at it, clicking casually through the pages for a few seconds before moving into something else. Whereas in reality he had pored over them for almost two hours. It wasn’t the glitziest of sites; indeed, it was a modest, home-built affair with no photos of Martha herself and only the briefest of introductions to her work, along with the gallery of paintings past and present. Potential buyers were requested to send an email. Each of the paintings was a delight, as individual and heart-warming as the one he was currently holding in his hands.
‘And…?’ She clutched her chest in mock terror. ‘I always get nervous when people say that. It’s like being back at school and your teacher saying he’s read your essay.’
‘Well, you get an A plus from me. I’m officially a fan of your work.’ Tony paused. ‘And I’d like to buy more. But this time you’d have to let me pay for them.’
‘Really?’ Martha looked delighted.
‘Really.’
‘Now I feel like a drug dealer. Giving you the first taste for free, making sure you come back for more.’ She searched his face. ‘Seriously, so long as you aren’t doing it just to be polite.’
Tony said gravely, ‘I’m very rarely polite.’
She smiled. ‘Which ones would you be interested in?’
‘The swimmers in Hampstead Ponds. The one with the fireworks on the Thames. Possibly the wedding party.’
‘Oh, sorry. That one’s sold.’
‘Oh.’
‘But there are plenty more at home.’ Martha brightened. ‘I haven’t got round yet to putting them on the website. They’re still waiting to be photographed.’
‘Right.’ He nodded slowly. ‘Well… I’d be really interested in seeing them.’
‘OK, great.’ She carried on painting.
What did that mean? Tony said, ‘So, will you put them on the website? Or is there some way I could get to see the actual paintings?’
Martha sat back and surveyed the half-finished scene on her easel. ‘Is that what you’d prefer?’
‘Yes.’
‘We can go now, if you like. If you have time.’
‘I have time.’ It was what he wanted, more than anything. ‘Are you sure this is OK?’
She smiled. ‘If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t say it.’
Together they packed away her things. He folded up the easel and the collapsible chair. Martha slid everything else into her canvas carrying case. They headed down the hill and she said, ‘It’s a mile and a half from here. Can you manage that on foot?’
And Tony, who never walked anywhere in LA because… well, because no one there ever did, said, ‘Are you calling me decrepit?’
***
She lived on Lanacre Road in Tufnell Park, in a terraced redbrick house with bright hanging baskets either side of the topaz-yellow front door.
‘Why doesn’t it surprise me that you have a yellow front door?’ said Tony.
‘Ah, I’m a lady of color.’ Martha opened the door. ‘It’s one of life’s joys. Come along in.’
He inhaled the light summery scent she was wearing as he followed her into the living room. Cleverly, she hadn’t overdone the color. Three walls were white, one was a vivid shade of peacock blue. The sofa was upholstered in bottle green velvet, and there were white rugs on the polished wooden floor. Bookshelves were crammed with books. There were paintings on the walls and bowls of flowers everywhere.
‘They’re not yours.’ He indicated the framed paintings.
‘I couldn’t hang my work in my own living room. That would be too weird.’ Pulling a face as she unloaded her canvas bag, Martha said, ‘Like a novelist choosing to read their own book.’
Tony glanced once more around the room. ‘You don’t have a TV?’
‘Not for years now. I listen to the radio. Sing, sometimes.’ She smiled. ‘Now, I can either cart everything down here or we can go upstairs to see my paintings.’
She genuinely had no idea who he was. Charmed by her manner, by her character… OK, by pretty much everything about her, Tony put down the folded easel and the mounted painting she had given him and said, ‘Let’s go up and have a look at them, shall we?’
The front bedroom had been converted into a studio. Here were the paintings, propped up against all four walls, some familiar to him from the website, others not. The sun streamed in through the windows, another easel was set up in the center of the room and paint-spattered white sheets covered the carpet.
‘They have to be there,’ Martha apologized, ‘because I’m such a mucky pup. Mind you don’t trip on them. Now, let me talk you through the paintings you haven’t seen before.’ Resting her hand on his arm