Free In Cold Daylight by Pauline Rowson Page B

communicating when we had to.
    Her gesture reminded me of my first exhibition in 1996. I had met Faye through the marketing agency the art gallery had engaged to help promote themselves and promising artists. My paintings had formed only part of the exhibition, but it was mine that Faye had chosen to promote through magazine reviews and articles. She said that my dark, lean looks would photograph well.
    The brooding young artist was how she had positioned me. I was dark, yes, and lean but I was silent because I was shy, totally uncomfortable with crowds. I couldn’t tell her then that I had suffered a complete breakdown because I sensed she would run a mile and I needed her. Not for her ability to promote me but because I had fed off her self-confidence. I had gorged myself on her strength. She boosted my ego and it had needed a lot of boosting. I had felt that with Jack’s friendship and Faye’s love I could finally close the door on my past. Stupid.
    I smiled back at Faye; it was an effort. I wasn’t as good an actor as she was. She was talking to the tubby little Lord Mayor, exuding self-confidence and bonhomie. She’d already telephoned one of her lawyer friends in London to ask how we stood about contesting the will. If there was a way then I had every confidence that Faye would find it, but I didn’t want a penny of father’s money. I also didn’t want her attending the funeral, but I couldn’t see how I could keep her away from it.
    ‘Wonderful exhibition, Adam.’ A voice broke through my thoughts and I found Nigel Steep, the manager of the commercial port, beside me.
    He was a rotund man, immaculately turned out in navy blazer and khaki-coloured slacks with a crease in them that made your eyes water.
    ‘I’m glad you like them.’
    ‘We’re going to buy a couple to hang in our reception.’
    I laughed. ‘I would have thought you’d got enough by me already.’ I’d previously been commissioned to paint the scenes from the bustling port.
    ‘Never can have too much of a good thing,’ he chuckled. ‘It’s an investment.’
    ‘Then you’d better get in quick before Faye’s friend from London snaps them up,’ I said, tossing my head in the direction of Faye and a tall, snakelike man dressed from head to toe in black relieved only by a yellow spotted bow tie. I pointed Nigel in the direction of Martin, the gallery manager, who was conversing with the waiters and he bustled off to speak to him.
    I began to circulate, nodding at this person, making the occasional remark to another but it was agony for me. Faye was giving me the evil eye, though, so I had better do my best.
    The door opened. I hoped it would be Jody but it was a slight man with limp brown hair.
    He was flanked by two burly men in smart suits.
    His eyes scanned the room but Faye, who has an inbuilt antenna when it comes to spotting VIPs, was beside him in a flash with her outstretched hand. The Lord Mayor had been hastily dumped on a woman with a hairstyle that reminded me of Margaret Thatcher, and which appeared to be rigidly held in place with enough hair spray to cause a hole in the ozone layer. Faye glanced over her shoulder and beckoned to me and reluctantly, like a recalcitrant schoolboy, I sidled across the room.
    ‘Darling, this is the Right Honourable William Bransbury, Minister for the Environment, Energy and Waste,’ Faye introduced brightly. I knew who he was.
    ‘Thank you for coming,’ I said dutifully, surprised to find his handshake rather weak.
    ‘Not at all. I’m very pleased to be invited. It’s good to support local talent and I hear you have quite a reputation as a marine artist.’
    His voice was rather high and nasal, and he looked nervous as his hazel eyes flickered around the room. Maybe he didn’t like these events, a considerable handicap for a politician, I thought.
    I had expected someone more self-assured.
    Perhaps television made them appear like that.
    ‘Would you like a drink, Minister?’ Faye