Sitting in the back seat, she was glad that her parents had been chatting about nothing in particular when they passed the Old Mill. Taking the project there had seemed such an attractive option; a young company, lovely offices in a beautiful riverside setting and located close to home so that she’d have more time to catch up with her friends. At the time she’d congratulated herself on a lucky break, but how she wished she’d turned it down.

‘Fund-raising exercise, you said. I suppose you were the best person to talk to him in New York given your managerial skills,’ said Susan, abandoning progeny for posterity in the apparent hope of distinguishing the family history by any means.

Coralie shifted uneasily. She hadn’t exactly lied about why she was going to New York, she’d just been sketchy about the precise details, knowing what a fuss her mother would make about her daughter being painted by a famous artist. But now there would be no portrait anyway, so it didn’t matter.

‘It must have been good to think on your feet again. Don’t you miss using your brain?’

‘Don’t worry about my brain, Mum, it’s fine.’ It was just her heart that wasn’t doing too well. ‘I’ve been thinking it over and I’m seriously thinking about outsourcing some lines to a contract manufacturer, so I can expand the business. I know it’s early days, but it looks as if the demand’s there, so I ought to think about how best to keep pace with it.’

‘Bugger!’ Susan raised a hand to one cheek. ‘That was toffee not coffee. I’ll have to watch my crowns. Look, wasn’t the whole point of this exercise for you to do something less stressful? I mean, you’ve got a perfectly good career waiting for you here, if you’re bored. Oh, Coralie,’ she went on with a sigh that was only slightly muffled by the toffee, ‘please don’t tell me you’re still wasting your time on that dreadful man! It just makes me feel so angry. I feel as if we’re all paying for what he did. When I think of you, burying yourself away in the back of beyond …’

Her pained expression was replaced by a look of concentration as she steered the toffee past her crowns. Coralie quickly picked up the iPad to take advantage of the lull. ‘This is brilliant,’ she enthused, ‘the images are so sharp and clear!’

‘Aren’t they just?’ Her mother leaned in, enveloping her with the warm, woody scent of Estée Lauder’s Knowing. ‘Oh! Why don’t you show me something from Gethin Lewis’s exhibition?’

Coralie could think of many reasons why, nevertheless a small, masochistic part of her wanted to remind herself of everything she’d walked away from. ‘Hmm, okay.’ She tapped in a search, ‘Pamala Gray Gallery … Chicago … Paris … ah, here we are … New York.’

‘Very swish!
Did
Lady Gaga turn up?’

‘If she did, it was after I’d gone,’ Coralie replied, clicking on the list of current exhibitions. ‘That’s strange, it’s not listed. I wonder why?’ She quickly keyed in another search, which produced a flurry of reviews, and clicked on the
New York Times
.

In New York Gethin was engaging in his new favourite pastime of sprawling on the sofa. He hit the remote control and watched the TV adverts; each and every one of them a warning of the possible woe betiding any American omitting to take out insurance. Here’s granny lying on the floor with no one to hear her cries, here’s the charred remains of your house, here’s your sick pet. Health? Man, that was another minefield! Don’t buy the cheap tablets or your cholesterol will kill you, your asthma will choke you, your heart will fail. In comparison, a little thing like his exhibition bombing didn’t seem so bad.

‘Derivative,’ had been one of the observations. ‘More originality in a painting-by-numbers kit.’ From the same critics who not so long ago had been declaring his work to be ‘dynamic, well-composed with an agreeable tension’. Who did these people think they were? Yet, deep down, he couldn’t help feeling he’d been found out. By sticking to the tried-and-tested formula he’d painted himself into a dead end. If he’d reached the point when he could barely be bothered to pick up a brush, why should anyone else care?

In Penmorfa, the morning air was still cool as Kitty, panting with the effort, hefted another box into Alys’s capacious Berlingo. Letting it go with some relief, she was just gathering strength to push it into a better position when someone asked her what she thought she was doing. She steadied herself with a deep breath before turning round. Adam’s arms were folded across his broad chest and there was concern in his sea-green eyes. Kitty gave an inward sigh. He looked better in an old tee shirt, tatty jeans and boots than most men did when they were dressed up; no wonder so many female visitors to the garden centre were always finding reasons to get him to carry stuff to their car.

‘I’ve taken a stall at a wedding fair at Llandrindod Wells,’ she told him, resting on the boot for a second to let her swimming head settle. ‘I’d like to spread the word about my low-cost wedding styling solutions to a few more brides-to-be and show them the kind of themes I can offer.’

‘Jesus, Kitty, that’s nearly a hundred miles away! Does Alys know what you’re up to?’

‘Mam’s doing Hall Management Committee stuff again today and I can’t be bothered to chase after Dad. He’s a miserable so-and-so lately, always moaning about his back but never doing anything about it. I don’t know how Mam puts up with him.’ She stood up and closed the tailgate with some effort.

‘Kitty!’ He stood in front of her and rested his fingertips on her shoulders, ensuring he had her attention. ‘You really shouldn’t be doing that journey on your own. Not at this stage of the game. You know what that road’s like through the mountains. What happens if something goes wrong?’

‘I’ll call the AA.’ She shrugged, looking away.

He shook her shoulders gently. ‘You know I wasn’t talking about the sodding car!’

Kitty reached up and placed her hands on top of his. ‘Don’t try to stop me,’ she said softly. ‘Can’t you see, I have to get used to coping on my own? I have to learn to be a grown-up now for this one’s sake,’ she added, nodding at her stomach. ‘There are all kinds of reasons why I could skip this fair today. It would be so much easier to find an excuse and not go, but where’s that going to get me? Yes, I am nervous about the drive and I’m worried that the fair will be a complete waste of time and money, but I’ll never know what I can do until I try.’

Adam pulled her closer and rested his chin lightly on her head. ‘Let me come with you. I just want to see you get there and back in one piece.’

For a few moments she let herself enjoy the comfort of being in his strong arms, being held against his chest and breathing in the warm, masculine scent of him, then she wriggled out his grasp and put on a brave smile. ‘Thank you, but it won’t help me in the long run. Besides,’ she grinned up at him, ‘you’ve got work to do. Mam’s sloped off, Dad’s nowhere to be found. Someone’s got to keep this place going.’

Adam gave her a resigned smile, showing his chipped front tooth. Funny how all the scuffs and imperfections in his face only gave it more character. ‘Okay, but just let me give the car a quick once over before you set off.’

She stood back and watched whilst he refilled the washer bottles and checked the oil. ‘The tyres look all right for now too, although I think the front two will need replacing before long. How’s the spare?’

‘Adam!’ She pushed him away gently. ‘At this rate, the fair’ll be over before I get there!’

She eased herself into the driver’s seat and wound down the window. ‘Don’t look so worried!’ She blew him a kiss then set off, watching him in the rear window until he was out of sight, trying not to think about how much more she would enjoy the day if he was at her side.

Gethin dragged a hand across his face as the weatherman came on with a warning about falling temperatures. Perhaps if he’d been less preoccupied thinking about Coralie, he might have felt the winds of change blowing across his reception, the cluster of critics gathering like storm clouds to rain on his parade. The reviews had been so toxic that the gallery might just as well have been at the centre of an exclusion zone it was so empty.

Pamala Gray, minimising the risk from fall-out, had taken the unprecedented step of closing the exhibition, bringing in a newly trendy Dutch artist specialising in avant-garde sculptures as a hurried replacement. Gethin had always brushed aside any suggestions that in New York, at least, the world of art and fashion was inextricably linked. Easy to do when everyone was scrambling for a piece of him, but what else would explain why he’d fallen so dramatically out of favour when all he’d done was to produce more of the same?

And what would Coralie say? Not that she could think much worse of him. He couldn’t believe how much he missed her; his world, which was already black and white without her, had now faded to a depressing shade of grey.

Wasn’t this exactly why it had been such a bad idea to get involved with a girl from Penmorfa? Now he couldn’t even walk round New York without looking for her. The city streets were full of people but seemed empty without her, and every famous landmark and tourist postcard only served to taunt him about what he’d lost. He missed her mad clothes, the coils of chestnut hair, her laughter and, even though she’d only been there for one night, he sure as hell missed the sweet warmth of her in his bed.

Yep, it was payback time all round. The sting in the tail for thinking he could get away with taking what he wanted and giving the bare minimum in return was the unpleasant discovery that for all his efforts to escape his fate, he was no better than the man he least wanted to become. Utterly defeated, he buried his head in his hands, wondering what he could possibly do that wouldn’t have Coralie thinking he was a desperate man, just trying to impress her because he’d fallen on hard times. And then a voice on the TV broke through to him.

‘Prices for Gethin Lewis peaked last year,’ some clever dick so-called art consultant was telling the camera as news of his humiliation reached the screen. ‘So anyone thinking of buying his work as an investment would be wise to place their money elsewhere. It’s not that the big money buyers aren’t there – pre-sales estimates for a series of landscapes by Lewis’s compatriot, Sheri William, were smashed by collectors. Of course, Lewis remains very popular with the public, reprints of his most famous painting
Last Samba before Sunset
are said to have made him a fortune, but the selective buyer is now looking elsewhere.’

‘Oh, man!’ What was any painting of his worth to the people of Penmorfa now? Any dealer or collector watching the press releases and seeing that his exhibition had been closed prematurely would be worried that he had lost impact in the art world and be nervous about his work. Mair and Delyth had always wanted to wipe the floor with him, and a floor sander would probably be all they could afford out of the auction proceedings to reinstate their precious community centre. But was it too late for him to do something about it?