Read Online A Trick of the Mind by Penny Hancock - Free Book Online
Authors: Penny Hancock
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menace beneath the beauty. I had used the same blues and silvers Whistler employed, and it was a painting I was quietly proud of.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Valerie asked.
‘Sure,’ the man said. ‘And perhaps you could help, we were wondering about the starting price of this.’
‘This is Ellie, the artist. I’ll leave you to chat while I fetch the list,’ Valerie said.
‘How are you?’ He was grey-haired, but his skin was smooth. He seemed to shimmer as if everything he wore was made of the best-quality silk in that indeterminate shade of grey that
speaks of exquisite taste. ‘So
you’re
the artist. Wow! We were admiring this piece.’
The woman, who had a pleasantly lined face, pink lipstick, and twinkling turquoise eyes, took my hand. ‘You’re a very talented young woman,’ she said. ‘We’ve picked
you out. My husband runs a gallery in his restaurant in New York. We’d like to have a chat with you sometime, could we have your card?’
‘Ellie?’
Valerie had come back with the price list, gave me an almost imperceptible nod, and moved away to greet another gaggle of well-dressed people who had just arrived.
‘We’ll put in a bid for this. But we wondered whether you took commissions.’
The man flipped a card out of a calf leather wallet and put it into my hand. ‘Here are my contact details.’
I groped in my bag for my diary, where I kept cards like his. It wasn’t there. I slipped it into my purse instead.
‘We’re looking for something for a restaurant in the Meatpacking District, a fish place. Something similar to this, but it must be six feet by four. Are you interested? We need it by
August.’
‘Of course.’ Trying to suppress the rising excitement I really felt.
‘I’ll call you to discuss details. Give me your cell number.’
‘What did he say?’ It was Chiara, when the man and his wife had moved away.
‘He’s buying the big oil,’ I said. ‘And they commission work.’
She beamed at me and I allowed myself to beam back.
‘Bloody hell! Exciting! I knew you’d do it! At last the world is recognising your true talent.’
‘What’s all this?’ said Louise.
‘Blimey!’ she said, when Chiara had filled her in. She held up her glass. ‘Guy! Liam, over here. Listen to this. That’s so fantastic for you, honey. I’m
thrilled.’
I smiled at her, and she looked pleased for me. She really did.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Liam had to leave after our kipper breakfast on Sunday morning, as he was doing the sound check for a gig in our local pub that night, and I was relieved that it meant Chiara
would be coming back in the car with me. She would be my other pair of eyes, like a second pilot, ensuring I wasn’t distracted. A chaperone to make sure I didn’t get obsessed with some
daft idea that I’d hit someone on the road!
Last night my friends had stayed up late.
Liam had got the fresh fish he’d talked about the night before from one of the fishing huts – sea bass – and wanted to do it in a salt crust as he’d seen all the TV chefs
doing, and Guy offered to help, so we women sat by the wood-burner with bottles of wine and talked. It was like old times – in our first year when we’d shared a student flat at art
college. One of those memorable evenings when everything seemed to slot into place. Louise told us the whole tale of how she’d met Guy trekking in the outback, and then we all admired
Chiara’s tiny bump and talked about names for her baby. And my friends wanted to know all about Aunty May, about my special relationship with her and why she’d left me her house.
‘We sort of bonded over painting,’ I told them. ‘My mother was working, or on research trips, or writing retreats, drumming up plots for her romantic fiction. Before she and my
dad split up, he would be working at the museum, and so they would send us down to Aunty May’s in the holidays.’
As I sat and related those holidays to my friends I could actually feel my
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Valerie asked.
‘Sure,’ the man said. ‘And perhaps you could help, we were wondering about the starting price of this.’
‘This is Ellie, the artist. I’ll leave you to chat while I fetch the list,’ Valerie said.
‘How are you?’ He was grey-haired, but his skin was smooth. He seemed to shimmer as if everything he wore was made of the best-quality silk in that indeterminate shade of grey that
speaks of exquisite taste. ‘So
you’re
the artist. Wow! We were admiring this piece.’
The woman, who had a pleasantly lined face, pink lipstick, and twinkling turquoise eyes, took my hand. ‘You’re a very talented young woman,’ she said. ‘We’ve picked
you out. My husband runs a gallery in his restaurant in New York. We’d like to have a chat with you sometime, could we have your card?’
‘Ellie?’
Valerie had come back with the price list, gave me an almost imperceptible nod, and moved away to greet another gaggle of well-dressed people who had just arrived.
‘We’ll put in a bid for this. But we wondered whether you took commissions.’
The man flipped a card out of a calf leather wallet and put it into my hand. ‘Here are my contact details.’
I groped in my bag for my diary, where I kept cards like his. It wasn’t there. I slipped it into my purse instead.
‘We’re looking for something for a restaurant in the Meatpacking District, a fish place. Something similar to this, but it must be six feet by four. Are you interested? We need it by
August.’
‘Of course.’ Trying to suppress the rising excitement I really felt.
‘I’ll call you to discuss details. Give me your cell number.’
‘What did he say?’ It was Chiara, when the man and his wife had moved away.
‘He’s buying the big oil,’ I said. ‘And they commission work.’
She beamed at me and I allowed myself to beam back.
‘Bloody hell! Exciting! I knew you’d do it! At last the world is recognising your true talent.’
‘What’s all this?’ said Louise.
‘Blimey!’ she said, when Chiara had filled her in. She held up her glass. ‘Guy! Liam, over here. Listen to this. That’s so fantastic for you, honey. I’m
thrilled.’
I smiled at her, and she looked pleased for me. She really did.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Liam had to leave after our kipper breakfast on Sunday morning, as he was doing the sound check for a gig in our local pub that night, and I was relieved that it meant Chiara
would be coming back in the car with me. She would be my other pair of eyes, like a second pilot, ensuring I wasn’t distracted. A chaperone to make sure I didn’t get obsessed with some
daft idea that I’d hit someone on the road!
Last night my friends had stayed up late.
Liam had got the fresh fish he’d talked about the night before from one of the fishing huts – sea bass – and wanted to do it in a salt crust as he’d seen all the TV chefs
doing, and Guy offered to help, so we women sat by the wood-burner with bottles of wine and talked. It was like old times – in our first year when we’d shared a student flat at art
college. One of those memorable evenings when everything seemed to slot into place. Louise told us the whole tale of how she’d met Guy trekking in the outback, and then we all admired
Chiara’s tiny bump and talked about names for her baby. And my friends wanted to know all about Aunty May, about my special relationship with her and why she’d left me her house.
‘We sort of bonded over painting,’ I told them. ‘My mother was working, or on research trips, or writing retreats, drumming up plots for her romantic fiction. Before she and my
dad split up, he would be working at the museum, and so they would send us down to Aunty May’s in the holidays.’
As I sat and related those holidays to my friends I could actually feel my
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