painting and it didn’t sell. And it didn’t get a mention in the reviews either. Although compared to that’—she jabbed at the magazine—‘I think I’d prefer to be ignored. Read the last sentence of that paragraph.’
Becky dragged her finger down the page and read aloud, ‘While the reinvigorated Compton region continues to thrive and sparkle, the increasingly insipid work of its current artist-in-residence appears to have doomed him to obscurity.’
‘And now that’s in Dad’s head. Or part of it. I don’t think he read the full article.’ Phoebe shuffled to the edge of the bed and dropped her feet to the floor. ‘I mean, he was pretty pissed off when he saw they gave his age as fifty-four in the opening line.’
‘Ouch.’ Becky cringed in sympathy. According to Lauren, her brother wasn’t coping well with the idea of turning fifty the following year. With her own fortieth birthday approaching more swiftly than she would have liked, Becky could imagine the pain of being saddled with five unwelcome extra years.
‘I know, right?’ Phoebe flicked her hair again. ‘I hoped he wouldn’t see the worst bits. But the local press picked up on them and we get the paper delivered …’ She scowled and, for a moment, the look in her eyes was so fierce Becky was certain those responsible for writing and printing the article should fear for their lives.
‘But anyone who knows Dad will know they’ve twisted everything.’ She got to her feet. ‘Come with me. There’s something you should have.’
Becky trailed Phoebe down to the study, marvelling again at how fast the girl moved on such spindly legs. As the teenager checked her father remained outside and began to scour the bookshelves, Becky wondered if Lauren’s concerns about whether her niece was eating properly were well founded.
The décor of the room further emphasised the fragility of the teenager’s frame. Open-mouthed, Becky took in the pair of open-fronted bookcases framing the fireplace and the other set covering the opposite wall. The custom-made shelving, in rich golden oak, stood on carved plinths and heaved with books. And Becky hadn’t thought it possible to be any more jealous of Charlie’s home.
‘Here it is!’ Phoebe prised a book off a shelf by the hearth and offered it to Becky.
Becky read from the cover, ‘John Charles Handren by Melanie Bradley.’
‘It came out when I was eight. That was when Dad was about as big as he got.’
‘Your mum literally wrote the book on your dad?’
‘Mum and Dad met because she did an article on him for the student newspaper. Later she worked as an arts correspondent. She covered different shows and wrote exhibition catalogues too. Take it, it might help.’
‘Thanks,’ Becky said, cradling the book. She stroked the cover, preparing to broach what was often the most sensitive aspect of a potential client’s situation: money. Lauren’s frustration with her brother had been clear when explaining her brother’s lack of concern that his meagre teaching salary would barely cover the bills once his dwindling savings ran dry. His paintings had always sold, leaving him free to focus on his art and forget about the money it generated.
She cleared her throat. ‘Sorry, I have to ask: your aunt said there might be some money worries?’
Phoebe nibbled her nails. ‘This place is almost paid off and his teaching brings in a bit, but for the last few years we’ve been living off savings. I’m going to uni soon and he wants to cover my tuition and living costs. If I can’t talk him out of it and he doesn’t start painting pieces people want to buy, he might have to sell the house.’
Phoebe’s voice faltered and her eyes glistened. ‘My parents fell in love with this place. I was born here. His studio would get converted into flats or torn down.’ She sniffed, crossed her arms and shivered. ‘Things may be bad now, but that would be the end. He’d never get over it.’
Becky sidled over to the large oak desk under the window and whipped a tissue from the box. ‘Here,’ she said, offering the tissue to Phoebe as the first tears fell onto the girl’s freckled cheeks.
Becky perched on the arm of the sofa and tried to appear reassuring as Phoebe mumbled a thank you and blotted away her tears. She was doing her best to keep her confident façade in place, but sitting up straight and fighting the urge to chew her bottom lip were becoming painful. As much as she needed the work,