Читать книгу All the Little Lies - Chris Curran - Страница 11

Stella had delivered two paintings to the Houghton Gallery. Holding them at arm’s length, as if they were grubby or possibly dangerous, the glamorous receptionist had put them into a cupboard behind her desk and said Mr Ballantyne would call when he’d had a chance to see them. It was clear she didn’t expect the news to be positive.

That was two days ago and, although Maggie told her she was stupid to be downcast, she kept expecting a request to remove her rubbish from the premises.

She had spent the morning at the Tate Gallery. She loved the place and at the moment they had a small exhibition of a group of artists who worked in the East End of London during the 1930s. One of them, George Grafton, was her favourite. Many of his paintings had been destroyed in the 1941 air raid in which he died: but some of his drawings had survived and she found copying them oddly soothing. She’d even started doing one or two of her own in his style. They were quite different from her usual stuff, but that was part of the pleasure. Made it more like playing than work.

It was a lovely afternoon and when she walked down the steps from the gallery there was the first hint of spring in the air. The Thames across the road glittered; each ripple sparkling as it caught the sunlight.

When she opened the front door, calling to Maggie as she did so, Ben waltzed out of the living room. Maggie was behind him looking furious, and Stella headed towards the stairs. Best to make herself scarce.

But Ben was looking at her with a broad smile. ‘Ah, just the girl I want to see.’

She stopped and glanced at Maggie, but she muttered something and went into the kitchen closing the door behind her.

Ben said, ‘David hasn’t stopped raving about your work for two days. Wants to make it the centre of the exhibition. If he has anything to do with it you’re going to be a star.’

Stella stopped halfway up the stairs. After what seemed an age she managed to say, ‘Thank you. That’s wonderful.’

Ben was rubbing his hands together. ‘Now, I’ve got the car outside and Maggie tells me you have more work complete. So what do you say we load the boot and take it to the gallery now?’ He bounded up past her, holding out his hand to take her drawing folder from her.

She hadn’t made her bed this morning and there were clothes scattered on the floor and dirty cups on the bedside table and the window ledge.

With her folder under his arm, Ben headed straight for the picture of her nan on the easel, touching it with a fingertip to check it was dry. ‘Right, we’ll take this one and …’ He turned to the canvases propped up by the wall. ‘This and this and, yes, this too.’

In less than ten minutes they had carried them out to his car.

As she left the house she called, ‘Goodbye,’ to Maggie. There was no reply.