‘You shouldn’t belittle your work, Evie. It’s true – Jaxx doesn’t need any extra publicity for this to be the must-have invitation of the month. But, if I was forced to choose between one of your watercolours and one of those moody, abstract landscapes over there, then I would choose yours every single time.’
Evie smiled at the enthusiasm in her friend’s voice and opened her mouth to thank her for her support, but Pippa hadn’t finished her lecture.
‘You should still make time to paint. It’s what you love the most, isn’t it? Why don’t you take a few days off next week? Go home to Cornwall and take your easel with you? Start chasing your own dreams instead of other people’s! You know what Sam says. We all have to be prepared to “carve out the time to coax our passions from their slumber”,’ quoted Pippa using her fingers as speech marks. ‘And don’t forget that “creativity is a muscle that needs to be exercised to keep it in tiptop condition.”’
‘Yes, well, not all of us are as fortunate as Sam “Silver Spoon” Bradbury. When you have a lucrative career as a newly qualified barrister to fall back on, you can spend as much time as you want on “flexing your creative muscles”!’
Evie hoped the envy in her voice wasn’t as apparent to Pippa’s ears as it was to her own. Everything her friend had said was right of course. She suspected that shelving her dream of becoming a commercially successful artist was the real cause of her recent melancholy and insomnia and not the stress of organizing Jaxx Benson’s debut.
When she had taken on the role of manager and curator for one of the hippest independent art galleries in London’s West End two years ago, she had reassured herself every time she surveyed a fresh exhibition with the ‘one day this will be mine’ mantra. But the leather portfolio under her bed had become a comfortable colony for dust bunnies that even a ravenous Dyson would struggle to evict.
She refused to admit it to anyone but she was now frightened to revisit her canvases in case the unbridled passion she had possessed at university had been shipwrecked on the sea of necessity to pay her rent. Even Pippa, the most positive person she had ever encountered, had downgraded her constant barrage of encouragement to weekly instead of daily. It was just the evening’s events that seemed to have reawakened her friend’s indignation that Evie was concealing her ambitions under a veil of workaholic mist.
‘And, whilst we’re on the subject of self-interested creatives, what’s happening with you and Dylan?’ asked Pippa, holding Evie’s gaze so that she wasn’t tempted to avoid the subject. ‘Why isn’t he gracing us with his presence tonight? What can be more important than being here to support his girlfriend?’
‘I told you, his band’s got a gig. It’s been such a long time since the last one, I couldn’t expect him to turn it down. This could be the breakthrough he needs to get his career back on track.’ Evie hoped her optimism wasn’t as misplaced as it had been many times before and that his refusal to come to the exhibition before the gig was not yet another symptom of the fizzling out of her relationship with would-be rock guitarist Dylan.
‘You can’t keep defending him, Evie. You deserve better.’
Evie flashed Pippa a grateful smile but before she was able to respond, her colleague erupted into a volley of excitable squeals.
‘Look! Look! Oh my God, I don’t believe it! The paparazzi have arrived!’
Evie took time out of her frantic list-checking mode to glance at the violet-tinged street beyond the huge, plate-glass front window. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the uniformed doormen – straight from central casting as extras in a Mafia movie – hired by James Bradbury to guard the entrance in case of gate-crashers from the Jaxx Benson Fan Club intent on getting a personal audience with their idol. It would be a fruitless wait but that never seemed to deter the most ardent of admirers.
It was almost seven o’clock and twilight had started to tickle the rooftops and send shadows skipping across the pavements. All day the sky had presented a canopy of darkening clouds but the expected rain hadn’t materialized – yet.
Pippa was right – a gaggle of photographers had set up camp on the opposite side of the road where they jostled to secure the best vantage point for their long lenses and stepladders in a misinformed fit of optimism over reality. Jaxx Benson had made it abundantly clear via his Twitter and Facebook accounts that he had no intention of attending the gallery that evening. He had declared that he had hung up his microphone and shunned his addiction to the limelight to concentrate on his first love – not the creation of music but of art.
The pop star had stated that his life as a rampant exhibitionist – which necessitated the tossing of chairs from third floor balconies of Knightsbridge hotels – was all in the past. He had gone on to report that, now he had succeeded in evicting the stimulants provided by Messrs Jack and Daniels from his life, he was able to feel his creativity flow through his body once more and it was liberating. He professed to prefer his self-imposed isolation at his farm in South Wales and had stubbornly refused all of James Bradbury’s attempts to cajole him into appearing at his opening night, even for ten minutes.
When Jaxx had reasserted that he no longer craved publicity to justify his existence, Evie had laughed. If that were true, why then had he ordered a full-colour portrait of himself at the height of his fame to be splashed across the front cover of that evening’s glossy brochure? What was the point of the life-sized billboards flanking the entrance?
Evie shook her head and returned to the lengthy list on her iPad, grateful for her detailed preparation for the evening’s event. To her, obsessive organization was the salvation of the workaholic and had served to save her skin on frequent occasions when time was her enemy and reluctant delegation a necessity. She ran her fingertip down the remaining items.
‘Antoine, have you checked the champagne has been chilled to the correct temperature? You know how particular James is about that.’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Does anyone know why James hasn’t arrived yet? He promised he’d be here at six-thirty. He’s ten minutes late already, which is really unusual for him.’
‘Don’t worry, he’ll be here.’
‘Did you display those extra copies of the inventory, Pip?’ asked Evie as she shot forward to nudge a recalcitrant canvas a little to the left.
‘Yes,’ replied Pippa automatically, rolling her eyes at Pierre when she thought Evie wasn’t looking, a smirk playing at her lips as she applied an extra layer of apricot lip gloss to her perfectly outlined cupid’s bow. ‘Relax, Evie, or you’ll have a coronary. Everything is perfect. You’ve done an awesome job. How do I look?’
‘Gorgeous, as always.’
Evie watched Pippa check her mascara in the solid gold compact her parents had presented her with when she had acquiesced to their persuasion to spend six months at the gallery belonging to her father’s best friend and fellow barrister, James Bradbury, instead of chasing around the capital’s night clubs and bars in pursuit of unsuitable men and the most exotic cocktails. Sadly, their plan had backfired as Pippa continued to reel in a string of very ineligible bachelors who called into the gallery on a regular basis to add a piece of artwork to their already bulging collections and took a fancy to the living work of art poised behind the reception desk.
And who could blame them? Pippa Newton-Smith was a classic beauty, with a smooth porcelain complexion, wide brown eyes enhanced by copious coatings of mascara, and a mane of glossy mahogany hair that rippled freely to her shoulders. But it was not these physical attributes that drew her admiring audience. She had been bestowed with a sweet, caring personality and her unquestioning friendship had provided an invaluable balm to Evie’s ragged nerves, which enabled her to sustain the manic schedule