not sure about that Morgan. Great body, but a bit of a cold fish. Not my type at all, Karen.”
Karen didn ’t suppose that Morgan would be even remotely interested in Nick but refrained from saying so. But was she Adam’s type? From the little she knew of Adam, Morgan seemed unlikely to appeal to him. She was obviously very attractive physically and possibly improved on getting to know her, but it wasn’t any skin off her nose if he went out with her. She felt annoyed with herself for feeling ashamed to be seen with Nick, he was a perfectly decent person, she just didn’t want Adam to think that she was interested in Nick at all. It astonished her how much it mattered to her. Adam’s opinion had suddenly become a little too important for comfort.
She didn’t need to be on this kind of emotional roller coaster, especially now that she was working towards such an important show. Getting tied up with men was just a lot of hassle and a sure fire way of wasting her talent. Catch her spending her life cleaning ovens and changing nappies, no way! After what seemed like an eternity, it was finally eight o’clock and time to close the gallery. Nick had introduced Karen to all the artists and many of the guests but she had found it hard to concentrate on the chitchat, so distracted had she been by Adam’s appearance.
Karen wanted to go straight home and get into a hot bath and mull over her mixed up thoughts about Adam but there was no escaping the well-meant hospitality of Nick and his family. Indeed, she soon found herself responding to their cheerful friendliness. Martha Goodwin, the conceptual painter, turned out to be a thoroughly nice, unassuming dark-haired messily dressed woman of Karen’s own age. Karen chatted happily with her in the intimate bar of the Hussar about the problems of cold and draughty studios while they waited for Penny to arrive. They found, after some discussion of life on a diet of baked potatoes, that the problems of supporting oneself as an artist were the same in both the country and the city.
When Penny arrived, breathless and looking a little tired, they were seated at a long table overlooking the waterfront. Karen found herself sandwiched between Nick and Geoffrey, which was rather a shame as she was enjoying commiserating with Martha. The menu had a small number of choices which Karen thought was a good sign as it probably meant the food was freshly cooked and not freshly unfrozen.
They all decided on Hortebagy pancakes to start, followed by goulash and green salad. Bottles of red wine and sparkling water were brought round by the two young waiters who were clearly not Hungarian, but Polish seemed close enough. Nick informed Karen that the restaurant was owned by a Hungarian chef who had married a Penzance girl on holiday to Budapest. She realised he really did know everyone in West Cornwall and when he shed his work persona he was quite an amusing gossip.
Geoffrey talked to the woman on his other side. Karen had met here briefly at the gallery and gathered she was a wealthy widow with financial interests in the gallery. Nick hinted that the woman might purchase a painting from Karen if she played her cards right, but Karen really didn’t like to force herself on strangers, wealthy art lovers or otherwise.
The tiny golden pancakes arrived, islands in a sea of tangy paprika sauce and they were delicious. Karen wished she was having double starters instead of goulash which was, after all, only a fancy name for stew.
“I’m glad to see you have a healthy appetite Karen,” said Nick slyly as Karen mopped up the last of the sauce on her plate with a crust of bread. She’d got used to his overuse of her name.
“ Mmm,” said Karen, “They were yummy. I’m not a shrinking violet when it comes to food. I had a friend at college who only ever ordered salad when she went out with men and then came home and stuffed herself on whatever was in the fridge. She was too embarrassed to
Karen didn ’t suppose that Morgan would be even remotely interested in Nick but refrained from saying so. But was she Adam’s type? From the little she knew of Adam, Morgan seemed unlikely to appeal to him. She was obviously very attractive physically and possibly improved on getting to know her, but it wasn’t any skin off her nose if he went out with her. She felt annoyed with herself for feeling ashamed to be seen with Nick, he was a perfectly decent person, she just didn’t want Adam to think that she was interested in Nick at all. It astonished her how much it mattered to her. Adam’s opinion had suddenly become a little too important for comfort.
She didn’t need to be on this kind of emotional roller coaster, especially now that she was working towards such an important show. Getting tied up with men was just a lot of hassle and a sure fire way of wasting her talent. Catch her spending her life cleaning ovens and changing nappies, no way! After what seemed like an eternity, it was finally eight o’clock and time to close the gallery. Nick had introduced Karen to all the artists and many of the guests but she had found it hard to concentrate on the chitchat, so distracted had she been by Adam’s appearance.
Karen wanted to go straight home and get into a hot bath and mull over her mixed up thoughts about Adam but there was no escaping the well-meant hospitality of Nick and his family. Indeed, she soon found herself responding to their cheerful friendliness. Martha Goodwin, the conceptual painter, turned out to be a thoroughly nice, unassuming dark-haired messily dressed woman of Karen’s own age. Karen chatted happily with her in the intimate bar of the Hussar about the problems of cold and draughty studios while they waited for Penny to arrive. They found, after some discussion of life on a diet of baked potatoes, that the problems of supporting oneself as an artist were the same in both the country and the city.
When Penny arrived, breathless and looking a little tired, they were seated at a long table overlooking the waterfront. Karen found herself sandwiched between Nick and Geoffrey, which was rather a shame as she was enjoying commiserating with Martha. The menu had a small number of choices which Karen thought was a good sign as it probably meant the food was freshly cooked and not freshly unfrozen.
They all decided on Hortebagy pancakes to start, followed by goulash and green salad. Bottles of red wine and sparkling water were brought round by the two young waiters who were clearly not Hungarian, but Polish seemed close enough. Nick informed Karen that the restaurant was owned by a Hungarian chef who had married a Penzance girl on holiday to Budapest. She realised he really did know everyone in West Cornwall and when he shed his work persona he was quite an amusing gossip.
Geoffrey talked to the woman on his other side. Karen had met here briefly at the gallery and gathered she was a wealthy widow with financial interests in the gallery. Nick hinted that the woman might purchase a painting from Karen if she played her cards right, but Karen really didn’t like to force herself on strangers, wealthy art lovers or otherwise.
The tiny golden pancakes arrived, islands in a sea of tangy paprika sauce and they were delicious. Karen wished she was having double starters instead of goulash which was, after all, only a fancy name for stew.
“I’m glad to see you have a healthy appetite Karen,” said Nick slyly as Karen mopped up the last of the sauce on her plate with a crust of bread. She’d got used to his overuse of her name.
“ Mmm,” said Karen, “They were yummy. I’m not a shrinking violet when it comes to food. I had a friend at college who only ever ordered salad when she went out with men and then came home and stuffed herself on whatever was in the fridge. She was too embarrassed to
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