Before You Were Gone Page 10

  ‘A flat white please,’ Dee said, when the woman behind the counter asked her what she’d like to drink.

  ‘Take a seat and I’ll bring it over to you,’ the woman said. ‘Unless you’d like it in a takeaway cup so you can look at the art while you drink it?’

  ‘A takeaway cup would be great,’ Dee said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Your first visit?’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  The woman smiled.

  ‘I’m the owner. Spend more time here than I do at home. I recognise people who’ve been here before. And I don’t recognise you. You live in the area?’

  ‘I used to,’ Dee said. ‘A long time ago. I’m in London visiting a friend today. He told me about the gallery so I thought I’d come and take a look.’

  ‘Everything on display has been done by local artists,’ the woman said. ‘I’m guessing the area’s changed a lot since you lived here. A lot of the artists’ studios have been turned into fancy apartments over the last few years. But we’ve held on to a handful. Most of the artists we’re exhibiting at the moment are based in Bow. We have a collective there and, as you’ll see, some of the guys are producing pretty impressive work.’

  Dee took her coffee and moved around the gallery, taking in the art and the general ambience of the place. It was a lovely space. As well as serving exceptional coffee, there was a decent soundtrack playing in the background – so far she’d heard Van Morrison, Cat Powers and Paul Simon – and plenty of people sitting at tables or, like Dee, moving around the gallery looking at the work on display.

  Like most people with little knowledge of art, Dee tended to know what she liked without really understanding why. Some of the work didn’t strike her as anything special, but there was a collection of paintings that she kept coming back to. Large, empty landscapes that managed to be both bleak and hauntingly beautiful. Looking at the information sheet on the wall, Dee was surprised to read that these paintings had all been done by Annie Holden.

  ‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ The owner had come out from behind the counter and joined Dee as she stood in front of one of the larger paintings. ‘Annie’s work has sold better than anyone else’s over the last few weeks.’

  ‘I can see why,’ Dee said. ‘They’re gorgeous.’

  ‘You interested in buying something?’

  Dee hesitated. The last thing she’d had in mind coming here today was to buy some art. But now she was here, it struck her that one of these paintings would look pretty amazing in her living room.

  ‘What can you tell me about the artist?’ she asked.

  ‘Apart from the fact she’s incredibly talented?’ The woman smiled. ‘I’m Claire, by the way.’

  Dee introduced herself and the two women shook hands.

  ‘She’s a bit of a recluse,’ Claire said. ‘Most artists realise how important it is to push their work. You’ve got to really get yourself out there in the art scene if you want to be successful. But Annie’s not like that at all. I had to practically beg her to let me exhibit her work.’

  ‘How did you discover her if she’s so reclusive?’ Dee asked.

  ‘Visiting studios is part of the job description,’ Claire said. ‘Bow Studios, where Annie’s based, have regular open days where anyone can go along and view the artists’ work. That’s how I discovered Annie, and most of the other art here as well.’

  ‘How often do they have these open days?’ Dee said. ‘I’d love to go along to the next one.’

  ‘I’ve got some leaflets by the counter,’ Claire said. ‘They’ve got all the information you need, including contact details for the artists. Hang on, let me go and grab one for you.’

  A moment later she was back, holding a folded leaflet which she handed to Dee.

  ‘This is great,’ Dee said. ‘Just out of interest, how much do these paintings sell for?’

  ‘This one that you’re looking at right now,’ Claire said. ‘Was sold yesterday for £1,500. In fact, most of Annie’s paintings have already been sold, I’m afraid. But if you like what you see here, I’d strongly recommend going to visit the studio. We’re only able to display a tiny fraction of the artists’ work here.’

  ‘I think I’ll do that.’ Dee smiled. ‘Thanks so much for your time, Claire. I hope this isn’t the last time I get a chance to visit your lovely gallery.’

  ‘If you’re serious about Annie’s work,’ Claire said, ‘why don’t you hang around a bit longer? She normally drops by around this time to say hi. In fact, speak of the devil. Here she is now. I’ll introduce you. Annie! Come over here, darling. There’s someone I want you to meet.’

  Dee watched as the woman from the pub walked across the gallery to them. She walked with a slight limp, barely noticeable unless you were watching her carefully. As Annie drew closer, something flashed across her face, fear or surprise; Dee couldn’t tell which.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, looking at Dee. ‘I think we’ve already met, haven’t we?’

  ‘Dee Morrison.’ The use of her ex-husband’s name was automatic. Something she’d done time and again in her career, to prevent anyone looking her up on the internet and realising she was a journalist. She hadn’t changed her name when she’d married Billy; it had gone against her feminist principles to do that. But using his surname when it suited her, that was another matter entirely.

  Dee held her hand out, noticing the hesitation before Annie put out her own hand to return the handshake.

  ‘Dee’s just been admiring your work,’ Claire said. ‘I’ve suggested she should visit your studio and see what else you’ve got. As you know, most of the work here has already sold.’

  ‘I have seen you before!’ Dee exclaimed, doing her best to sound surprised. ‘The Town of Ramsgate, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. You seemed to think we’d already met?’

  ‘Menopause brain,’ Dee said. ‘You look like a friend of mine. Sorry. I really was convinced you were her for a moment. I can see now you don’t actually look that much like her at all.’

  Annie didn’t say anything, leaving it up to Claire to break the awkward silence.

  ‘Dee might be interested in buying one of your paintings. Would you like to tell her a little about the inspiration for the ones on display here?’

  ‘Who are you?’ Annie said, ignoring Claire’s question.

  ‘I’ve just told you,’ Dee said. ‘Listen, I’m sorry if I freaked you out the other day. I only popped in here today because a friend recommended the exhibition. If you don’t want to talk to me about your work, that’s fine.’ She turned to Claire. ‘Thanks for your time and the good coffee. I don’t want to cause any trouble. Maybe it’s better if I go.’

  ‘There’s really no need.’ Claire scowled at Annie. ‘Annie, Dee is interested in your work. That’s what you wanted, right? To sell some paintings and make a bit of money for once?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Annie said, giving Dee a half-smile. ‘I’m a very private person. I find this side of the business difficult – putting myself out there, talking to strangers. It makes me uncomfortable. But that doesn’t mean I have to be rude about it.’

  ‘No need to apologise,’ Dee said. ‘It is a bit of a coincidence bumping into you again like this. I was just telling Claire that I used to live in this area years ago. I only popped into the gallery for a quick look. I’m glad I did. I’ve fallen in love with your work.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Annie blushed. ‘That means a lot. It’s not easy, putting your art on display like this. I imagine it’s a little like walking down a street without wearing any clothes. Not that I’m planning to do that any time soon.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ Dee smiled before she looked at her watch, pretending to check the time. ‘I’ve got to go, I’m afraid. Is there any chance I could come to your studio some time to see more of your work? I’ve just bought a new home and I’m looking for some original art to decorate it. I live by the sea and one of your paintings would be perfect for my living room.’


  ‘I’m not sure,’ Annie said. ‘I don’t normally let people come to my studio. It’s sort of a private space, you know?’

  ‘Annie Holden,’ Claire interjected. ‘There is no bloody point showing your work if you’re not going to try and sell it to people who want to buy it.’

  ‘Well, if you put it like that,’ Annie smiled at Dee, ‘how would Saturday morning work for you?’

  ‘I could probably do that,’ Dee said. ‘Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll text to confirm?’

  ‘My contact details are on the leaflet.’ Annie pointed to the piece of paper in Dee’s hand.

  ‘Great,’ Dee said. ‘Well then, I’ll be in touch.’

  As she walked away, Claire followed her. ‘You’ll find the other artists’ details there to. Do take a look, some of them are really good. If you see anything you like, I’m sure you could arrange to visit more than one studio on Saturday.’

  Promising she’d take a look, although she had no intention of doing so, Dee said goodbye and left before Claire talked her into calling some of the other artists as well.

  Outside the gallery, she phoned Emer.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, when she got Emer’s voicemail. ‘It’s me – Dee. I’m in London today and was hoping you might be free for a quick coffee. Call me back if you can.’

  She hung up, disappointed. She’d sent Emer a text yesterday evening, telling her she’d be in London today and asking if they could meet up. So far, Emer hadn’t replied. She thought about hanging around London for a few hours and then trying her cousin again. But then she remembered what Emer had told her the last time they’d spoken. She’d mentioned her stress at doing a job she’d never done before, and how hard she was working to prove herself. The last thing she needed was pressure from Dee to leave work for a coffee.

  Maybe it was for the best, Dee told herself, putting her phone away. She had work to do too, and it wouldn’t get done while she was loitering in London waiting for her cousin to call her back. The best thing she could do was get back to Eastbourne and spend what was left of her day writing the next chapter of her book.

  Sixteen

  Dee walked around the studio in silence, taking it all in. She’d never been inside an artist’s studio before, but this place was exactly what she’d imagined one might look like. Situated on the second floor of a draughty warehouse, it was a large space flooded with light coming through the huge, industrial windows. An easel stood in the middle of the room. On it was a canvas with an unfinished painting. More canvases, in varying sizes, were stacked against the exposed brick wall.

  ‘Take a look,’ Annie said, nodding at the stack of canvases.

  Dee flicked through them, pausing every now and then when a particular painting caught her attention. There were more landscapes here, lots of them, along with some striking portrait paintings.

  ‘This is beautiful,’ Dee said, lifting one out for a better look.

  The painting showed a young woman sitting at the bar of a pub somewhere. The light in the painting was focused on the woman, with the rest of the canvas in muted shades of grey and black. She was sitting sideways, looking over her shoulder, giving Dee the uncanny sense that the woman was staring directly at her. A packet of Benson and Hedges cigarettes and an empty glass were on the bar beside her.

  At first, Dee thought the woman was the only person in the painting, but when she examined it more closely, she saw someone else. A shadowy figure in the corner, a young child. The woman was wearing jeans and a tight-fitting T-shirt. She was beautiful, yet there was an expression of such emptiness on her face that Dee couldn’t look at her for too long. Somehow, in this single image, Annie had created an almost unbearable sense of something lost. It was incredible.

  ‘Is she you?’ Dee asked, because the woman in the painting looked remarkably like Annie.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Annie asked, looking closely at the painting. ‘Oh yes, I can see the resemblance, now you mention it. No, she’s not me. She was someone I painted from memory. It happens sometimes. I remember a face from my childhood and it gets stuck in my mind until it’s almost like I don’t have a choice. I have to paint it.’

  ‘My mum used to smoke Benson and Hedges,’ Dee said. ‘She wasn’t a regular smoker, but the odd time when she decided she fancied a ciggie, it was always a B and H.’

  ‘I don’t know why I chose Benson and Hedges,’ Annie said. ‘Do they even exist today?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure they do,’ Dee said. ‘Although the packaging isn’t the same. The painting is perfect. I’d love to buy it.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Annie said. ‘That one’s not for sale. I should have said. A lot of my paintings are commissions. This is one of them. Let me quickly sort through them, so you can see which ones are for sale and which aren’t.’

  ‘How do you get commissions?’ Dee asked, as Annie rearranged the paintings. A moment ago, Annie had told her she’d done this painting because she didn’t have a choice. Now, she was saying someone commissioned it. Dee wondered which version was the truth.

  ‘It’s not that hard, actually. We promote our work within the local community and we’re incredibly lucky to be based where we are. A lot of the businesses in Canary Wharf like to display original artwork. The collective has a relationship with several of them. When a commission comes through, we all bid for it and one of us gets chosen to produce the work’.

  ‘Is that what happened with this one?’ Dee asked, pointing at the one she’d picked out a moment ago.

  Annie shook her head. ‘That was a private commission. We get those too. Lots of wealthy people living around here. Some banker guy gave me the brief.’ She smiled at Dee. ‘He hasn’t seen it yet. If he doesn’t like it, I’ll give you a ring and let you know it’s back on the market.’

  ‘That would be great,’ Dee said.

  She was pretty sure Annie was lying, but couldn’t see the point in challenging her on it. As far as she was concerned, if Annie didn’t want to sell her the painting, all she had to do was tell her that.

  ‘Why don’t you carry on looking through these?’ Annie said. ‘I’ll go and make us both a coffee. We’ve got a kitchen down the hall.’

  While Annie was gone, Dee immersed herself in the rest of the paintings. Alongside the landscapes, there were several more paintings that Dee quickly categorised as the ‘lonely paintings’. Images of a woman standing by herself in a room or a wide open landscape, looking lost and alone. They were beautiful but not entirely to Dee’s taste. Instead, she selected a happier painting to buy – a stunning image of two young girls running across a sandy beach flying a red kite. There was something joyous about this painting and Dee hoped it might cheer her up when Ella, Tom and Jake had gone.

  When she heard the studio door opening, she expected to see Annie coming back with the drinks. Instead, an older woman came into the studio, clearly surprised when she saw Dee.

  ‘Hello,’ the woman said. ‘I was expecting to find Annie. Do you know where she might be?’

  ‘She’s gone to make coffee,’ Dee said. ‘I’m here to look at her art. I saw her work in an exhibition and she kindly invited me to her studio to see some more of her paintings. Are you another one of the artists?’

  The woman laughed.

  ‘I wish. The only thing I’ve ever painted is my front door, and I did a terrible job. I’m Fiona, Annie’s mother.’

  Something flickered at the back of Dee’s mind. A memory. She had seen this woman somewhere before, she was sure of it. But when she tried to focus on the memory, it kept slipping away from her.

  Annie’s mother was an attractive woman; tall and slender with silver hair cut into a chic bob that reminded Dee of Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada. Dressed in navy trousers and a silk white blouse, she oozed money and class.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ she told Dee. ‘Annie’s very particular about who she lets into this space.’

  ‘Well I’m glad she’s made an exception,’ Dee said. ‘It
’s been a privilege to come here today and see the rest of her work. She’s incredibly talented, isn’t she?’

  ‘I’m so glad you think so. Oh.’ She frowned as she looked at something behind Dee.

  When Dee turned, she saw Fiona was looking at the painting she’d taken out earlier. The one with the woman sitting in the empty bar.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Dee said.

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is. I haven’t seen it before. I wonder when she did it. Sorry, what did you say your name was?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve introduced myself. I’m Dee.’

  ‘Nice to meet you. Annie’s gone to make coffee, you said?’ Fiona looked at her watch, frowning. ‘We were meant to be going for lunch, you see. I was expecting Annie to be home half an hour ago.’

  ‘Mum? What are you doing here? Oh God, I’m sorry. Is it lunchtime already?’

  Annie had come back into the studio, carrying a mug in each hand, her limp evident again as she crossed the room to hand one of the mugs to Dee.

  ‘Broke my leg when I was little,’ she said, when Dee asked about the limp. ‘Fell off a swing in the park.’

  ‘She gave us a terrible shock,’ Fiona said. ‘It healed perfectly well, apart from the limp. Which you only ever see when she’s tired. Annie darling, you’re not pushing yourself too hard are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum.’ Annie rolled her eyes at Dee. ‘You’d think at my age my mother would stop worrying about me so much, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Well I know what you’re like,’ Fiona said. ‘Take today, for instance. We were meant to be meeting half an hour ago, but you forgot.’ She looked at Dee as she continued speaking. ‘She’s got a memory like a sieve when it comes to social engagements. Once she gets in here, she forgets about everything else.’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ Annie said. ‘I just hadn’t realised it was so late. The morning’s flown by. This is Dee, by the way.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Fiona smiled at Dee. ‘We’ve already introduced ourselves.’

  ‘Dee’s here to buy one of my paintings,’ Annie continued. ‘Well, she might – if she finds something she likes.’