‘They seem to think a lot of you here,’ Owen said as they tucked into their meal.
‘They’ve been very kind to me. It really is a lovely place,’ Hattie told him. She lowered her head as tears stung her eyes. What the heck was she doing, bursting into tears in front of her dad? Hopefully he hadn’t noticed. It was because she was so sad at leaving Port Medden. It was suddenly hitting her that this was her last weekend here. She was actually going. And she so desperately didn’t want to.
Grow up, you’re just being sentimental. You knew this was only ever temporary. You’ll soon find somewhere else just as nice to live.
She managed to pull herself together and they chatted easily through the meal. Owen asked to see some of the photos she’d taken, and Hattie showed him some of them on her phone. She showed him the board in the reception area with the photos of the members of staff that she’d taken. ‘They’re on the hotel Facebook page too,’ she said. ‘And Marcus did that painting over there.’ She pointed to the painting of The Storm. ‘I told you that he was talented.’
‘He certainly is,’ Owen agreed.
After dinner, they went for a drink in the hotel bar and Marcus joined them.
‘Have you lived down here long, Marcus?’ Owen asked.
Marcus told him he’d grown up there, and when his mum had remarried and moved away he’d missed Port Medden so much he’d moved in with his grandparents.
‘And you wouldn’t want to move away?’ Owen asked. He seemed genuinely interested, Hattie thought in surprise.
Marcus took a sip of his lager before replying. ‘No, I love it here. It’s the sort of place that calls to you. Some people like the busyness of big cities, but me, I like quietness, stillness, to be by the sea. I like to ride the waves and walk barefoot along the shore.’ He suddenly looked embarrassed. ‘And I’ve gone on a bit there!’
‘It’s good to hear someone so enthusiastic about a place,’ Owen told him. ‘And I hear you’re an artist too.’
‘An award-winning artist,’ Danny, the barman, said, collecting their empty glasses. ‘He likes to keep it quiet, though. I wouldn’t have known, if I didn’t read it in the paper. You must be proud,’ he said to Hattie.
‘What?’ Hattie looked from Marcus to the barman in astonishment. ‘You mean that you won that exhibition?’
‘Danny,’ Marcus said but Danny did no more than pick up the local paper from off the coffee table and open it to the second page.
‘There. Didn’t you know?’
Hattie stared at the article in front of her. It announced that local artist Marcus Wilson had won top prize in an exhibition in London. Below it was a photo of the award-winning painting. And it wasn’t Buddy. It was Hattie in her black leathers astride her motorbike.
Chapter Forty-Five
Hattie was staring incredulously at the photo. She looked stunned. Speechless. Hell, he hadn’t wanted her to find out like that, he’d been trying to tell her but how do you tell someone that you’ve done a secret painting of them and entered it into an exhibition? It sounded a bit stalkerish.
‘That is a marvellous painting, you’ve really caught Hattie’s spirit,’ Owen said admiringly. ‘I’d love to see the original.’
‘It’s still at the exhibition at the moment,’ Marcus told him, his eyes on Hattie. Her gaze was on him now, her eyes wide, her expression hard to read.
‘When did you do this? Why didn’t you tell me?’ she demanded.
‘I was going to, I only heard that I won last week, then you had the news that the house sale was going through quicker than you thought and, well, it never seemed the right time.’
‘How much are you selling the painting for?’ Owen asked.
Marcus shook his head. ‘It isn’t for sale.’
He wished he could read Hattie’s expression. Was she angry? Pleased? It was hard to tell.
He could feel Owen’s eyes on him, scrutinising him. He was probably thinking that it was a creepy thing to do, to paint someone and not tell them. He’d be right too. Whatever had possessed him to do it?
Because I wanted a memento of her, something to remember her by when she had gone.
Owen glanced from Marcus to Hattie, then got to his feet. ‘Well, excuse me while I go to the loo.’
He was giving them time to talk, Marcus realised. He leaned over the table. ‘I’m sorry. I should have told you but you were so busy with the move.’ He paused. ‘Do you mind?’
‘You painted it from that photo you took of me at Lord Thomwell’s birthday,,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper.
He nodded, trying to figure out whether she was pleased or upset. ‘You looked so alive . . .’ And sexy and gorgeous.
‘Why did you paint a picture of me and enter it into an exhibition without telling me?’
Why indeed. He frowned, trying to find the words to explain. ‘I didn’t intend to enter it in the exhibition, but Lady Thomwell saw it and talked me into it. She took it down to London herself.’
‘You showed it to Lady Thomwell – and probably Estelle – but not to me?’
Okay, so she wasn’t pleased, she was upset.
‘I didn’t mean them to see it, they followed me up to the attic instead of waiting outside for me to bring the painting of Buddy down.’ He rested his elbows on the table and leaned across. ‘I’ve been trying to find the right time to tell you. I was going to tell you today but then I saw your dad was here and, well, I wanted to catch you on your own.’
‘Dad’s signing the sale papers for the cottage, we’re exchanging on Monday and completing on Tuesday. When exactly did you plan on telling me? The day I left?’
‘I’m sorry if you’re upset . . .’
‘Upset? You blasted me for taking a photo of you surfing without your permission, remember? Yet
