‘Which artists do you favour?’ I ask.
‘The ones I’ve seen downstairs.’ He notes the incredulity in my eyes. ‘I’ll be honest with you. This isn’t my comfort zone. I’m branching out. I’ve always loved London, always wanted a foothold here. This is perfect.’
‘You’re not going to change Slaters?’
‘If it ain’t broke, why fix it? Landscapes, seascapes. It works.’ He looks at the triptych and then at me. ‘But you’re outgrowing this place, Miss Scotton. That’s clear to see. We have an opportunity coming up in New York, an exhibition devoted to the subject of sex.’ He pauses. ‘Just sex. All forms of sex. We’re calling it, well … Sex.’ He raises both hands in the air, palms upwards, as if he’s apologising for stating the obvious. ‘I’d like to exhibit this.’
It hits me all at once: a strange brew of amazement, excitement, pride and disbelief.
‘But why?’
‘Because it’s wonderful.’
And now a touch of fear.
‘It’s too personal. If I display this, if I go public, then I’ll have to talk about it.’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘I’m not sure I could do that.’
‘Why not? Are you ashamed of who you are?’
‘No.’
I bristle. Because I’m not entirely sure I’m being honest. Am I ashamed? And if so, then what am I ashamed of? That I’m different? A kinky freak? Or is it something else, something hidden away deep inside?
‘The truth is …’ I hesitate. ‘I wouldn’t know what to say.’
And maybe that’s it. If I’m ashamed of anything, perhaps it’s my own confusion, the fact that I’ve never really worked out how I came to be who I am.
‘Then think it through,’ Gordon answers. ‘Why hide your true self? It can cripple you, believe me.’ He gives me a knowing look and I wonder what he might be hiding. ‘Show yourself to the world. Set yourself free and liberate your talent.’
‘That’s what he wanted.’ I gaze at the centre panel.
‘Then he sounds like a wise man.’
I turn back to Gordon. He’s deadly serious. Any signs of flirting, if that’s what it was, seem to have disappeared.
‘He may not be with you,’ he says. ‘Not now … but you’d do well to follow his wishes.’
My lips tremble. They’re about to ask why, but before they get a chance, Mr Finn’s talking again.
‘Tell me, why did you specialise in landscapes?’
‘I don’t really know. I suppose I was fascinated by the world. Colours and light.’
‘Were they less personal to you than these?’
I stare at Dan’s form, and it becomes clear. Every time I set a brush against canvas, it’s nothing but personal.
‘There’s always emotion,’ I explain as best I can. ‘When I painted the sea, I felt free. When I painted the woods, I felt safe.’
‘It’s like Picasso said: painting’s just another way of keeping a diary. But you need to learn to let go of your creations.’
‘I let go in the past …’ I stumble to a halt. What else can I say? I sold a picture to a certain Scottish maniac who used it to find me again? I’m being silly and I know it, and Mr Finn, whoever he is, is being eminently sensible.
‘Take control of your career, Maya. There’s too much talent here.’
I twirl the paintbrush in my hands.
‘I will.’
‘Good.’ He claps and I give a start. ‘So, let’s cut to the chase. I’m serious about displaying the triptych, but it has to be available for sale. I’m guessing it’s already done its job.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Then move on. This is a real opportunity for you. I’ll get it shipped over to the States. The exhibition’s next week. I’d like you to attend the opening night.’
My thoughts snap to attention. Exhibition. New York. Planes. Big scary things. I can’t do it. Not without Dan.
‘Me?’
‘Well, you did paint this.’ He arches an eyebrow.
‘But …’
But what, I wonder. This is a real opportunity, probably the biggest opportunity of my life. Am I really going to let fear get in the way?
‘You should be jumping at this chance,’ he presses. ‘Why are you still hesitating?’
‘Because she’s a scaredy pants,’ Lucy intervenes, kicking open the door and swinging a champagne bottle in each hand. ‘And she doesn’t like planes.’
‘Witchcraft,’ I murmur, eyes wide.
‘Technological wonders,’ Gordon counters. ‘I’ll pay for the flights, of course. And the hotel. Won’t cost you a penny. You can bring Lucy. Would that ease the pain? How about a couple of seats in first class?’
‘Maya,’ Lucy gasps. ‘We’re doing this.’
‘But …’
This is all moving too fast. I can barely keep up.
‘New York. The Big Apple. The city that never sleeps. I’ve never been to New York. We’re doing it. Fucking hell, Central Park, that big thing you go up …’
‘Rockefeller?’ Gordon asks, bemused.
‘I don’t know,’ Lucy breathes. ‘No! Empire State … and …’ She’s almost bouncing now. ‘That statue.’
‘Liberty,’ Gordon laughs. ‘Set yourself free.’
‘But …’
I don’t even know why I’m making a noise. No one’s listening. Lucy’s caught up in a New York reverie, and Mr Finn seems determined to fill us in on details of a trip I’ve not even agreed to.
‘Plenty of sight-seeing. Anything you like. But don’t forget the exhibition. We need to get Maya noticed. A couple of interviews. Maybe a feature in a magazine. Yeah, I think we’ve got a new star on the rise.’
He moves over to Lucy. She’s still grinning from ear to ear like a lunatic. He motions to a bottle. She lifts it.
‘Moët,’ she announces.
‘Very nice,’ Gordon comments.
‘It cost a bomb.’
‘No problem.’
‘I’ve got change.’
‘Keep it.’
‘But it’s over a hundred.’
‘Treat Maya to dinner.’
‘No,’ I interrupt. ‘And what are those for?’
‘You,’ Gordon informs me, as
