with them, all painted with different graffiti.
‘Well, they make wonderful canvases, plus I thought I’d highlight the plight of the missing umbrellas.’ He shrugs. ‘Everyone’s always losing their umbrellas. They’re left on the subway, in cafes, in bars. But where do they all end up?’ He looks at me beseechingly. ‘Maybe there’s some parallel universe where they’re all propping up a singles bar, meeting other singleton umbrellas, creating mismatched waterproof couples . . .’
‘Maybe.’ I nod. He really is kooky-for-Coco-Pops, and yet there’s something childlike in his imagination and enthusiasm that’s oddly appealing. Having said that, eccentric people always are appealing, aren’t they? Like your crazy aunt who’s in her eighties and wears feather boas and does the can-can. Actually, no, that’s just my crazy aunt.
‘So, what are you thinking?’
I turn back to see Artsy looking at me, his brow crinkled up, like a child waiting approval.
Unknown
‘I think the gallery would love to represent you,’ I say, a...
If he has, he still looks delighted. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’ I nod.
‘Huh.’ He smiles faintly to himself and seems to be turning the idea over in his head. I think he’s going to say something, anything, but then suddenly he’s sliding his goggles back down and holding out his hand. ‘Well, I must get back to my potatoes.’
Our meeting must be over.
‘Um . . . yes, of course.’ I smile, hiding my disappointment, and shake his hand. ‘It’s been great meeting you, and thank you for taking the time—’
Before I can finish he’s striding out of the barn. I hurry after him before I’m locked in. Trust me, I wouldn’t put it past him.
‘So, any last questions?’ Padlocking the barn door, he turns to me. ‘Speak now or for ever hold your peace.’ Twirling his hand above his head, he does a silly, formal bow.
I don’t move a muscle. There’s nothing Artsy could do or say now to surprise me.
Except . . .
‘Why all the secrecy?’ I blurt, before I can stop myself.
His expression clouds and a large furrow appears down his forehead and runs underneath the glass of his goggles.
Oh shit, me and my big mouth. Immediately I regret my question. What on earth did I go and say that for? And just as it was going so well. Feeling a stab of panic, I try doing what I always do when I regret saying something, and that’s say even more. ‘I mean, no one even knows your real name.’
When really I should just shut the f*** up.
‘Do you ask Sting his real name?’ he demands. ‘Or Madonna?’
‘Actually, Madonna is her real name,’ I can’t help pointing out.
‘It is?’ Surprise flashes across his face, followed by one of his handsome smiles. ‘Well, in that case I’ll let you in on a secret. It’s actually really embarrassing . . .’ And pressing his bushy beard against my face, he whispers it in my ear.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
‘His name’s Harold!’
An hour later I’m in a café in town making a frantic call to Robyn.
‘Lucy?’ She sounds disorientated. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Did you hear what I just said?’ Ever since Artsy told me his real name, I’ve been desperate to get hold of Robyn to tell her the news, but the signal is so sketchy on the island that it’s only now, back in town, that I’ve finally got reception.
‘Um, sorry . . . say that again.’
‘The artist who I’ve come to see in Martha’s Vineyard,’ I cry down the phone. ‘You’re never going to believe this, but his name’s Harold!’
Robyn takes a breath. ‘You met someone called Harold?’ she whispers.
OK, so I’m slightly breaking the confidentiality agreement.
‘But it’s a secret,’ I add quickly. I was always useless at keeping secrets. By their very nature, as soon as you know one, you have to tell someone. But this is more than just a secret, I think, in justification. This is her destiny. This is Harold!
God, I’m getting as bad as she is.
‘What does he look like?’ she asks quietly.
‘Tall, dark, handsome . . .’ I trail off. ‘Well, he would be if he shaved off the big bushy beard and he wore some different clothes, but I’m sure you can sort that out.’
There’s silence on the other end of the line.
‘Robyn? Are you there?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’ She sounds bizarrely calm. I thought she’d be whooping excitedly down the phone. But no, I’m the one whooping excitedly down the phone. I know, maybe she’s in shock, I suddenly realise.
‘Hey, are you OK?’ I feel a beat of concern. ‘I know