Free Artistic Licence by Katie Fforde Page B

she had run away to Ireland with an artist. Possibly only an artist, an Irish one at that, could pay compliments so eloquently.
    He kissed her lips, briefly, but firmly. Pleasantly.
    ‘You probably want to get on and do some work,’ she said, clearing her throat and glancing at her watch. ‘Lara and I will toddle to the beach, but then – would it be all right if I had a look at what’s in the shed?’
    ‘Trust me to pick a woman who’s more interested in my etchings than in me.’
    Thea smiled, glad to feel back in control. ‘You don’t do etchings, do you?’
    ‘Go and look at my daubs, and don’t blame me if you don’t like them.’
    The paintings were all stacked up along one wall. They were huge and there were no windows or electricity in the shed, so she opened the door to let in some light. She suspected that Rory had only let her see the paintings because he was fairly confident that she would see little or nothing of them.
    However, when a shaft of silvery sunshine hit the first picture, Thea knew she would have to drag each one outside to have a proper look. They were stunning: beautiful, painterly works. They were landscapes, enormous rectangular views of the sea, the islands and the mountains. The quality of the light was superb; it glittered, making Thea believe that if she walked into the picture she would feel the brightness of the sun contrasting with the coldness of the air. He had done with paint what she could never quite have managed with a camera.
    There were also still lifes and nudes, old-fashioned, discreet. Thea inspected the women’s faces, to see if one of them was Susan, but she realised that these were naked women and Susan was still a girl.
    The painting was masterly, with hardly a brush stroke visible, the colours so intense they seemed liquid. She felt that if she stepped into their viscous depths she would emerge icy with sea water, or bloodstained.
    Thea was enraptured. She hadn’t seen new work which so moved her for years and nothing so exciting.She felt she was looking at the work of a new Granet. This was not the work of an Impressionist, or a conceptual artist, but a real, old-fashioned painter.
    One by one she took each canvas out of the shed to inspect it in the light. There were ten in all and each one was different, each breathtakingly beautiful. In the right hands, they would fetch thousands and thousands of pounds.
    ‘It’s one o’clock, haven’t you seen enough yet?’ Rory, coming up behind her, made her jump out of her skin. She’d been so lost in his work that she’d completely forgotten about him.
    ‘I don’t think I can ever see enough of these paintings,’ she said, aware that if she weren’t very careful she would start to cry.
    Rory took her in his arms and held her tight. They stood together at the top of a windy hill overlooking Clew Bay, wrapped in each other’s arms, overcome with an emotion neither of them recognised.
    ‘I think you’re probably a genius,’ she said.
    This time he kissed her properly, passionately, deeply, bringing her already alerted senses to a peak of sensation. Her head whirled and swam, and when he drew her down on to the damp grass she let him kiss her more. It was only when his fingers started to fiddle with the toggles on her borrowed duffel coat that she pushed away his hand and sat up. ‘Not yet, Rory. You have to take it slower.’
    Rory pushed his hand through his dark hair and shook his head. ‘No one has seen my work for a long time. I got a bit carried away.’
    ‘So did I. It’s wonderful, fantastic work. You’re an incredible painter and you could be rich. If youshowed those paintings in the right place you’d make your fortune.’
    ‘Are you sure? I tried it once, remember.’
    ‘You wouldn’t blow it like that again. And no, I’m not at all sure. I don’t know about markets or anything, but I know good work when I see it. You’ve got to show it, Rory. It’s selfish just to keep it here, hidden