1972 – aged 16
The man had a brother, Christopher, who played the euphonium in the same orchestra as her dad.
This was how the introduction had come about.
Lilly was unsure about the whole idea. I mean, yes, she wanted a job, needed a job, but this sounded a little highbrow and not at all what she had envisaged.
Plus it came with its own pressure – the fact that he was connected to her dad, even loosely; she’d never want to let him down, embarrass him.
She had been hoping to maybe work at HMV on Oxford Street, thinking that might be cool, and any discount on records was not to be sniffed at, or even a boutique in Carnaby Street, somewhere like Lady Jane. Her dad, however, seemed keen for her to take advantage of his connection.
‘Some of those places in the West End attract all sorts. You can’t be too careful.
’ She had no idea what ‘all sorts’ meant, and chose not to confess that she was eager to find out.
‘Bertie is a legend and a gent. If he takes you on, and there’s no guarantee he will’ – her dad extended his index finger – ‘it might just be the making of you.’
This in turn invited another question: was he saying she was unmade now, and what the heck did that mean?
Lilly went along for the interview, half hoping she didn’t get it, half hoping she did. And having stopped en route at Moody’s – the café on the corner – now stood before her potential employer with a hot, bitter espresso sloshing in her veins, which had made her feel a bit fizzy. In a good way.
‘So, Chris said you live on the banks of the river, you lucky old thing!’
‘Yes, in Vauxhall.’
‘Oh, you poor love!’ The man shook his head, fingers splayed on his chest.
Lilly didn’t know if he was being funny, and so continued, ‘Yes, it’s a small block.’
Bertie Barnes, the gallery owner, gasped and now clutched his chest as if mortally wounded. ‘No! No! No! Do not ever call it a block! Not ever! That word is enough to bring me out in hives, and I’m far too pretty for that. You live in a small development, darling, a small, bijou development.’
‘What’s the difference?’ She was confused.
‘The fact you need to ask tells me there is much work to be done with you!’
She laughed to hide her nerves.
‘And you like art, Bob?’ the man asked as she looked around the walls at the carefully curated exhibition of monochrome minimalism that put her in mind of zebras and Everton Mints.
Wisely, she chose not to share this astute observation.
Her love of art stemmed from all she saw from the riverbank outside the small, bijou development where she lived.
What had started as a means to appease and please her dad had quickly turned into her favourite obsession.
If Lilly had her way, she would quite like to spend each and every day sitting on the towpath with her easel, capturing her view from the south side of the river.
It was her happy place, and there was something quite hypnotic about staring at the water, always starting with a small wave across to the other side, of course.
Seconds became minutes that slipped into hours and she, blissfully unaware of time, felt nothing but peace, as if this were the spot where she belonged, doing the thing that brought her joy.
Becoming an artist had also piqued her interest in art.
Her dad had been right: in this city there was an abundance of galleries for her to indulge her passion.
‘I do, yes, and it’s—’ She tried to interject, to explain her name was actually Lilly-Bob, but he wasn’t listening.
‘Good! Good!’ The man clapped, his turquoise chiffon scarf floating up from his neck and settling again on the shoulder of his pale safari jacket as he turned quickly on his built-up heel, almost twirling.
He clasped his hands under his chin, his large garnet signet ring looking way too heavy for his pinky.
This observation, too, she kept to herself.
He was a handsome man, putting her in mind of David Cassidy.
‘So, who’s your favourite? What’s your favourite?
Tell me all!’ he asked with an enthusiasm that was infectious.
‘Oh!’ It felt very much like being put on the spot.
‘My favourite is my dad, I guess. He’s great, kind and funny, an artist too’ – she nodded as if this might give her some pedigree – ‘and he loves music. We always have music playing. And what’ – she tapped her teeth with her index finger – ‘what is my favourite? I guess reading followed by napping, I’m big into naps, but what I love most is sitting by the river, and I paint too. But I’m not as good as my dad.’
Bertie Barnes stopped and stared at her. ‘You sweet, sweet thing. I meant who is your favourite artist, what is your favourite painting or medium?’
‘Oh, oh!’ She felt her cheeks flush red and was glad no one else was around to witness her humiliation. ‘I’m a bit nervous. And I had a coffee at Moody’s,’ she offered by way of explanation. ‘Sorry.’
‘Never apologise, Bob. You’re quite delightful, is what you are!’
His lovely manner helped put her at ease, erasing some of her embarrassment.
‘My favourite artist changes, but at the moment I am fascinated by the work of Emma Amos. Her paintings have life, movement, colour; I feel like I know her through them. Some art feels anonymous, don’t you think?
People claim it, sign it, and it might be wonderful, thought-provoking, beautiful, detailed, but it doesn’t necessarily allow you to get to know the artist. Doesn’t make you feel .
. . But Amos’s work is like looking at her family album, her diary, her soul .
. .’ Aware she’d gone into a mini monologue, she took a breath and stared at Bertie. ‘Do you know what I mean?’
‘I do indeed, my dear, and so will my clients here at B’Art. Always trust that voice of instinct when it comes to what you like and don’t like. A piece only has to appeal to you – you can’t give a hoot what anyone else thinks, remember that. I think you’ll do splendidly! Welcome aboard!’
‘Thank you!’ She felt the explosion of joy in her chest: she had only gone and got the job! Her dad would be over the moon.
‘So what kind of painter are you? Is it a labour of love, or are you a tortured artiste? Is it a hobby, or do you feel the need to improve?’
‘I’m not sure. I want to get better. I’m still figuring it out. I can paint, but I’m not proud of my work, not yet,’ she admitted.
‘You need to relax into it, let the brush move, let the paint create what your eyes see, don’t overthink it.
Allow the picture to form in a way that is natural, capturing the way it makes you feel, so much so that it’s almost a surprise to you when you see the finished article. Does that make sense?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded, even though it didn’t, not at all.
‘Now, first things first, what are you like at making tea?’
‘Good, I think.’ She beamed, knowing no one had ever complained about the strength of her brew.
‘I think I’ll be the judge of that. Now, go and put the kettle on. I want to hear more about your hobbies. Napping sounds fascinating!’
She laughed loudly at his sarcasm, falling more than a little bit in love with the handsome gallery owner. It was after they had sunk three large mugs of tea that Bertie produced a packet of Garibaldis, which they unashamedly dunked while sitting in the back room cum kitchenette.
‘You gotta boyfriend?’ he asked casually. How she loved their chat! Like they hadn’t just met, like they were friends.
‘No!’ She snorted, insinuating that she was not exactly girlfriend material.
‘Well, that will all change when you get to art college. I can sense it, you are ready to bloom!’
‘Maybe.’ She shrugged, unwilling to admit, knowing how crackers it sounded, that she shied away from romance.
Because to have a special someone would feel cruel, knowing her dad was alone while her mum cavorted in a flat above a shop on the Tottenham Court Road.
She figured that if she, too, were to have a great love, it would mean he was the only one without it, and she hated the thought of making him feel that way.
It wasn’t a topic that reared its head at home, knowing her dad still thought she was a baby in some ways.
A baby with a job! The thought thrilled her.
‘I have!’ Bertie danced his feet on the blue linoleum floor.
‘You have what?’ She bit her Garibaldi, having lost the thread.
‘A boyfriend!’
‘Oh!’ It wasn’t his homosexuality that was a surprise, but rather his comfort in expressing it. She felt it was both a privilege and a tie that would bind them closer, in the way that sharing secrets often did. It made her feel like a grown-up.
‘His name is Jack. He’s beautiful – I mean, stunningly beautiful!
He works in fashion and is entirely unsuitable; from Croydon, of all places.
’ He pulled a face. She nodded but was unsure why being a Croydon resident made Jack unsuitable.
‘I mean, it’s so provincial! Net curtains, knitted loo-roll holders, pampas grass and Viennese Whirls resting on a saucer! Can you imagine?’
‘I really can’t.’ She spoke the truth, without the first clue as to what he was talking about.
‘I like you, Bob.’
‘Thank you. I like you too.’
‘I do worry, though, that we sound like an old music-hall act. Bertie and Bob!’
She laughed out loud. ‘What would our act be?’
‘Oh, it would have to be a song-and-dance number – I’m seeing a top hat, fishnets, hot pants, high heels . . . and God only knows what you’d wear!’
This time she laughed until her eyes watered.
‘Another cup of tea, Bob?’
‘Why not!’ She lifted her mug.
‘Well, you know where the kettle is – what am I, the waitress?’ Bertie scoffed, and already she knew that she loved her job and was very glad her dad had made her apply.
Her walk home from Pimlico had been a joy, filled as she was with the lingering delight of success in her veins, and far more caffeine than she was used to consuming.