Chapter 39
THIRTY-NINE
Glanna Pascoe, Seahaven Bay’s visiting artist and bohemian beauty, stood with her back to the amazing view in the barn in her usual attire: a linen smock streaked with every colour of the rainbow, gold hoop earrings, a red lip and battered Doc Martens.
Her cropped blonde hair was perfectly cut and at her feet lay Banksy, her graceful whippet.
All slender limbs, soft black fur, and liquid eyes that held the kind of wisdom most people didn’t inherit until their last decade.
He blinked slowly at the gathered group staring at him and his owner, the very embodiment of calm resignation that he was about to be subjected to a lot more scrutiny.
Glanna had driven over from the south coast town of Hartmouth that morning, where she still ran her art gallery in Ferry Lane Market.
Though she rarely mentioned it, rumour had it that a very well-known film star once bought three of her trademark rainbow paintings after her exhibiting alongside famous Cornish artist Isaac Benson.
After Rita had welcomed Glanna to the group, the attractive artist cleared her throat and smiled widely. ‘Welcome, everybody: reluctant artists, wannabe artists or maybe we have a Rembrandt amongst us. I just wanted to say a few words before we start.’
She was quiet for a second before she began her soliloquy.
‘Why does art matter? I find it’s not just about learning to paint or draw pretty pictures.
It’s about reconnecting with a part of us that can get lost in all the noise and the mess of life.
Art gives us a way to breathe, to feel, and sometimes to heal.
It reminds us that creativity and hope live inside us, even when things are tough. ’
‘Hallelujah,’ Michael shouted out. Amazingly, there wasn’t a murmur from anyone else.
‘So, whether it’s an object, or an animal or just a splash of colour on a page, every stroke is a little act of courage. And here, in this space, we can all be brave together.’
Rita saw Emily take a huge breath, then, as Glanna clapped her hands to start the class, she noticed that despite her wedding ring, Paul was checking the artist out with an intensity that was hard to miss.
For a moment, she expected to feel something, jealousy maybe, or that familiar twinge of being overlooked.
But nothing came. Just a quiet, unexpected sense of peace.
She wasn’t bothered. And more than that, she was glad that she wasn’t.
Becoming aware of her own wedding ring, she began twisting it, the gold warm from her skin. Ten months. Was that long enough to start letting go? She had already let herself go a little bit on the beach with Paul and the feelings she had for Jago, although confusing, were far from chaste.
She didn’t feel ready to take it off, not exactly, but she also wasn’t sure what she was still waiting for.
Some sign? Some thunderbolt moment of permission?
She knew that grief didn’t come with a checklist and “till death us do part”, that oft-recited wedding vow, had not made much sense to her before, but today, with everything that was going on, it glaringly did.
She turned the ring once more, slowly, then let her hand fall back into her lap. Not right now. But maybe soon.
Glanna remained upbeat. ‘Rita did think it might be fun for us to try and paint one of her goats.’ The artist gave Rita a sly wink.
‘But our oblong-eyed models really weren’t in the mood.
’ A slight titter from the audience, who were all sitting in the barn on milking stools with easels incorporating a paint tray in front of them – Zenya included, as she had told Rita how much she enjoyed learning a new skill.
Glanna had asked Rita, quietly but firmly, if they could keep the session alcohol-free.
‘Just a preference,’ she’d added with a gentle smile.
So Zenya had prepared a mocktail punch for the break, which was cooling in the fridge, and had named it a ‘Picasso Punch’: a delicious blend of mango, pink grapefruit and pomegranate juices, brightened with fresh lime and mint, finished with a splash of the sparkling elderflower fizz that Rita still had buckets of.
‘Today, you’ll be painting the noble, tragic, underappreciated muse of my life.’ She gestured grandly to the floor. ‘My Banksy.’
As if on cue, Banksy gave a long-suffering sigh.
Michael squinted at him. ‘He looks like a furry croissant. How am I meant to paint that?’
‘Have you ever seen a furry black croissant?’ Lola asked, immediately regretting that question as the whole group fell about in peals of laughter.
‘If he plays his cards right,’ Annie added to a response of complete silence.
‘I’ve put his jewel-encrusted collar on today,’ Glanna explained, ‘so you’ll get a bit of contrast against his fur.
Now, what you first need to do is draw the outline of our subject in the gridded art card on your easels in pencil, then afterwards rub out the lines with the eraser provided.
It’s a bit like painting with numbers really.
I want you all to come away with something you can frame and keep, whether it be for your toilet, or someone else’s. ’
Rita smiled, pleased with her choice of artist. Jude had heard about Glanna through Isaac Benson, whose paintings he adored.
Glanna wasn’t expensive either; she had said as long as her gallery got some promotion, she loved doing events like these.
Now a fairly famous artist, she enjoyed keeping things real and giving back by sharing her skills.
Annie tilted her head. ‘Is it wrong that I want legs like those? The dog’s, not the artist. I mean, look at them.’
Paul, chewing the end of his brush, said solemnly, ‘I think he’s embodying the fragility of the modern male.’
Lola screwed up her nose. ‘Fragile? Do women even want fragile men? Perleese. I’d take a furry croissant over a sensitive snowflake any day, and that’s coming from a lesbian who’s already had enough drama to keep a soap opera in plot for at least a year.’
Emily sat quietly at the edge of the group, sketching furiously.
When her eyes met Rita’s, she gave a small, grateful smile, one that said she knew this whole mad class had probably been arranged just for her.
A lump rose in Rita’s throat. For Emily, this wasn’t just about painting, it was proof that art still had a place in her troubled life. That she still had a place.
And in that one watery look, Rita suddenly understood just how much this retreat meant, not only to her, but to everyone who had crossed its threshold… and everyone to come.