Standing well back from the large canvas dominating most of the rear wall of the gallery, Cara critically assesses it. Her bold brushstrokes and vibrant colours have created a tumultuous sea under a startling sunset. She smiles to herself, feeling the magic of a painting coming together.
‘Why, Harry, would you take a look at this?’ The gravelly American accent rings out loud and clear.
Cara turns, surprised to discover the owner of the deep voice is a dumpy, unremarkable-looking woman dressed head-to-toe in purple. A portly man with thinning hair, sporting yellow check trousers and a pillar-box-red jumper, enters the gallery behind her.
‘Good morning,’ Cara says. ‘You’ve brought out the sun.’
‘It sure has been a bit of a mixed bag since we arrived in England,’ the man responds, his accent, too, giving him away as American.
‘Oh, honey, what d’yer think?’ asks the woman, her voice rising in excitement.
‘I think it’s just swell, Esther,’ the man replies, joining the woman in front of the emerging masterpiece.
Cara smiles. If they stepped into the painting they would merge with its colours.
The woman turns to Cara. ‘We’re on a golf tour and some friends of ours told us to look up your little gallery while we were over here.’
‘We’ve just secured a New York condominium,’ adds the man, ‘and we’re looking for something to put on the walls.’
‘Take your time and have a good look around,’ says Cara, placing her paintbrush on the palette. ‘Would you like a coffee? I was just about to put the kettle on.’
‘Why, that’s mighty kind,’ says the man.
Cara disappears into the kitchen. Surreptitiously, she watches the couple as they walk around her gallery. If there were ever two people who belonged together it’s this pair. Both of short stature and a comfortable build, not only do they have the same dress sense, but their movements mirror each other. Peas in a pod.
‘Oh!’ The woman claps her hands together. ‘This is just adorable!’
Cara looks to see what has caught the woman’s attention. It’s a painting of Bethany. With the sea in the background and a bucket at her side, her daughter is engrossed in digging the sand with a bright red spade.
‘Reminds me of our granddaughter,’ says the man.
‘Exactly, Harry,’ says the woman. ‘This painting is definitely one of them.’
Cara’s eyebrows shoot up. How many are they thinking of buying? Placing the teaspoon on the drainer, she picks up the mugs of coffee and walks back into the gallery.
‘Thank you, young lady,’ says the man, taking a mug from her.
‘Who is this young girl?’ asks the woman.
‘My daughter, Bethany. She was five at the time,’ says Cara. ‘She’s eleven now.’
‘Oh, how delightful!’ exclaims the woman. ‘A painting of the artist’s very own daughter. This one’s definitely a keeper, Harry.’
‘I agree,’ says the man, winking at Cara.
Cara sips her coffee. Through the gallery window she spots Carol and Toby entering the courtyard. ‘Excuse me while I help my mother.’
‘You carry on, dear. We’ve got plenty to discuss,’ says the woman, grabbing Harry’s arm and dragging him to the next painting.
‘Hi, Mum.’ Cara holds open the door. ‘Potential American buyers,’ she whispers with a grin.
Carol pushes the buggy into the gallery. Since winning the Threadneedle Prize her daughter has experienced a steady stream of sales, particularly to Americans. They can’t seem to get enough of Cornish land and seascapes. It must have something to do with the Poldark effect.
Cara leans down to Toby’s outstretched arms. ‘OK, young man. Just wait a minute while Mummy undoes your harness.’
‘I bought a carton of milk,’ says Carol. ‘I noticed we were running short.’
‘Good. I’ve just used the last drop,’ says Cara, releasing Toby from his constraints. She swings him high into the air and the little boy giggles with delight. Kissing him firmly on his podgy cheek, she places his feet on the ground. Toby takes determined steps across the gallery floor.
‘Look, he’s getting more confident by the day,’ Cara comments.
As she removes her coat, Carol watches her grandson and smiles.
Reaching the playpen, the little boy grabs hold of the frame and bounces in excitement at the toys all lined up waiting for him.
Cara removes his jacket. ‘There you go, Toby,’ she says, lifting her son into the playpen. ‘Playtime!’
‘Hello,’ says Carol, passing the man on her way to the kitchen with the buggy.
‘Hi. Aren’t these paintings marvellous?’ he says.
‘They are,’ agrees Carol, ‘but then I’m a bit biased. They’re my daughter’s.’
‘You must be very proud of her,’ the man says, glancing from Carol to Cara.
‘Oh, that I am,’ says Carol with a smile. Even in Cara’s darkest moments she somehow manages to shine the brightest of lights on all their lives.
‘Harry, honey,’ calls the woman from the other side of the gallery, ‘I’ve got a shortlist. Let’s compare notes.’
At the kitchen doorway, Carol pulls a hopeful face at Cara before disappearing inside.
Cara sits at the sales counter. It’s astounding the number of people from all over the world who manage to find the gallery, tucked away as it is, but her paintings seem to be a particular favourite with Americans. Maybe Greg’s counsel is wise. Her future is in the States. What would her parents say? They wouldn’t hold her back, if that’s what she wants, and she knows they would visit regularly. Perhaps Greg is offering a future she should grasp with both hands. But still there’s that niggle.
Carol joins her daughter at the sales counter, a mug of coffee in her hands. ‘Once they’ve gone I’ll do a bit of dusting,’ she says, sitting on a stool.
‘OK.’ Cara smiles fondly at her mother. How would she cope with her daughter and grandchildren moving overseas? She’s so involved with the children. She would feel their absence the hardest. Silently Cara sighs. Why does she always feel so stretched, having to be all things to all people? Why can’t she just be…? Fear gnaws away in the pit of her stomach. Reminding herself to take each day as it comes, Cara concentrates on the colourful couple heading across the gallery towards them.
‘We’ve arrived at a decision,’ says the man in some wonder.
‘Yes,’ says the woman. ‘We’ve decided on eight.’
Hearing her mother’s sharp intake of breath, Cara makes sure she remains straight-faced.
‘Now,’ the woman continues, ‘my husband and I are in the UK for the next month, so we’d like you to arrange for the paintings to be sent to New York to coincide with our return.’
‘Of course,’ says Cara.
‘That’s a nice long holiday,’ Carol comments.
‘Golfing holiday,’ says the man. ‘We’re working our way through the great golf courses your little country has to offer, ending up at St Andrews. We’ve been staying at St Mellion and now we’re at Trevose.’
‘Ah, Trevose is a wonderful part of the county,’ says Carol.
The man nods. ‘The championship course is one of the finest in the UK and the Cornish coastline there is remarkably beautiful. We’ve played a couple of rounds so far. Had to battle the elements, though.’
‘Our weather can be changeable,’ Carol sympathises.
The man’s wife clears her throat. ‘Harry, we haven’t come here to discuss golf.’
‘Quite so, Esther.’ The man winks at Carol.
‘Now, we’d like your darling painting of your daughter on the sand,’ says the woman to Cara, ‘and Harry is particularly smitten with your large sea painting.’
‘Unfortunately, that’s not for sale,’ says Cara. ‘At least, not yet. I’m painting it for an exhibition in London this summer. If you’re still here I can send you an invitation to the private viewing in June.’
‘Aw, that’s a shame. We’ll be back home by then,’ says the woman. ‘But we don’t want it as large as that one, do we, Harry?’
‘No,’ agrees her husband. ‘Could you paint a smaller one for us?’
‘I can, but it won’t be exactly the same. I’d have to make some changes, perhaps adding a couple of dog walkers on the beach, or an island in the sea.’
‘What about a lighthouse on the horizon?’ the man asks.
‘Of course,’ says Cara, ‘anything is possible.’
‘Would it be ready in time to dispatch with the other paintings?’ asks the woman.
Cara frowns. The large seascape is coming on well but she has the smaller one to do for the Kaplans’ window display. She also needs to do a couple more paintings for the exhibition, especially if this couple are going to buy eight. ‘It will be tight, but I’m sure I can manage it.’
‘Good,’ says the woman. ‘Now, let me show you the others we would like to purchase.’ She holds out a podgy hand covered in rings to Cara. Her nails are painted purple and exactly match her outfit.
Obediently, Cara allows herself to be led around the gallery. The eight paintings come to five figures in total, plus shipping. On the point of breaking into a rapturous smile, Cara hears Greg’s voice: ‘People constantly judge. It’s what comes out of your mouth and how you present yourself to the world that creates the impression. You must be aware of that, at all times.’
‘If you’d like to give me your New York address and mobile number I can find out about shipping costs and arrange everything for you,’ Cara says. ‘I will require a 10 per cent deposit, however.’
‘Card, Harry,’ instructs the woman. Dutifully, her husband removes a credit card from his wallet.
Ten minutes later the transaction is completed.
‘Well done!’ exclaims Carol, as the colourful couple depart the gallery. She hugs her daughter proudly.
‘Crikey, I’ve got some work to do in the next few weeks!’
‘If you want cover for the gallery I’ll free myself up, and I know Sheila is itching to do more.’
‘Thanks, Mum. Where would I be without you?’ Cara says, thoughtfully.
‘Well, that’s not an issue, is it? I’m always here for you, Cara. I’m not planning on going anywhere!’