pulled her phone out of her pocket. ‘This is more photo album than phone anyway. I must have hundreds of pictures of Dylan.’ She beamed as she cradled the screen and scrolled. ‘There’s a brilliant one from last week here somewhere. I’ll show you …’
‘No. You don’t have to.’ He held up a hand and shook his head.
Her smile faded. ‘Oh. ’Kay.’ She put her phone back in her pocket and spun away from him, giving the top of the card catalogue a light pat before returning to her inspection of the building.
Charlie frowned. Had he been rude? He didn’t want to offend her, but nor did he want to extend her visit by spending hours looking at photos of her kid.
Charlie sighed, turned the phone to silent and read the message.
Is she there? How’s it going?
Bloody Lauren and her meddling. It must be the middle of the night in Auckland, but apparently nothing, not even thousands of miles, could stop his big sister sticking her big nose into his business. He huffed and tapped his phone against his chin, pondering how to deal with the female conspiracy moving against him. Of his various options, his first instinct seemed best: be civil to this alleged miracle worker while saying as little as possible. Hopefully she would take the hint and leave sooner rather than later.
Becky was still strolling about, pausing occasionally to glance upwards and tuck dark blonde wisps behind her ears. The rest of her fine, straight hair was drawn back in a short ponytail so loose Charlie half expected it to slip free of the black band resting against her nape. As she turned into the light from the windows above the mezzanine, he studied her high forehead, even brows and straight nose. Taken together with her bright hooded eyes and slightly prominent chin, she reminded him of one of Botticelli’s subjects. A classic beauty, just not in this century. Her clothes were a good choice for her shape too. A fitted blouse in striking French ultramarine flattered her proportions and kept drawing his gaze away from her black trousers, which gave definition to her long, powerful legs.
Her wide eyes and parted lips suggested she was suitably dazzled by his sanctuary, although this gave him little satisfaction. As she strolled over to the bank of grey metal shelving and perused his jumble of folders, books and magazines, he worried she was making herself too much at home. Besides, he would have preferred to show off an active, chaotic space featuring work in progress. Instead, all his benches and trolleys were tucked against the walls and the painting supplies they carried had been used little recently.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
Becky glanced up from the books. ‘It’s … Wow!’ She winced. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just so bright and big.’ This time she cringed. ‘Again. I’m sorry. I think I’m in shock. I’m usually fairly articulate. Honest.’
He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Don’t worry. You’re right. It’s a large space.’
‘And warm, although so white.’
‘Because it’s not white.’
‘Is this one of those things where a bridal dress isn’t white, it’s ivory or eggshell?’
‘Exactly. This is a warmer white than pure brilliant white. And the wood floors and the underfloor heating stop it feeling cold.’
‘What are these?’ She pointed to the left where small canvases covered the wall.
‘They’re some things for my classes. Sometimes I ask students to make copies. It’s a way to understand and practise different techniques.’
‘And these are all yours?’
He nodded. He wasn’t proud of them, but they were passable. ‘Do you recognise any of them?’
‘I think you can be sure nearly everyone would recognise these.’ She swept her hand past replicas of some of the most famous paintings in the world, including The Last Supper and Guernica.
‘In that case, do you have any favourites?’
She scanned the whole collection. ‘The two by Monet. I like the Impressionists and especially the water lilies series. I like the colours and they’re peaceful.’
Charlie nodded again. Another honest answer. Her tastes were predictably mainstream. And she wouldn’t win any awards for art criticism. How could this woman revive his career when she knew less about art than the elderly ladies in his evening classes?
His phone vibrated. Another message from Lauren.
She’s there now, isn’t she?! What do you think?
Charlie was halfway through composing a reply when Becky, who had returned her attention to the gallery of copies, said, ‘Now this isn’t a copy, is it?’ She pointed to a pencil portrait of a girl with