Nick laughed, thinking of the conversation between his brother and sister-in-law as he’d left. ‘I’m one of four brothers and one sister. I think we all agree that our little sister is the best-looking.’
‘Oh,’ said Tara, as if this was a very strange thing to say.
‘So what do you do when you’re not sheep farming?’ she asked.
‘It’s not exactly a nine-to-five job,’ said Nick, ‘but when I can, I like to get away from the farm. My sister lives in Paris—’
‘Oh, I adore Paris. I was there for the Paris Fashion Shows. I did a catwalk show for Dior this year. It’s such a super city. When were you last there?’
They talked Paris, with Nick dredging up everything he could possibly remember of his two visits there, until dinner arrived.
Tara certainly had a healthy appetite and scoffed down her food as if she were starving.
‘You were hungry,’ he said, looking at her clean plate as he finished the last of his food.
‘I was in the fresh air all day,’ snapped Tara, again sounding defensive.
‘I had no idea modelling was such hard work,’ said Nick. Clearly she wasn’t used to the sort of banter he enjoyed with his family. He ought to remember she wasn’t from a big family like his.
‘It’s not for everyone. I don’t think people realise how hard it is. They just think we turn up and have our photos taken.’
The waiter appeared and took away their plates before returning with the dessert menu. ‘Would you like anything else?’ he asked.
‘I shouldn’t,’ said Tara, perusing the menu, her tongue poking out rather adorably between her lips. ‘Are you going to have anything?’
‘I’ve not really got a sweet tooth.’
Her face fell.
‘But we could share something, perhaps?’ he suggested.
‘Yes, the profiteroles. I adore them.’
Nick ordered dessert with two spoons, although he needn’t have bothered because, although the dish was placed in front of him, as quick as a snake, Tara’s hand would strike and snatch a spoonful of choux pastry and cream. She made regular moans of delight with each mouthful.
‘I haven’t had chocolate in ages. I’d forgotten how delicious it is. Such a sensual pleasure, don’t you think?’ She dipped her spoon in the last of the chocolate sauce and slowly licked the back of it with long slow strokes, all the while her eyes intent on Nick. She let out a breathy sigh. ‘That silky richness on your tongue.’ She ran her tongue up and down the handle of the spoon, her eyes dark and sultry with the sort of promise that had Nick shifting in his seat, very relieved that the tablecloth was covering things up.
When the waiter came to clear away the dessert dish, Nick was ready to decline coffee and take Tara straight back to the George. Given the suggestive signals she’d been sending him, he thought they were on the same page, but she rose from her seat, tossing her napkin on the table.
‘Darling, could you order me an espresso? I just need to go to the ladies. Sort myself out.’
‘OK,’ he said, ordering himself a cappuccino and settling back in his seat, feeling his heated skin start to cool. He pulled out his phone, quickly checking his Facebook feed, smiling as he saw a post from his sister, Nina.
Chocolate Heaven was the caption underneath a picture of a perfect chocolate éclair and her fingers and thumbs just beyond it, shaped in a love heart.
God, how much would Tara enjoy one of those and what sort of state would he be in, watching her eat it?
Looks delish, sis, he posted quickly, scrolling through more of her pictures. Since going to Paris to run a patisserie and moving in with her boyfriend, Sebastian, who happened to be Nick’s best friend, Nina had become the queen of éclairs and all things sugar. Perhaps he could take Tara there one day. He had a sneaking suspicion she might rather like it.
He commented on a few pictures, liked a few others and then realised a full fifteen minutes had elapsed. Where was Tara? Please don’t say she’d done a runner. No, surely not. Despite his pre-date qualms, it had gone pretty well. She certainly seemed interested. Without being big-headed about it, he got on with women. Most dates he went on turned out well, more than well sometimes, although there had been the one time he’d been on a blind date with one of Gail’s friends, who turned out to be best friends with one of his exes. That had been rather excruciating.
Just as he was seriously considering sending a search party up to the ladies, Tara reappeared, her eyes glittery and her face all smiles as she slipped back into her seat and took a sip of espresso as if there was nothing wrong.
Perhaps she’d had some female issue and she was too embarrassed to say anything.
‘Ugh, this espresso is cold,’ she said, pulling a face.
‘Would you like me to get another?’ said Nick equably, not wanting to make her feel self-conscious by saying that she had been rather a long time.
‘No, it’s OK. It’s quite late now and it will probably keep me awake.’ She looked at her watch and then gave him a beautiful, sorrowful smile. ‘You need to drop me back at the hotel. I’m afraid I need my beauty sleep. I can’t turn up tomorrow with bags under my eyes.’
‘Let me get the bill,’ said Nick, wondering at what point the evening had suddenly petered out.
Maddie gripped her knees together, her hands clasped over the kneecaps to stop them shaking, as Henry Compton-Barnes, complete with suede patches on the elbows of his jacket and a dicky bow, stared down at her work. It seemed to take forever before he finally looked up and spoke.
‘Professor Gregory is a good friend of mine and you’ve come highly recommended. I shall therefore be completely honest with you.’ His mouth pulled into a regretful line as if someone were tugging at strings attached to each end of his lips. ‘Technically, you are very good. These are well executed. The detail, in fact, is brilliant.’
Despite the words, she knew there was a giant-sized ‘but’ headed her way.
‘What I’m looking for in a painting … for this gallery …’ He shook his head. ‘These have no originality. No flair. They’re missing that je ne sais quoi, the indefinable, that makes a piece of art stand out. What I’m looking for is something that only the artist can conceive. When you look at their work, you know that only they could have painted it. I liken it to a singer, someone like, forgive me, I’m considerably older than you, but someone like Carly Simon, for example. You hear her voice and you know immediately it’s her. Her voice, like a signature, is unique and that’s what I’m looking for in a painting.
‘These, I’m afraid, are good, very good, but I don’t see your soul or any investment from you as an individual.
‘Can I give you some advice, Maddie? Go somewhere new and different. Forget everything you’ve ever been taught or thought you knew – break the rules – experiment but, most of all, paint from the heart.’
Paint from the heart. Maddie rolled her eyes, picturing a Salvador Dali image of a red heart skewered by a giant paintbrush on a desert plain, with scarlet drops dripping from the brush onto the pale yellow sand. Paint from the heart. What the hell did that mean? Had anyone told Picasso to paint from the heart? Rodin? Van Gogh? Maddie