Page 156 of Off the Pitch

“Besides,” I added. “I was a little bored of green at this point, and life is always more exciting when you add colour.”

The group nodded and began asking a few more questions which I dutifully answered as politely and cheerfully as possible until Hélène dragged me off to introduce me to another group of guests.

Thus my evening continued—answering questions about my work and trying not to just say ‘it’s that way because I liked it like that’ because I’d found that was never really an acceptable answer. People always seemed to want there to be a deeper reason behind an artist’s work, some deep suffering or emotion. We were never allowed to have painted something blue just because we liked the colour blue.

After another two groups, Hugo took my hand and steered me into a corner, carefully shielding me from the rest of the room before pressing a glass of water and a plate of canapes into my hands.

“I thought you might need a break,” he said.

“Thank you,” I replied, stuffing a little cheese tart thing into my mouth. “I think I’ve been asked the same question about my inspiration seven times. I think I could repeat my answer in my sleep at this point.” I crammed another two tartlet things into my mouth because they were ridiculously yummy.

Hugo chuckled. “Maybe Hélène will just let you wander around for a bit now? You seem to have talked to all her guests.”

“I hope so,” I said, peering around Hugo to look at the crowd. “I still haven’t had a chance to talk to David yet. Or anyone else I invited for that matter. Hélène does realise that Christian is rich, doesn’t she? Will that mean I can go and talk to him now?”

“Excuse me.” A cut-glass voice that was painfully familiar sounded from behind Hugo, and my insides froze.

My mother was here.

I handed the plate to Hugo, who was giving me a wide-eyed look of confusion, and straightened my jacket before stepping out from behind my protector. I knew I’d invited them, but I hadn’t expected them to show up. That was probably stupid of me. My mother would never pass up an invitation to be seen somewhere by someone.

“Mother, good evening.” My smile felt very forced, and I hoped it didn’t look it. Mother smiled and waved imperiously to summon my father from where he was examining Hugo’s favourite painting. I couldn’t remember when I’d last seen either of them, but it had been a while. Five years at least. Neither of them looked that much different though. My father was a touch greyer around the temples perhaps, but my mother looked shockingly similar to the way she always had—impeccably dressed with flawless make up, her red hair dyed a glossy dark brown. I don’t think I’d ever seen her without lipstick. She looked like she’d just stepped out of the pages ofVogue.

“Hello, darling.” She stepped forward and attempted to kiss my cheeks, smothering me in heavy floral perfume. “Why are you hiding in a corner? You should be out talking to people.”

“I was just taking a quick break and having some food,” I said. “Thank you for coming.”

“Well we wouldn’t miss it, would we, dear? After all this is the Daaé Gallery.” She gave me another smile, and I suddenly felt like I was five years old all over again.

“That painting,” my father said, his crisp voice cutting through the air as he pointed at Hugo’s favourite, the one I’d painted before the storm. “It’s rather good. Is it your work?”

“Of course,” I said, trying really hard not to roll my eyes. Apparently, having my own exhibition wasn’t enough to convince them. “These are all mine.”

“I didn’t know you were this good,” my mother said. “They’re quite pretty, you know.”

“Thank you?” It came out as more of a question than a statement, mostly as a result of shock. ‘Quite pretty’ weren’t the words I was expecting to hear from her.

“Is that one still for sale?” my father asked. “It might look quite nice in the dining room, don’t you think, Anna?”

“I’m sorry, I’ve already bought that one. It’s a personal favourite,” Hugo said as he stepped up beside me and reached out his hand to shake my father’s. My very own knight in a custom-fitted suit. “I’m Hugo Serin, Kit’s boyfriend. It’s a pleasure to meet you. He’s told me all about you.”

My mother’s jaw dropped. I’d never seen her looked so stunned, and I was sorely tempted to whip out my phone and take a picture to commemorate the moment my mother was at a loss for words. But that would have been rude of me, so instead I concentrated very, very hard on ingraining it into my memory forever. I assumed she’d thought that I was making Hugo up. Or maybe she’d thought my date wouldn’t be nearly as handsome as he was. I had to hand it to Hugo; he did look pretty good in Armani.

“Oh,” she said, shaking Hugo’s hand as he offered it. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Indeed,” my father echoed, also lost for words. I grinned up at Hugo. I probably owed him infinite cookies for this, but honestly, it was worth it.

“I believe there are still a few of Kit’s works available, but you’d need to enquire with the gallery. I know most of them have sold already.”

“Really?” I couldn’t hide my surprise, the word tripping off my tongue in shock. Hugo nodded and kissed my temple.

“Of course. You’re very talented. I think Hélène said they’d even had an offer from America.” I frowned, my curiosity piqued. I desperately wanted to know where the American offer had come from or who the buyer was, but I had a sneaking suspicion it would be Volt, Flash, and Ozzie since Volt had insisted I send him links to the gallery’s website when I’d mentioned it to him. If it was them, I’d probably cry.

“America?” My mother’s voice was as shocked as mine.

“Yes, but it’s not surprising really. Kit’s work is incredible,” Hugo said and smiled down at me, wrapping his arm around my waist. “Just like him.”

“Well, maybe we should ask the gallery then… do you know who we should talk to?” For a brief moment, there was a note of something unsure in her voice, and it made me pause. I may not have seen them for five years, and perhaps they were only here because of the name of the gallery, but they were still here, and they’d even shown an interest in my work. That was more than I’d ever dreamt of, and it felt like the world had shifted slightly.

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