Sally nodded her agreement, but was now beginning to worry about how much they must have cost, and whether she would ever be given a second exhibition if the first one wasn’t a success.
“By the way,” Simon said, “I have a friend at the P.A. called Mike Sallis who…”
“P.A.?” said Sally.
“Press Association. Mike’s a photographer — always on the lookout for a good story. He says he’ll come round and take a picture of you standing next to one of the pictures. Then he’ll hawk the photo around Fleet Street, and we’ll just have to cross our fingers, and pray that Natasha has taken the day off. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but someone just might bite. Our only line at present is that it’s your first exhibition since leaving the Slade. Hardly a front-page splash.” Simon paused, as once again Sally looked discouraged. “It’s not too late for you to have a fling with Prince Charles, you know. That would solve all our problems.”
Sally smiled. “I don’t think Tony would like that.” Simon decided against making another tactless remark.
Sally spent that evening with Tony at his home in Chelsea.
He seemed a little distracted, but she blamed herself — she was unable to hide her disappointment at Simon’s estimate of how few of her pictures might be sold.
After they had made love, Sally tried to raise the topic of what would happen to them once the exhibition was over, but Tony deftly changed the subject back to how much he was looking forward to the opening.
That night Sally went home on the last train from Charing Cross.
The following morning she woke up with a terrible feeling of anti-climax. Her room was bereft of canvases, and all she could do now was wait. Her mood wasn’t helped by the fact that Tony had told her he would be out of London on business until the day of her opening. She lay in the bath thinking about him.
“But I’ll be your first customer on the night,” he had promised. “Don’t forget, I still want to buy ‘The Sleeping Cat that Never Moved’.”
The phone was ringing, but someone answered it before Sally could get out of the bath.
“It’s for you,” shouted her mother from the bottom of the stairs.
Sally wrapped a towel around her and grabbed the phone, hoping it would be Tony.
“Hi, Sally, it’s Simon. I’ve got some good news. Mike Sallis has just called from the P.A. He’s coming round to the gallery at midday tomorrow. All the pictures should be framed by then, and he’ll be the first person from the press to see them. They all want to be first. I’m trying to think up some wheeze to convince him that it’s an exclusive. By the way, the catalogues have arrived, and they look fantastic.”
Sally thanked him, and was about to ring Tony to suggest that she stay overnight with him, so that they could go to the gallery together the following day, when she remembered that he was out of town.
She spent the day pacing anxiously around the house, occasionally talking to her most compliant model, the sleeping cat that never moved.
The following morning Sally caught an early commuter train from Sevenoaks, so she could spend a little time checking the pictures against their catalogue entries. When she walked into the gallery, her eyes lit up: half a dozen of the paintings had already been hung, and she actually felt, for the first time, that they really weren’t bad. She glanced in the direction of the office, and saw that Simon was occupied on the phone. He smiled and waved to indicate that he would be with her in a moment.
She had another look at the pictures, and then spotted a copy of the catalogue lying on the table. The cover read “The Summers Exhibition”, above a picture of an interior looking from her parents’ drawing room through an open window and out onto a garden overgrown with weeds. A black cat lay asleep on the windowsill, ignoring the rain.
Sally opened the catalogue and read the introduction on the first page.
Sometimes judges feel it necessary to say: It’s been hard to pick this year’s winner. But from the moment one set eyes on Sally Summers’ work, the task was made easy. Real talent is obvious for all to see, and Sally has achieved the rare feat of winning both the Slade’s major prizes, for oils and for drawing, in the same year. I much look forward to watching her career develop over the coming years.
It was an extract from Sir Roger de Grey’s speech when he had presented Sally with the Mary Rischgitz and the Henry Tonks Prizes at the Slade two years before.
Sally turned the pages, seeing her works reproduced in colour for the first time. Simon’s attention to detail and layout was evident on every page.
She looked back towards the office, and saw that Simon was still on the phone. She decided to go downstairs and check on the rest of her pictures, now that they had all been framed. The lower gallery was a mass of colour, and the newly framed paintings were so skilfully hung that even Sally saw them in a new light.
Once she had circled the room Sally suppressed a smile of satisfaction before turning to make her way back upstairs. As she passed a table in the centre of the gallery, she noticed a folder with the initials “N. K.” printed on it. She idly lifted the cover, to discover a pile of undistinguished watercolours.
As she leafed through her rival’s never-to-be-exhibited efforts, Sally had to admit that the nude self-portraits didn’t do Natasha justice. She was just about to close the folder and join Simon upstairs when she came to a sudden halt.
Although it was clumsily executed, there was no doubt who the man was that the half-clad Natasha was clinging on to.
Sally felt sick. She slammed the folder shut, walked quickly across the room and back up the stairs to the ground floor. In the corner of the large gallery Simon was chatting to a man who had several cameras slung over his shoulder.
“Sally,” he said, coming towards her, “this is Mike…”
But Sally ignored them both, and started running towards the open door, tears flooding down her cheeks. She turned right into St James’s, determined to get as far away from the gallery as possible. But then she came to an abrupt halt. Tony and Natasha were walking towards her, arm in arm.
Sally stepped off the pavement and began to cross the road, hoping to reach the other side before they spotted her.
The screech of tyres and the sudden swerve of the van came just a moment too late, and she was thrown headlong into the middle of the road.
When Sally came to, she felt awful. She blinked her eyes, and thought she could hear voices. She blinked again, but it was several moments before she was able to focus on anything.
She was lying in a bed, but it was not her own. Her right leg was covered in plaster, and was raised high in the air, suspended from a pulley. Her other leg was under the sheet, and it felt all right. She wiggled the toes of her left foot: yes, they were fine. Then she began to try to move her arms. A nurse came up to the side of the bed.
“Welcome back to the world, Sally.”
“How long have I been like this?” she asked.
“A couple of days,” said the nurse, checking Sally’s pulse. “But you’re making a remarkably quick recovery. Before you ask, it’s only a broken leg, and the black eyes will have gone long before we let you out. By the way,” she added, as she moved on to the next patient, “I loved that picture of you in the morning papers. And what about those flattering remarks your friend made? So what’s it like to be famous?”
Sally wanted to ask what she was talking about, but the nurse was already taking the pulse of the person in the next bed.
“Come back,” Sally wanted to say, but a second nurse had appeared by her bedside with a mug of orange juice, which she thrust into her hand.
“Let’s get you started on this,” she said. Sally obeyed, and tried to suck the liquid through a bent plastic straw.
“You’ve got a visitor,” the nurse told her once she’d emptied the contents of the mug. “He’s been waiting for some time. Do you think you’re up to seeing him?”
“Sure,” said Sally, not particularly wanting to face Tony, but desperate to find out what had happened.
She looked towards the swing doors at the end of the ward, but had to wait for some time before Simon came bouncing through them. He walked straight up to her bed, clutching what might just about have been
