Читать книгу Sunshine After the Rain: a feel good, laugh-out-loud romance - Daisy James - Страница 9

Chapter Two

‘Hi, Sam,’ cooed Pippa, as she let their boss’s son in to the gallery. ‘We weren’t expecting you until later.’

‘I thought I’d pop in to wish you luck, and to take a quick peek at what the famous Jaxx Benson is offering his adoring fans by way of artistic talent. Don’t worry, I’m not staying long. Wouldn’t want my presence to wind Dad up on such an auspicious occasion, but I’ll be back when the gallery closes. There’s something I need to talk to him about after the show, and a hint from the wise – you might want to make yourselves scarce. If I know Dad at all, I’m not expecting an enthusiastic reception. How’s everything looking?’

‘Fabulous! Especially now that the pièce de résistance has arrived. Better late than never, although I’m not sure Evie would agree with me. That girl is seriously stressed out.’

‘What do you mean “better late than never”?’ asked Sam, slotting his hands into the pockets of his elegant dinner suit and flapping his elbows.

‘Prepare to be amazed!’ exclaimed Pippa, as Evie arrived back downstairs.

Whilst Pippa pointed out the new arrival, Evie stole a covert sweep of Sam Bradbury from under her lashes. Whenever Sam called in to the gallery to chat to her and Pippa and scrutinize the various exhibitions, he was usually dressed in his ‘starving artist’ uniform of faded jeans and washed-out rock band T-shirt liberally splattered with splodges of oil paint.

She knew he did it just to annoy his father who disapproved of his son’s adamant pursuit of his passion for painting instead of being crowned the next Lord Chief Justice. But, in honour of that evening’s exhibition, Sam had clearly reverted to type. His short blond hair had been professionally tamed into a trendy quiff and he wore a tailored dinner jacket, starched white collar, and a jaunty crimson bow tie.

Evie smiled to herself. For James’s sake she was pleased Sam had decided – for one night only – not to engage in his usual rebellious warfare with his father. She knew James had christened Sam the ‘wild child’ of the family and Sam seemed to do everything he could to live up to the badge of honour. Nevertheless, Evie had struggled to figure out why his father steadfastly continued to refuse to allow Sam to exhibit his own art at the family’s gallery. If Sam Bradbury, privileged and precocious heir of James Bradbury, couldn’t get a break in the art world, then what hope was there for her?

‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked, joining Sam and Pippa in front of the star of the show, taking a few moments to consider the subject matter with her artist’s eye. ‘Your professional opinion, please. Personally, I think it’s the best piece in the collection. It’s probably Jaxx’s most recent canvas judging by the darkness and despondency of the rest. Either that or it’s been “ghost-painted” by someone else!’

Unlike the canvases on either side, the last-minute substitution was lively and flamboyant – exactly what she had expected to see from the pop star-turned-painter. The juxtaposition between the cobalt and turquoise blues of the backdrop and the saffron and sap green of the foreground delivered a thump of joy to her soul, causing her emotions to scream a connection with the image. Its complex composition was an intensely woven poem of colours that pulled her into its embrace.

‘Well, I love it!’ declared Pippa, her eyes shining. ‘Hey, I’ve just had an amazing idea! What if Jaxx is the elusive street artist that everyone is talking about? Flex? You know, the guy who’s been painting the empty shop windows with those fabulous optical illusions?’

‘No one knows who it is, Pip, but I don’t think it’s Jaxx Benson.’ Evie laughed. ‘Anyway, what makes you think it’s a man? I happen to have it on good authority that they were painted by last year’s winner of the RCA Young Artist’s prize and that was a woman … and she’s called Martha Felicity Evans. Flex has to be her, don’t you think?’

‘I have to agree with Evie, I’m afraid, Pippa. You can’t compare any of the canvases hung on the walls in this room with what the street artist is aiming to do. Their art is a gift to the whole community, transforming ugly, disused retail premises into places of beauty for everyone to enjoy – free of charge.’

‘I loved the one that made it look like the store was a quaint, old-fashioned teashop crammed with people enjoying afternoon tea. It looked so real, like you could just push open the door and go inside and grab a cucumber sandwich and a cupcake. They’re even calling the artist – him or her – the new Banksy!’ said Pippa.

‘I don’t know why the press insist on labelling every street artist who chooses to maintain their anonymity the new Banksy. Why can’t they be individuals in their own right?’

Pippa rolled her eyes at Evie and turned back to the canvas in front of them. ‘What do you think, Sam?’

Sam folded his arms across his chest, his pewter eyes narrowing as he too studied the work of art. The lemony fragrance of his aftershave floated in the air between them and Evie suddenly wondered why he wasn’t accompanied by one of his many attractive female friends. Almost every time he came into the gallery, a different girl accompanied him, each of whom could have graced the cover of Vogue but who rarely, if ever, showed any interest in the artwork that was on display.

‘I think it’s …’ began Sam, tipping his head to one side and rubbing his thumb and forefinger on the point of his chin.

‘Hey, why are you all just standing around like guests at a royal garden party?’ demanded James Bradbury, striding into his eponymous gallery, his Italian leather loafers squeaking on the varnished parquet flooring. ‘There’s already a long queue outside. Everyone, get into your positions please! I’m going to cut the ribbon and announce this exhibition open.’

‘Awesome!’ Pippa clapped her hands and displayed her perfect teeth in such evident pleasure that she could have been a model for a toothpaste commercial.

When she had dashed off in James’s wake, Sam leaned forward to whisper in Evie’s ear. ‘Once again, it seems you’ve escaped my interrogation as to why you choose to curate other artists’ exhibitions rather than organizing your own. I know you are much too discreet to reveal what you truly think of these canvases, but I’m sure your opinion is the same as mine. Jaxx Benson has little talent. Next time I see you I’m expecting a full-blown inventory of the progress you’ve made towards fulfilling your own dreams instead of delivering on others’.’

A blast of hot indignation shot into Evie’s chest. How dare he accuse her of shelving her dreams as though she had a choice? Sam had no idea what it was like to have to work for a living. It was all right for him. He didn’t have to worry about landing the next big, juicy libel case, because he was secure in the knowledge that if he couldn’t pay his rent, there would always be room for him at the family home in Guildford.

‘Is that what you’re doing, Sam? Because last time I looked you were following in your father’s – and your brother’s – footsteps by providing the capital’s criminal fraternity with legal services. So why aren’t you focusing on your own passion to paint?’

‘Touché.’

Heat flooded her cheeks, but Evie managed to rein in her emotions, as she didn’t want to engage in a rerun of their habitual sniping contest before the Jaxx Benson exhibition even got under way. They both had their reasons – albeit very different ones – for putting their dreams on hold. She replaced her frown with a smile; after all Sam Bradbury was her boss’s son.

‘Why don’t you stay? It’s not just star-struck Fire of Fury fans with VIP tickets. We’re expecting quite a few journalists and art critics too.’

She watched Sam’s gaze follow his father’s ramrod-straight back as he strode towards the door to admit the waiting guests into his gallery, issuing staccato directions over his shoulder to Antoine and Pierre about keeping the guests’ drinks topped up.

‘Dad made it perfectly clear he doesn’t want me here. I had the misfortune to bump into him at my brother’s house last weekend. I had to endure yet another one of his lectures about his disappointment and frustration that I haven’t ditched my passion for creating art in favour of honing my networking skills – not to mention how well Ben’s doing as a tax barrister at his chambers. My brother thinks it’s funny, tells me to ignore him, but to be honest, Dad’s constant criticism is really starting to get to me.’

Evie glanced from Sam to James. Save for the smattering of grey hair at his temples, he was a carbon copy of his son. They both sported deep creases across their foreheads and a fathomless sadness in their silver-grey eyes. Whilst Sam’s reflected the same cause of pain, it was not as acute as his father’s. Evie hadn’t met Sam’s older brother, Benjamin, but she could hazard a guess that he too carried his grief with a heavy heart.

James Bradbury Art had been Esme Bradbury’s dream project, set up to show the artwork of young, fledgling artists as well as more established painters. She had displayed a wide spectrum of canvases – from realism to abstract, Old Masters to contemporary geniuses, home-grown talent to the internationally famous and everything in between. Sadly, she had enjoyed her dream for a measly five years before the evil scourge that was breast cancer had snatched her away from her family two years ago.

The Bradburys were still reeling from the shock. Benjamin had point-blank refused to set foot in the gallery, declaring that he couldn’t bear to come when his mother was no longer at the epicentre of its success. James had wanted to sell up straight away and retreat to his house in Guildford to nurse his agony away from the public eye, but Sam had persuaded him to keep it open as a monument to his mother’s talent for interspersing more serious, renowned artists, photographers, and sculptors with debut and avant-garde artists.

Once a year, the whole gallery was turned over to a local high school’s A-level students who dreamed of a career in the art world. The creator of the exhibit that garnered the most votes was given a stipend in Esme Bradbury’s name to see them through college or university, and any profits from the exhibition were split between the school and Cancer Research UK.

James had stipulated that if they were to keep the gallery open they would need a manager. Evie had been overjoyed to secure the job and she had been given free rein, with James only dropping by when he absolutely had to. However, in recent months, he had become increasingly irritated with the amount of time and effort the business stole from his already very busy schedule as a sought-after criminal defence barrister hoping to take silk.

‘You know, perhaps you’re right, Evie. I actually think Dad would be happier if I spent all my time defending tax dodgers like Ben does! Maybe I’ll grab my brushes and paint palette and join you in front of that bonfire of broken dreams. So, no thanks. If you don’t mind, I won’t take you up on your offer to stay for the opening. If you get a minute later, would you remind Dad that he’s promised to meet me here after the show?’

‘Sure.’

Evie watched Sam slip out of the side door without a backward glance at his father. She knew she was lucky to have parents who were incredibly supportive of whatever decisions she made. All they had ever wanted was for her to be happy and she struggled to understand why James refused to support his son’s desire to follow in his mother’s footsteps, consistently blocking all of Sam’s pleas to allow him to exhibit his work at Bradbury’s. However, whilst she was saddened by his stance, she had no intention of arguing Sam’s case. There was no way she was getting involved in family disagreements – she couldn’t afford to lose her job.

James wrenched open the front door and forced a smile on his handsome face – his palm outstretched, every inch the esteemed West End gallery owner. Evie knew he was performing the role under sufferance, utilizing acting skills more befitting of a West End theatre production, but then, wasn’t that one of the must-have attributes of a successful barrister?

‘Ladies and gentlemen, a very warm welcome to James Bradbury Art. Tonight we are honoured to be showcasing the debut exhibition of an emerging young artist, Jaxx Benson, entitled Twisted Infinity. Please indulge in a glass or two of champagne and take your time to linger and enjoy the paintings. I think you will agree with me that Mr Benson is a creative star in the ascendant. Evie Johnson, our knowledgeable gallery manager and the curator of the exhibit, is available to answer any questions you may have, as is her assistant Pippa Newton-Smith. Now, it gives me great pleasure to declare this exhibition open!’

There was a smattering of applause immediately interrupted by the inevitable enquiry.

‘Will Jaxx Benson be making a personal appearance?’ demanded a stout woman with magenta hair teased into spikes over her crown and sporting a pair of bejewelled spectacles on a string at her chest. Evie recognized her immediately as the editor of a specialist contemporary art magazine.

With great difficulty James managed to maintain his composure. He had been asked the same question many times since they had announced the exhibition and his patience was clearly wearing thin.

‘I’m afraid not, madam. This way please. Can I offer you a glass of champagne?’

Evie saw a flash of irritation in his expression as he welcomed the next VIP guest who asked the same question. She smiled to herself as she stepped forward to join the welcoming committee, just in time to see Sam disappear around the corner at the end of the street. A spasm of annoyance shot through her veins. Couldn’t he have stayed to help his father deflect these questions?

Within minutes the gallery was buzzing with activity as the privileged invitees studied the artwork and discussed its merits. Evie’s opening night jitters evaporated as the comments grew ever more complimentary and the little red dots more numerous.

‘It’s going really well, don’t you think?’ cooed Pippa, holding a glass of champagne aloft as she bent forward to whisper in Evie’s ear. ‘I just want to give you a heads-up, though. Avoid that guy in the yellow cravat studying the bronze. He’s just admitted to me that he’s the local bore. I mean, how sad is that!’

‘Who? Do you mean Jules Verbier, the celebrated art critic from Nice?’

‘That’s Jules Verbier?’

Evie burst into laughter, expelling the last vestiges of her anxiety. ‘Oh, Pippa, I do love you! He’s not the local bore as you so eloquently put it! He’s a locavore.’

‘A locavore? What’s that?’

‘Someone who only eats food that has been produced locally.’

‘Ah. Ooops!’

Still giggling, Evie slotted her arm through Pippa’s and together they made their way towards the canapés. She had just popped a tempura roll in her mouth when there was a loud agonized cry from the front door.

The whole room turned in unison to see who was causing the commotion, expecting to witness a ticketless Fires of Fury devotee being forcibly evicted from the gallery into the downpour beyond by the burly doormen.

But it wasn’t a disappointed fan.

There was a sharp, collective intake of breath as the audience realized that despite his vociferous denials, Jaxx Benson had decided to attend his exhibition after all. For a brief moment, shocked silence reigned until it was punctured by a shrill, anger-infused voice.

‘What the hell is that monstrosity doing in my exhibition?’ screamed Jaxx, his handsome, instantly recognizable face devoid of its usual colour, his lips twisted in anger.

Evie followed the line of his index finger to the magnificent canvas that hung centre-stage and was attracting the most accolades. She could have sold it ten times over, despite it being priced at quadruple the cost of the others.

‘It’s a bloody insult! What exactly is going on here? Wasn’t my art good enough for you upper-class, pompous, so-called art aficionados? I’m getting my lawyers onto this. By the time I’ve finished, James Bradbury Art will be history!’

Evie exchanged a look of confusion and horror with Pippa. A slab of concrete took up residence in her chest and squashed the air from her lungs. She took a step towards Jaxx but James beat her to it.

‘Mr Benson, if you would follow me into my office, I will ensure the unfortunate error is rectified immediately.’

‘I demand that whoever is responsible for this slur on my artistic integrity be dealt with in the strongest way. Where is Evie Johnson? She’s the one who is supposedly in charge of my debut. How could she let this catastrophe happen? The buck has to stop with her.’ Jaxx, his bleached blond eyebrows raised in question, swung his gaze around the silent gallery seeking her out.

At Jaxx’s insistence, every communication in the lead-up to the opening night had been dealt with over the telephone or via email, but as the avid audience’s eyes swung in unison towards Evie he was able to march straight over to where she was standing, his finger jabbing at her chest like a missile.

Heat flooded her body and surged upwards to her cheeks until she was aflame with mortification. It was starting to dawn on her what had happened, but she had no idea how or why.

‘How dare you humiliate me like this? Who does that painting belong to? Why have you substituted it for “Muswell Musings”? Wasn’t it good enough for you? Are you an art critic in your spare time? Or has it been painted by one of your friends, maybe? This is totally unacceptable. It’s …’

Fortunately, James succeeded in interrupting his monologue of ardent objection and guided the livid rock star, and his gobsmacked agent, into his office at the rear of the gallery and closed the door.

The all-consuming silence suddenly broke into a cacophony of excited gossip.