Page 51 of Never Too Late
His laugh echoed around us. ‘I completely agree.’
I moved away from him, towards the next painting.
‘You’ve captured her so well.’
‘Thank you.’
In front of us was a large canvas of Gabby, champagne coupe in hand, bubbles clinging to the glass on the inside as condensation coated the outer. Her head was thrown back in laugher, and her neck, long and slim, held the gold cross necklace that she had worn ever since I had known them first. It had been a christening present, ostensibly from her older brother – according to family legend, he had chosen it, declaring that only this one would do.
‘Does she like it?’
‘Yes. Thank God!’ he replied, arranging his features into an expression of overstated mock-relief.
‘I’m glad. It shows the inner joy she has.’
‘It was that I wanted to capture most. It’s easy to paint a picture of a beautiful woman, but, for me at least, there has to be more to it than that. Just as there is so much more to a beautiful woman than her looks.’
‘So enlightened.’ I threw the tease to him.
‘You know my sister well. Do you think I would ever have any choice but to be?’ He was smiling but it faded as quickly as it had arrived. ‘I’m so sorry that what happened between us caused your friendship to fail too.’
I shook my head. ‘It didn’t fail, Tomas. It was just too painful at the time.’ I didn’t want to talk about that now. Think about that now. ‘What’s next?’
We wandered together through the rest of the exhibition. An atmospheric scene of Passage l’Homme caught my eye, the vivid greens of the early summer trees contrasting with the cobbles of the street and the antique cream stone buildings with their faded, shuttered windows. Tomas’s paintings took me on a tour from steep steps leading to the Sacré-Cœur as it gazed from its position over the city, before plunging us deep underneath the streets of Paris to the catacombs housing the bones of around six million Parisians, before we were back above ground and into the lavender-scented air of Provence.
As we approached the very last painting, I stopped. The last thirty years fell away and there, in front of me, was the girl that had come to Paris all those years ago, full of hopes and dreams and confidence. The girl who had made wonderful, meaningful friendships and had loved her studies that had never felt like schoolwork, who merely studied for interest and joy. The girl who had fallen in love with both Paris and Tomas Bertholle with her whole heart and in that moment, that exact moment captured on the canvas before me, was happy and relaxed, a gentle bronze to her unlined skin, and all of those dreams still vivid and intact.
‘I can see Sasha in her.’
‘Yes.’
The silence settled once more. I had so many thoughts, so many questions but none of them would become cohesive and stick long enough for me to utter.
‘Are these all for sale?’
‘Yes.’ Tomas repeated his one-word answer and I turned to him.
‘Aren’t you supposed to have a model release or something for this?’ That hadn’t been one of the questions zooming around my brain but it had apparently shoved its way to the front and made itself known.
‘I didn’t know how to find you. You didn’t leave me an address.’
‘So… what?’ I asked, my hands going to my hips. ‘What I don’t know won’t hurt me?’
‘No, that’s not what I meant.’
‘What did you mean then? I was good enough to paint and sleep with but not good enough for you to defend to your parents?’Oh, shit. Where the hell had that come from?
Bloody Tomas and his paintings, drawing me back into the past!That’swhere it had come from! The box where I’d stuffed all those memories had been dragged out into the open and the lid so unexpectedly lifted. I dragged in a breath and let it out again slowly.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t?—’
‘No. You should.’ His hands wrapped gently around my upper arms and I could feel the gentle strength in them. ‘You have every right to be angry at me.’
‘No, Tomas. It’s all long in the past and we’ve both moved on.’
‘I haven’t.’
I tilted my head up to meet his eyes. ‘What?’
