Free Artistic Licence by Katie Fforde Page A

under his goose feather duvet and let Rory seduce her. But as much as she would have liked to, she couldn’t, somehow. Although, after a couple of nights at this temperature, she might well feel she wanted to snuggle up to someone.
    She fumbled in her washbag for her toothbrush, imagining Petal’s horrified surprise if she found out what was going on – Thea with a toyboy, and such a good-looking one. Thea had overheard Petal discussing her recent dumping of her nice-but-dull man friend with one of her mates. ‘I know he wasn’t much,’ she had said. ‘But who else would she get at her age?’
    ‘Thirty-five is the perfect age for girls,’ Thea whispered to herself smugly, as she snuggled down for the night. ‘So there, Petal!’
    Wee Susan, from down the road, found the house surprisingly tidy when she appeared the next morning at about eleven. She was not overly delighted to see Thea, however, and not, Thea deduced, because the washing up had been done. Susan had a crush on Rory the size of Croagh Patrick.
    Rory gave Susan a friendly, easy smile, which confirmed he was not an over-exacting employer. ‘Hello,Susan. Thea’s come to stay for a bit. She’s in the front bedroom, if you’d care to give it a bit of a once-over. Come on, Thea,’ said Rory, who was not an early riser. ‘I’ll show you the studio while Susan gets on with the cleaning. You’d better borrow a coat.’
    Thea tried to give Susan a sisterly smile, to show they were united by the oppression of lazy men, but Susan didn’t respond.
Perhaps later I’ll get her talking
, thought Thea, as she followed Rory up the hill.
    The studio was a huge shed with windows from ceiling to floor. In April it was decidedly chilly and must have been really freezing in winter. A wood-burning stove stood in the corner, looking too small to make much impression on the place.
    ‘You can see why I took the opportunity to do some painting in Provence. Lucky old Cézanne, with his early spring and baking-hot summers. Although the stove is surprisingly efficient. I’ll light it in a minute.’
    Thea moved towards a vast easel with a cloth over it. The painting beneath must have been the size of one of the walls in the cottage. Rory stepped in front of her.
    ‘That’s work in progress. No one sees that until it’s finished. Over there are what keep me in bread and butter. And whiskey.’ He indicated a medium-sized painting of a horse.
    It was an old-fashioned picture, representing someone’s huge wealth, but it was beautifully painted. ‘And is it a good likeness?’ she asked, teasing him.
    ‘Indeed it is. I could spend my life and earn a very good living painting racehorses.’ He made a face. ‘My aunt, the widow of the uncle who left me the house, often asks me why I don’t. The money’s certain and after all, painting is painting, isn’t it?’
    ‘No,’ she said for him. ‘One is a job and the other is your life.’
    The look he gave her was more than reward for her understanding. She picked up a battered pewter mug and changed the subject, not wanting to have Rory make love to her there and then. ‘And so, do you surround yourself with the things in your paintings, like Cézanne? Or was this just lying around?’
    He sighed, accepting her decision. ‘Women are all the same. Never satisfied until they have poked their pretty noses into every corner of a man’s heart. Hell, Thea, you’ve come a long way to see me. You can see the paintings too. They’re in the shed next door. Just don’t ask me to show them to you, or to tell you what the hell they mean.’
    ‘I don’t suppose my nose is that pretty, just nosy.’
    He took her chin and moved her head so the light shone on her fully. ‘You do have a very fine nose, but it’s your eyes which first caught my attention.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘It’s their colour, pale, yellowy green with a dark circle round them.’
    ‘Oh.’ No one had ever commented on her eyes before, which was probably why