Escape to the Cotswolds. Natalie Kleinman
was not hopeless with children of any age. She had that amazing gift that made people warm to her no matter how many years they’d notched up, or indeed how few. It was true though that as far as teaching was concerned she preferred a bit of maturity. Her enthusiasm promoted confidence in everyone though and, in Holly’s case and after all she’d been through, a welcome faith in her own ability to take control of and make a success of her future. Emma really was the best of friends.
In between decorating and visiting the home that first week Holly made time to apply for permission for change of use for the extension. This was the most urgent thing on her agenda as in her opinion her whole future depended on it. Well aware it would take weeks if not months to come through it was important to set the wheels in motion as soon as possible. If they rejected her application she’d have to think again, except it didn’t bear thinking about because her heart was set on it.
‘I can’t see why they would turn you down,’ Emma had said one day when the two friends were talking on the phone. ‘All you have to do is look along the high street to see how many properties have done the same thing. Lots of them must have originally been houses rather than shops. And there isn’t a gallery as such at all. Yes, a few places sell pictures, mostly prints, along with their other gift and crafty things, but there’s nothing that is dedicated to original artwork so there would be no conflict.’
‘I know, Emma, but until I have official confirmation I can’t really move forward.’
‘Well, the decorating’s done and you don’t need to buy anything. I’ve never known anyone make something out of nothing the way you do.’
‘I must point out that that’s a slight exaggeration.’
‘Maybe, but only slight.’
‘There will be lots of things I’ll need, but you have to speculate to accumulate. Who was it said that? Anyway, I’m positive that he was right. Or she was.’
She was positive too that if she were to have any chance of achieving and maintaining a successful business she would have to run it in a professional manner. Cuffingham was in the middle of a hugely popular tourist area and there were always a lot of people milling around in the summer months. However, trade was seasonal and there were countless shops selling arts, crafts, and gifts, two of them in the high street. Hers would be different of course but it would have to be pretty special to compete.
Being on the end of the run could prove to be a blessing or a disaster – only time would tell. She hoped there’d be enough trade to carry her for the rest of the year. She assumed that was what happened with most retail outlets.
Holly’s experience at the old folks’ home had confirmed she could share her skills with others and she loved doing it. Her plan to run classes would provide an occupation out of season as well as being an added bonus the rest of the time. She began to consider seriously the logistics of running two businesses in tandem. There was no reason she could see why she wouldn’t be able to produce her own work and teach others as well.
It was then that she had a ‘eureka’ moment. While she’d been decorating, with little else to do than stare at the four walls, literally, she’d been mulling over potential names for her new business. Now, when she wasn’t thinking about it at all, it hit her square between the eyes.
She’d always loved mythology at school. At the time, though, before her marriage to Harry, she’d had a different surname. The one she had now fitted so well she could hardly believe it. Artemis – Goddess of the Hunt … and her name was Hunter. I can call the business ‘Art-e-Mis’ and I can be an Arty Mistress. She like the pun so much she repeated it to Emma.
‘If that’s the best you can do I’d advise you to stick to art. Witticisms of that kind are definitely not your forte.’
‘I thought it was quite funny.’
‘No, Holly, it’s pathetic.’
‘Oh,’ she said, feeling a little deflated and winding one of her curls around her finger the way she did whenever she was upset or disconcerted – but still liking the joke anyway.
Holly had no way of gauging the potential success of the retail trade but teaching could go a long way to providing a regular and reliable year-round income. All she had to do now was find some students. Oh, and there was the small detail of getting her proposal accepted.
Her mother’s old pine table could sit ten for dinner, twelve at a pinch, but that was for a meal. If it was going to be used as a workbench, people would need a bit of elbow room: space to spread things around. In spite of Harry not being keen, she’d insisted on keeping the table when her parents died. It reminded her of her childhood with the little pictures that she’d carved into its surface.
Her preoccupation with art had begun at an early age. It was one of those tables you expect to find in the enormous kitchen of a stately home. When Holly was little her family had lived in the ground floor/basement flat of an old Victorian house, and her mother had loved that old table. She didn’t seem to mind Holly’s carvings too much either, though there was the occasional token protest. They’d virtually lived in the basement kitchen and it had always been a warm and happy room, light filtering down through the window because they were on the sunny side of the street.
No way was Holly going to let the table go just because Harry didn’t want it. Too big for the house, it had been kept in the garage in London – who keeps their car in the garage anyway? – until she’d moved it and her paintings into storage pending divorce and the sale of the house.
‘You can have the bloody thing. I don’t want it,’ he’d said when she told him she was taking it with her to the Cotswolds. He’d sounded like one of Emma’s petulant pupils. As if she’d have left it with him anyway! For all its size it was dwarfed in the studio. It would certainly be big enough to take all the paraphernalia Holly’s students might need.
She couldn’t, however, ask them to sit on the floor so she decided her first task would be a tour of the local antique and second-hand furniture shops, far more a labour of love than a disagreeable chore. Holly had visited many of the shops over the years when staying with Emma, and since she’d left London, but there were still some she didn’t know and some she was looking forward to reacquainting herself with. She whisked herself up a smoothie to take the place of lunch, put it in a flask, and set off, excitement bubbling just below the surface.
The day was still young and Holly stepped out of her front door like a woman with a purpose. Any remaining doubts she might have had about the move had been laid to rest. Each day she felt more like a resident and less of a tourist. There were no airs and graces from the people she’d met at Kate and Charlie’s (unlike some of Harry’s friends) and over the ensuing few weeks, apart from the gap at Christmas, she’d seen most of them again and was beginning to feel she belonged.
There was only one fly in the ointment and Adam chose that moment to come out of the small post office and nearly bowl her over again. He pulled up sharply, flashing those great big blue eyes, and mumbled: ‘Look, I’m really sorry we got off to such a bad start. I guess you heard about Buttercup. I was a bit stressed. Maybe we can pretend it didn’t happen.’
Feeling a little mollified Holly opened her mouth to speak, ready to meet him halfway with her own apology, but before she had a chance to reply off he went just like he had the first time they’d met.
‘Yes but … Hang on a minute. You can’t just …’
‘Sorry. Can’t stop. Patient.’
Positively bristling with fury Holly took a deep breath and tried to regain her earlier mood of contentment. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had so got under her skin. The deep breath didn’t work but she was fairly sure retail therapy would and she set off along the street determinedly in search of something, anything, to take her mind off Adam.
She