Chapter Twelve
I instinctively checked my phone again as I spritzed myself with sun cream. I couldn’t leave the bloody thing alone; it was like a physical tic. Checking and rechecking, then checking again. But nope, still nothing. An empty screen. Nothing to do or reply to. Ordinarily it was full of messages from Holly, Kat and Sara and the family, notifications of tags and mentions, and invites to parties. Lists of alerts to scroll through. But today, there was absolutely nothing, and I felt lost without its direction. I was used to being at the beck and call of my family and friends, waiting for the next favour to be asked, the next party to arrange, the next question to answer. But it seemed I was getting a collective break. Either that or I’d been forgotten. I hadn’t even had an update from Phoebe… beyond that one message a few days back.
Phoebe:For God’s sake will you please just have a holiday and enjoy it. I’d kill to switch places with you right now. DON’T MAKE ME COME OUT THERE.
I’d been expecting a piranha-fest of offers once people knew I was available again, but that hadn’t been the case so far and I didn’t know what to do with myself when everything went quiet. I rubbed the last two dollops of sun cream into my arms and put my purple bikini on. The birds were chirruping happily on the balcony, singing loud and proud to cover the incessant buzzing of what sounded like a drone overhead. I tried to spot it and was immediately distracted by the view, the vineyard stretching into the distance as part of a never-ending patchwork of fields. It was hard to care about work with the smell of coconut sun cream in the air and the sun on my face. Nero had found his way onto my bed and was asleep on his back, with his paws in the air, making the occasional squeak as he dreamt. That dog was a masterclass in relaxation. If I could get to ten per cent of his level of chill, I’d be a new woman.
I wandered downstairs for my fourth pool day in a row and walked straight into Paolo.
‘Ah! Buongiorno, Abi,’ he said, his face lighting up. ‘There you are.’
‘Here I am,’ I agreed, looking around, gingerly.
‘I’ve found her!’ he shouted towards the patio, as I walked through, cautiously. Who was he announcing my arrival to?
It was a BB Assemble situation. Dawn and Ellie, Ian and Cathy, and Tony were stood next to two rows of easels around the swimming pool, with Mia in the middle.
‘Good morning, Abi, we have been waiting for you,’ she said, smiling with relief.
‘Have you? Sorry, I didn’t realise…’ I had a flashback to my fifteen-year-old self, late for school again because I’d been smoking with the boys. I’d totally forgotten today was the start of Mia’s art classes.
‘It is our first painting session today – now,’ Mia said, sweetly.
Tony raised his eyebrows in mock disappointment, as if I should’ve known better.
I smiled and put my towel and bag on one of the chairs. I was wearing a see-through yellow dress over my bikini, so I wasn’t exactly dressed for the occasion, but I’d have to make the best of it.
‘Of course it is! I’m so sorry I’m late,’ I said, standing behind the last remaining easel, opposite Tony.
‘No problem, you’re here now. OK. Thank you all for coming, and for trying this with me,’ Mia said, shyly. ‘Unfortunately, the model we had booked has not shown up…’ He’s probably waiting for a bus somewhere, I thought to myself. ‘So today we will work in pairs and paint each other. Is this good with you?’
We all nodded enthusiastically.
I looked across at Tony. ‘I guess that’s you and me then.’
‘I guess so. You lucky thing.’
There was no getting away from him. Mia handed each of us a pencil and a wooden palette. ‘All the paints are over here on this table, just add a little of whatever you need and mix them together,’ she instructed.
It had been a while since I’d painted a picture as opposed to a face, and I felt a frisson of excitement at the familiar weight of the palette in my hand. The smell and texture of the paints and the stillness in the air. The peace of painting. I was going to enjoy this.
‘Use your pencils to outline in the first instance if it helps. To get the shapes and perspectives right before you add the paint.’
‘Where do you want me?’ Tony asked, putting his hands behind his head, and flexing his muscles.
‘We paint each other at the same time, don’t we?’ I said, confused. ‘I wasn’t planning to paint you in the nude, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Spoilsport,’ he said, disappointed.
Tony started sketching from behind his easel. His eyes racing back and forth between me and his paper, concentrating on his masterpiece.
‘Prepare to be disappointed,’ he said, with a chuckle.
‘Are you going for an Impressionist approach or painting me as you see me?’
‘I’ve decided on a Cubist feel. Square eyes, rectangular ears, a boxy nose… that sort of thing,’ he replied, cheekily.
‘My button nose could never be boxy.’
‘I’m using some extreme artistic licence.’
I pencilled out the big shapes. Tony’s easel, his head and shoulders, and the contours of his arm as he held his brush. His linen shirt and elaborate pale blue Swatch – the third different watch I’d seen him wearing. I found it easy to outline the blocks, my muscle memory kicking in from the hundreds of sketches I’d done at art school. A line here, a smudge there, a softer pencil for shading and hashing, concentrating on his skin tone to add light and shade. Staring at his eyes, to try and capture their shape and intensity as they switched from soft to studious, fleeting in their feelings and constantly changing.
I stopped for a moment to study him. The muscles in his painting arm shifting as he worked – the same arm that had scooped me up and thrown me on the bed with abandon only a few nights ago. My breath quickened as he glanced up and caught me staring a little too hard. There. That was the look I wanted to capture. Wide-eyed, open, questioning. Almost worried.
‘Everything OK?’ he asked.
I nodded, moistening my lips. His military-style hair had started growing out around his ears and there was an Italian curl in there desperately trying to get out.
‘I’m just looking,’ I said, sliding my sunglasses onto my head.
‘Nothing wrong with looking,’ he replied. His eyes slowly moved down my body as he worked, and my dress whipped about in the wind. Back and forth, from me to his easel, eventually bringing his gaze back up to my face.
I sketched out the curve and arch of his calves, remembering how it had felt to have those legs wrapped around me, his arms above my head. His body felt too easy to draw somehow; I almost knew it without looking. I focused on his feet to pull myself together and put the finishing touches to my pencil layer. It had been forever since I’d drawn freely, just for the fun of it. Caught up in the flow of creativity and playing with shapes and colours. It was the inner quiet of drawing and painting that I loved. The presence of mind it took to look at something and really see it, then commit it to paper in my own way.
‘Very good, Abi!’ Mia said, as she wandered past, and I glowed at the praise. ‘You must be a professional, no?’ She looked genuinely perplexed.
‘I studied art,’ I said, shyly, feeling like I was cheating somehow. Poor Tony wouldn’t be able to compete. ‘And being a make-up artist gives me an advantage – I spend most of my life staring at people and drawing on them.’
‘Wow, well I wish you were drawing me,’ she said, moving past to peer over Tony’s shoulder. It felt good to have some positive feedback. I’d loved my art teacher at school, Mr Pepper. Always encouraging me to fight against my imposter syndrome, pushing me to experiment with watercolours and oils and different types of paper. I’d loved playing with the materials and combining colours that had no logical reason to be together, just to see what happened. It was a joy in those early school days to be able to go for it with no expectation of perfection. Before the exams came along and we had to take everything seriously.
‘Tony! You are very talented, too!’ Mia said, delighted.
He gave her a playful nudge. ‘Gee, thanks, sis,’ he said, looking pleased with himself. I was desperate to see what he’d done, but I wasn’t ready to share.
‘I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours,’ he said, with a wink.
‘Not yet,’ I said, my paintbrush in my mouth, using the pencil to capture the furrow of his brow and the cheeky curiosity on his face. This man had so many expressions, and those blue eyes staring at me in duplicate made me want to walk over and rip his clothes off. There was something irresistible about the way he was studying my face. He was really looking at me. Taking me in. I used a softer pencil to add more depth and definition to his eyes, light strokes at first, using my fingers to blur the charcoal around his eyelids. Stroking his face on paper, then moving down to outline his lips as he watched me.
‘Where did you study?’ he asked, interrupting my fantasy.
‘Leeds University,’ I replied. ‘A fine art degree. I loved it.’
‘Getting lost in art is one of life’s real pleasures.’ Tony nodded. ‘Painting, drawing, writing – it’s completely absorbing. Meditation in action.’
‘Mum and Dad love going to art galleries, and they have stacks of art books at home. I was obsessed with them when I was little – I still am. I’d try and copy the paintings with my felt tips and Mum would stick my pictures up all over the house.’
‘A mini art exhibition?’
‘I’m not sure anyone but my mum and dad would have called it art.’
‘Sounds very cute. They encouraged your talents and that’s what matters. My obsession was always film. I studied at the New York Film Academy in Florence,’ Tony said. ‘The city is incredible – one of my favourite places.’
‘I’d love to go. I’ve always wanted to visit the Botticelli Room and see The Birth of Venus; I’ve just never had the time to come over before.’
‘Well, you’re here now, and you have all the time in the world,’ Tony said. ‘Florence is the home of fine art – you should go while you’re here. We can go to the Uffizi and see the Botticelli Room together, if you like?’
‘I wish I could. Holly suggested it too, but the museum is closed for renovation works for two weeks. What are the chances, eh? So I’ll have to stick to the photos for now.’ I took a dot of pink paint and added a smidge of brown, mixing the colours to get the right level of coffee cream for Tony’s olive skin.
‘What? I’ve never known it to be closed before. Half the building must’ve fallen down for it to be shut for so long. What a shame. Although there is so much more than the Uffizi in Florence if you’re looking for art. You can go and see the original David?’
‘I could, but I just can’t imagine being in Florence, and not going to the Botticelli Room. The Birth of Venus is one of Dad’s favourite paintings, and we had a massive print of it on the bathroom wall growing up. In fact, it’s still there. I remember Dad telling five-year-old me that the original was over five hundred years old and had been painted with egg yolks, and both facts had blown my young mind. To be so close and not see it would be unthinkable. I’d rather wait and come back some other time.’ The problem was some other time never came. A moment in the future that was always just out of reach. ‘So you studied film, and now you work in film,’ I said. ‘That’s impressive. Setting out your intentions early on.’
‘Mom always loved Sophia Loren, which sparked an early obsession with her – and with film – for me,’ Tony said, with a wicked smile. ‘And it’s been my passion ever since.’
‘Oh. Well, that makes sense.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘I had a similar situation with my mum and Marilyn Monroe’s make-up, so I totally understand.’
‘I watched every one of Sophia Loren’s films, several times, and then eventually moved on to the others, you know; Batman, James Bond, Star Wars – the usual.’
‘Spaghetti westerns?’
‘Er… no. Sophia was my only screen siren. Clint Eastwood didn’t do it for me.’
‘Fair enough. He’s not my type either. And then you went to LA to find a modern-day version of her?’
Tony was painting exuberantly now, splattering different colours onto his easel. He had quite a job on his hands to make my body work under this dress. Layering yellow over purple would not be easy. I was dying to see if he’d just given up and drawn me as a stick woman with boobs.
‘No such thing as a Sophia Loren outside of Italy. The women in LA are quite a different breed – in my experience anyway. Best avoided.’
‘That’s quite the generalisation.’
‘Hmm… fair enough,’ he said, looking forlorn. ‘Maybe I’m just unlucky in love.’
‘OK, you have been going for nearly an hour,’ Mia said, clapping her hands. ‘Time to take a break and share with each other.’
I glanced up at Tony, feeling shy to show him, but knowing I had to. ‘I’ll go first,’ I said. I’d started to get the shapes and colour blocks in place, and some of the details of his face, but it wasn’t anywhere near ready. He came over and stood behind me, the heat from his body giving me goosebumps, as I tried to read his thoughts.
‘It’s just a rough outline really,’ I said, dismissing it.
‘No, not at all. You’ve captured me well,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Especially my face. My expression is spot on.’ He raised a well-coiffed eyebrow and nodded slowly. I think he was impressed. I hoped so. I wanted him to be.
‘My turn,’ I said, ducking under his arm and running over to his easel. I felt my breath catch as I stopped and stared. Tony’s painting was full of colour, bright pinks and purples, my hair an acid blue. At first glance, it looked like some kind of sea monster, but as I stood back, I saw her face. My face, swirling amid all the colours.
‘I love it,’ I breathed, my eyes fixated. It was so different to what I’d been expecting; my style was so classic and ordinary in comparison. Boring.
‘Well, it’s just the beginning of something,’ he said, with a modest shrug.
‘It’s much more than that,’ I said, mesmerised. ‘It’s beautiful.’ I couldn’t work out what he’d done. Why it grabbed me so completely. My hair was wildly billowing in blue, my eyes larger than life. ‘I can’t stop staring at it,’ I said, glancing up at Tony in wonder. He gave a bashful smile at my obvious pleasure. How had he captured me so masterfully? The painting was a version of me laid bare that even I hadn’t seen for a while. I felt completely exposed. He’d painted in the smiles as well as the sadness. The everything. It was all somehow in there. The me I didn’t think people could see. Wrapped up in the feelings I hadn’t realised were so visibly on show.