Chapter Sixty-Two
A week after the exhibition at Lavelle’s gallery and Venetia’s disastrous encounter with Lucien, a large square package arrived at Hope Hall for her. It had been left in the communal hallway downstairs and a neighbour, having seen Venetia’s name scrawled across it, brought it up to her apartment.
She was now removing the wrapping and wondering what on earth it could be. Whoever had wrapped it had gone to a lot of trouble to ensure its safe arrival. There was no end of sticky tape, cardboard and paper to deal with.
When she at last had the final layer of wrapping removed and realised it was a painting she had in her hands, she let out a gasp of shock.
For there was her childhood self! It simply wasn’t possible, yet it was.
It was her as a young girl sitting under a tree while staring off into the distance, her face slightly upturned, catching the dappled sunlight.
There was something almost noble about her expression, a quality she surely couldn’t have possessed at so tender an age.
Her eyes moved from her face on the canvas to the lower corners searching for where the artist had signed his name.
There was no name, but then she didn’t need to see one to know who had painted the picture. But why? And when?
She turned the picture over and saw an envelope stuck to the back of it. Carefully putting the picture flat on the floor, and with her heart racing, she opened the envelope and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
Dear Venetia,
Your first reaction might be to hurl this daub of mine from the roof of Hope Hall and send it crashing to the ground, and I wouldn’t blame you if you did.
I painted the portrait of you many years ago, when I decided I might have sufficient talent to do your memory justice.
In my mind’s eye this was how I thought of you, and I’d say it’s a fair likeness.
But don’t go thinking it’s a peace offering or some kind of olive branch.
Or even an apology. It’s not. It’s just a painting. One I’d like you to have.
I believe we said all we needed to say last week in Cambridge, and I have no desire to rake over any more old memories, or imagine we could be friends. I’m not the person you remembered, and I see no reason to inflict that on you, or anyone else for that matter.
Live the rest of your life just as you want to live it, and if our time together at Hope Hall means anything to you, please leave me to live mine how I want to live it. Alone.
Lucien.
She turned the piece of paper over, half hoping he might have written a P.S. But there was nothing. Just a blank page. She read the letter through one more time, thinking how very final that full stop was after Lucien’s name.
She put the letter down and returned her attention to the painting.
Propping it up in an armchair, she studied it in more detail.
The background was so rough it was hardly there, but she – the young girl with her long plaits and a sunny yellow dress which she remembered so well and was her best dress for special occasions – was very much the focus of the picture.
It was uncanny how perfectly Lucien had captured her.
How had he done that? Had he kept a photo of her, or had he had her image etched into his memory?
Either way, she knew that to have painted the picture, she had meant something to him, and that was all that mattered.
However he had come to paint this portrait of her, she knew she would treasure it.
Lucien might have dismissed it as being just a picture, but he had to have known that to her it would be so much more.
And because their time together as children had meant the world to her, she would respect his wishes.
Besides, if he wanted to find her, he knew where to look.
It then occurred to her that maybe he’d delivered the picture himself.
Perhaps curiosity had got the better of him and he’d come for a look at Hope Hall to see it once more with his own eyes.
Or was she being insensitive, that he could never come here because the place held the darkest of memories for him which he’d never been able to let go of?
Certainly, from what she’d seen of his work that night at the exhibition, there was very much a dark and a light side to him.
But thanks to this beautiful painting he’d given her, all the anger and heartbreaking disappointment she had felt after their painful encounter was gone from her. Despite his protestations about the picture being just a picture, she knew it was his way of saying sorry.
Apology accepted, my dearest old friend, she murmured. Apology accepted.