Kate and Clara's Curious Cornish Craft Shop - Ali McNamara Page 0,3
he waits for my response.
‘Really?’ I enquire politely, turning back to the painting. ‘Why was that?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Julian says, leaning closer to the painting and to me.
‘Perhaps you could enlighten me?’
The smell of expensive aftershave and red wine fills my nostrils as I await what I expect will be a very long reply about the quality of the light, masterful brush-strokes, depth and feelings.
‘It was one of his bestsellers!’ Julian laughs, so I turn back towards him. ‘There has been more merch made of this little beauty than any of his others.’
‘Merch?’
‘Merchandise!’ He rubs his fingers together. ‘And where there’s merchandise there’s money! Lots of money!’
‘Ah, I see,’ I reply, wondering if I could dislike Julian any more than I already do. ‘I’m sure your father didn’t ever think about his paintings being commercial when he created them though, did he?’ I look at the picture again. Next to Julian’s materialism it suddenly seems so pure and innocent. I couldn’t imagine that anyone who had created a work of art as naive as this would have been so mercenary as to anticipate the money he might make from it.
‘Are you kidding? My father was the most extravagant, reckless spendthrift I’ve ever known. He loved splashing his cash around. The more the better as far as he was concerned.’
‘You paint a fine picture of him,’ I say wryly.
‘Ah …’ Julian waves his finger at me. ‘I see what you did there. You’re quite the clever little birdie, aren’t you?’
‘I try,’ I reply politely, wishing someone would come and whisk either myself or Julian away so I had to endure his company no more. Why did no one want to speak to him suddenly? You couldn’t get near him a few minutes ago.
‘So what do you do here?’ Julian asks. ‘I believe some of the guests here tonight are local businessmen and, of course, women,’ he adds, waving his hand graciously in my direction. ‘Are you one of the aforementioned?’
‘Yes, I own one of the shops on Harbour Street,’ I tell him proudly. ‘It’s a craft shop. Kate’s Cornish—’
‘How nice,’ Julian interrupts, not sounding the least bit interested. ‘Your very own shop.’
‘I’m very proud of it.’
‘I’m sure. Here,’ Julian says deftly, reaching into his pocket, ‘why don’t you take my card? Perhaps you’d like to give me a ring some time. We can chat business and other things …’ He winks suggestively and I almost vomit. ‘I’m often down in Cornwall. I have a holiday home here as well as a luxury villa in the South of France.’ He continues listing his properties as if it goes without saying. ‘Plus a flat in South London, but I doubt you get up to the Big Smoke too much, do you? It’s quite the journey from here.’
‘No,’ I reply, taking his card. I want to say so much more but I bite my tongue, I don’t want to create a scene. ‘I don’t get to the South of France much either. Taunton is usually my limit before I get jet lag.’
‘Shame,’ Julian carries on merrily, not realising what I’m saying. ‘Travelling is what I love to do most, you see … Oh … very clever! Jet lag – I get it.’
‘Julian!’ Ophelia calls, hurrying over to us to my immense relief. ‘There you are. You really must meet … Oh, you again,’ she says, not even trying to hide the disdain in her voice as she sees me. ‘Are you having a … pleasant evening?’
‘I am indeed,’ I say brightly, spying the perfect opportunity to get one up. ‘I’ve seen some wonderful paintings, and I’ve just been invited to stay in a luxury villa in the South of France to talk business …’ I tap Julian’s card casually against the palm of my hand so Ophelia can clearly see it, while I cast what I hope is a dazzling smile in his direction. ‘I’d say that’s pretty pleasant for a Tuesday evening, wouldn’t you?’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ I say to a smug-looking Julian as I take my chance to escape them both. ‘Bye, Ophelia. Thanks for an utterly unique evening.’ Astounded, she stares at me blankly. Then I turn and walk away from them as quickly as I can, knowing that if I ever see either of them again it will be far too soon, and that my being ‘in touch’ with Julian is about as likely as a seagull not stealing a tourist’s Cornish pasty this summer.