point all attachments were shattered like china on cold Welsh slate. How could he be proud of a lie? And therein, he supposed, lay the source of his feelings of social isolation. No man is an island, as they say, but he‘d put in place an impressively wide exclusion zone all the same.
Had he really turned into such a cold, heartless man? He had plenty of time to mull this over, but in the end he gave up trying to figure it all out and simply got on with his new life at Deller’s End.
He was not in desperate need of a companion. True, he admitted he missed female company, but only physically. He did not hanker after a soul mate. He was not on the immediate lookout for a Mrs Tree Hugger. He was happy being alone and he could not see any reason that this would change for a long time to come. Burned fingers, and all that.
But he felt happier that he’d ended 2010 in a better place than he began it. So much had changed in the last twelve months. Here at least he felt safe, out of the way; almost, he thought, as if he could hide away from fate, that thing he never once believed in.
But, he thought, he’d be the first to admit you can’t stop things happening to you if they want to happen. Things could find you even if you had your head down…
9
To be truthful, he hadn’t expected it to be as successful as it appeared to be turning out. The gallery was full and there was quite a buzz to the place. A few pieces had already been sold, exchanged for not insignificant sums, and there was keen interest in others. He did what he was good at, floating around the room, plying more drinks on people, pausing to give a grand exposition on one of the pictures to an interested party, remembering and calling out first names, shaking hands, complimenting taste, laughing at banal humour, and selling like mad.
Clive Foster, of Foster Specialist Art Galleries, Pimlico Road, Chelsea, loved the thrill of the chase, and the more challenging the quarry the greater the enjoyment. Gareth Davies was as yet relatively unknown as a photographer, but he was obviously proving very promising, he thought. His signed limited edition prints — largely landscape with occasional portraiture — were extremely accomplished and actually selling. When he said to Davies he’d include his work as a small part of an exhibition by an altogether more famous photographer, his expectations had been low. He did it because Davies, in his previous role, had managed to swing a rather good deal on the purchase of a central London gallery, and it was his way of returning a favour to an ex-realtor and struggling artist.
But in spite of the success Gareth Davies was in short supply. He’d gone missing again. He made his excuses to a group of potential buyers and, with wine glass poised in hand, he threaded through the crowd of people to search out the missing photographer. He found him sitting quietly on the bottom of the stairs which led to the first- floor gallery space. He was staring into a half-downed glass.
‘Gareth,’ said Clive, ‘what on earth are you doing sitting here? I need you back there. Sell, sell, sell!’
He smiled uncomfortably. ‘You know I hate crowds, Clive.’
‘But this isn’t a bad crowd, Gareth; this is a good crowd — they have money!’ And, a rare thing these days, they’re actually spending some! I must say I find myself pleasantly surprised. I know you’ve been shifting a few recently, but I hadn’t realised…’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’
‘So are you intent on hiding yourself away the entire night?’
‘Most of it. You appear to be doing a good job on my behalf.’
Clive sat on the step beside him. ‘Ever since you went all rural on us and deserted dear old London for that Godforsaken Deliverance country…’
‘Wales, Clive.’
‘Same thing — ever since you went all Country Mouse on us you’ve become scared of your own shadow. I hope you’re not peeing into milk bottles and storing them; that’s always a bad sign for a recluse.’
Gareth offered a friendly sneer. ‘That’s so amusing, Clive.’
‘It’s partly your exhibition, Gareth, but you’re largely conspicuous by your absence. It would do your cause — and mine, of course, let’s not forget that — a lot of good if you got your arse back in there and lay on some of that silken sales pitch of yours.’
Gareth drank the remainder of his wine and grimaced. ‘I don’t do that sort of thing anymore,’ he said. ‘The things will have to sell without me. Though I do appreciate it, you know that, Clive.’
‘Sold quite a few pieces,’ he said. ‘It’s been a rather satisfying night. A particularly young and beautiful woman took a keen interest and snapped up a couple of prints. She asked if I could point you out as she couldn’t see you. Tell you what, Gareth, you’d be in with a chance there if you get back into the driving seat.’
Gareth smiled warmly. ‘Thank you, Clive. I will be in shortly. Give me a few more minutes.’
Clive rose, plonked his empty glass on a table and looked around for a waiter with a wine tray. ‘Please get over your panic attack soon; your reluctance goes right to the heart of my commission,’ he said, grinning.
He was soon lost to the milling crowd, clearly in his element, thought Gareth. Once upon a time that would have been him, but things were very different now. He hated the fuss, albeit very necessary; hated being at the centre of attention. Even the drink failed to nullify his escalating anxiety. And as for the crowds of people, whilst financial manna to Clive, Gareth found them disturbing these days. All he could think about was Deller’s End and closing the door on the world.
You’re getting to be a sad, lonely bastard, he told himself, rising from the stairs and wading into the choppy sea of humanity.
The woman watched him keenly, from a distance, tucked away at the back of the room, a glass to her face primarily to help mask it. He looked so handsome, she thought, quite the ladies’ man. A little nervous, unsure of himself, but that was no bad thing in a person. And so talented. What wonderful photographs.
She saw him look in her general direction and she turned away, pretended to look at one of the prints on the gallery wall. When she raised her head and glanced over her shoulder he had melted into the crush of people. Not yet, she thought. I can’t meet you yet; but it has to be soon, she thought. Very soon.
A tiresome, middle-aged man engaged her in conversation, but she saw through his game and abandoned him with scarce a word. He laughed sheepishly into his glass and flitted to an altogether more willing pretty flower.
She picked up her two framed prints, which had been wrapped in paper for her and then made her way to the exit. She was headed off at the pass by the gallery owner.
‘Leaving already?’ Clive said.
‘I have what I came for,’ she replied.
‘They will give you great pleasure,’ he said, nodding at the prints under her arm.
‘More than you’ll know,’ she said.
‘I can introduce you to him,’ he said. ‘You showed interest earlier…’
She held up her hand. ‘No thank you. Perhaps another time.’
‘You look familiar…’ he said, his fingers waving briefly in front of his chin. ‘Have we met before?’
The woman cocked her head slightly and her lips broke out into a warm smile, but he noticed there was sadness deep in her eyes. ‘Dear me, Mr Foster, that is such an old chat-up line!’ She walked past him and to the door. Here she paused and turned back. ‘Can you tell him one thing for me?’
‘By all means.’
‘Tell him his sister was here.’
‘Sister?’
She went out, onto the street. He watched her retreating figure, bemused, till someone called out his name and he switched off from her as if she had never existed.
She stepped into the taxi waiting for her. ‘Take me to Camden,’ she told the driver.
He tried to make conversation along the way but she ignored his efforts and in the end he gave up. She had
