Yesterday’s Sun. Amanda Brooke
to get it sorted?’ she asked.
It was Tom’s turn to be cagey, which eased Holly’s conscience. He told her there was still lots of upheaval at the studio and reminded her that everyone there was fighting to keep their job. Demanding where he went and what he did simply wasn’t an option.
They chatted a while, until eventually work couldn’t be put off any longer for either of them. Holly put the phone down and reluctantly picked up her sketch pad. Her plan was to continue to work up more sketches based on the two designs she had already settled on.
When she opened her sketchbook to the first of her drawings, the one of a mother holding a baby, her eyes were immediately drawn to the image of the baby. Her sketch had only subtle suggestions of form but even so, when she traced the baby’s face with her finger it brought to mind the baby of her hallucination. Libby. With a warm rush of emotion, she recalled the moment that she had looked into Libby’s eyes and felt an instant connection. Was this what maternal instinct felt like, she wondered, or was she just desperately trying to justify Tom’s belief in her?
Holly’s gaze turned to the figure of the mother. With new eyes, the pose was all wrong. The figure she had sketched was holding the baby tentatively, almost as if it were a box of spiders ready to crawl up her arm. Holly scored a line through the drawing before she knew what she was doing. Then she turned to the second sketch, which she had thought was the most promising in terms of concept. She still liked the spiralling form of the mother spinning the baby around, but again the pose seemed all wrong and the mother might just as well be twirling her handbag. She scored a line through this drawing too.
With a flutter of panic, Holly knew the pressure was on and she was going to have to work solidly for the next two days to get her proposal ready in time.
The trip to London was a dramatic gear change from the country life Holly was slowly becoming accustomed to. She left the serenity of the village to catch the early morning train from a nearby town and then battled in vain for a seat, losing it to one of the more seasoned commuters.
The meeting with Mrs Bronson was to take place at the gallery where Holly exhibited and sold her sculptures. It was a small gallery but ideal for her work, partially because of its prime position and select clientele, and partially because she worked well with the proprietor, Sam Peterson. Sam had been extremely supportive of her fledgling career when she had first arrived in London and had played a large part in Holly’s success as an artist.
Holly had met Sam through one of the many part-time jobs she had taken after leaving art college. She had worked for a pet-care agency, walking dogs, babysitting rabbits and, in Sam’s case, feeding his cats while he was away on one of his many tropical holidays with his partner James. Sam had taken a keen interest in her artwork and had not only encouraged her to keep up with her art after she left college but had eventually offered to exhibit her work in his gallery.
It was a short journey to the gallery on the tube and then on through the bustling crowds, but Holly was starting to feel energized by the hustle and bustle. She was wearing a smart fifties-style tunic dress with matching jacket. The outfit was a shade of pale blue that set off her long blonde hair, which was swept back off her face with a matching headband. It had been a while since Holly had worn something other than jeans and T-shirt, and dressing up made her feel part of the crowd again.
She needed all the energy she could muster, because she was practically running on empty. She had worked nonstop on her designs, sketching into the wee small hours of the night with nothing to keep her company except the waning moon, which peeped through the kitchen window like a brooding monster, narrowing its eye in concentration over Holly’s shoulder.
Whilst she had managed to keep most of the details of her hallucination out of her thoughts, she couldn’t quite erase the picture of Libby from her mind’s eye. She used this to her advantage and breathed new life into the sketches she was creating. At long last, Holly felt a connection with the art piece she was trying to create. The downside to this was that she had also developed a connection with Libby. She may have only been a figment of her imagination, but Libby was the first baby that Holly hadn’t been terrified of, the first baby she had wanted to reach out and hold. Libby had sneaked into her heart and there was a part of Holly that almost wished that she was real.
The tinkling of the brass bell over the door announced Holly’s arrival at the gallery. The expanse of space that greeted her was bright and modern. White walls reflected the natural light streaming from the glass-fronted gallery, while strategically placed spotlights picked up the selection of brightly coloured and contrasting art pieces to entice the buyers.
The receptionist waved to her and picked up the phone, no doubt announcing her arrival to Sam. As Holly waited, she took the opportunity to do a quick stocktake of the work she had on display and to check out the competition. Holly sold a range of small sculptures through the gallery; some were figures, others more conceptual, but all had Holly’s distinctive style of mixing contrasting textures and colour. Holly’s work seemed to be becoming more commercial and it was the income from this type of work that paid for her and Tom’s luxuries. Holly felt a twinge of disappointment as she noted that only a few pieces of her work were being displayed in this front-of-house section of the gallery.
‘Looking for something?’ came a soft voice from behind her. Holly turned around to be greeted by the portly features of a middle-aged man with an obvious obsession for tweed.
‘Hello, Sam,’ beamed Holly, giving her old friend a kiss on each cheek. ‘I was just looking for some art pieces by the up-and-coming artist Holly Corrigan, but for the life of me I can’t see the kind of collection I was hoping for. Keeping them in a darkened room somewhere, are you?’
‘Oh, Holly, Holly, Holly. What suspicious creatures you countryfolk are,’ he admonished. ‘So you think as soon as you traded in your stilettos for wellies, I’d be putting your artwork out to grass too, do you?’
‘Well . . .’ grimaced Holly, feeling guilty that she would even suggest that Sam wasn’t taking care of her best interests.
‘There’s one of your pieces over there,’ Sam sniffed, pointing to the window front. Holly wasn’t sure if his stance reminded her of a school teacher or an air steward.
‘Another to the right there and two to the left, there and there.’
Definitely air steward, thought Holly suppressing a grin. ‘And the rest?’
‘S-O-L-D, sold!’
‘All of them?’ gasped Holly.
‘All of them,’ confirmed Sam. ‘The recession is officially over. You heard it here first.’
Holly grabbed his arms and they did a little celebratory jig in the middle of the gallery.
‘Well done, Sam!’
‘Well done, Holly!’ corrected Sam. He stopped still and peered at Holly’s face. ‘Is that a black eye I see beneath the camouflage of make-up? Has that man of yours been beating you up?’
‘Why does everyone keep saying that!’ demanded Holly. ‘Of course he didn’t. I fell in the garden, that’s all.’
‘Hmm,’ replied Sam. ‘Well, you can tell me all about your new country life later. First we need to deal with your favourite client,’ he whispered.
‘Oh, God, is she here already?’ Holly broke out into a cold sweat at the thought of what she was about to face. ‘Is Bronson Junior with her?’
‘Thankfully not,’ replied Sam, who shared Holly’s relief.
Holly was of course referring to Mrs Bronson’s offspring or, as Holly tended to view the baby, her latest fashion accessory. Holly might not be an expert in maternal matters, but each time she saw Mrs Bronson with her son it brought to mind a precocious child playing with a new kitten. She wouldn’t have been surprised if her client had turned up with the poor child peaking out of one of her oversized handbags.
‘Onwards and upwards,’ Sam told her, directing her up the stairs to his private office.