Chapter Thirteen

I met my parents for our walk the next day, and then I showed them around some local galleries, then we stopped in at a little pub on the way home. I made it until we had ordered our food before the interrogation started.

“So,” my father began, fixing me with a no-nonsense stare. “What’s your business plan for this photography?”

“Um, well, a friend of mine with some celebrity contacts has given six of my prints away for Christmas. He included a note saying I’m a new artist, so he hopes they’ll give me some free publicity. My studio also has an exhibition coming up in March, and some London art dealers and gallery owners will be there. I intend to show the sound pictures, as I think the photos of water in motion are a little derivative. I’ll put them up on my site, but I don’t think they’re my best work.”

“And what of your website? Have you had it optimized? I notice these new images aren’t up there yet.” He turned a beady eye on me.

“Um, no. My recent pictures are the first true art photographs I’ve taken, so I want to keep some separation between them and my landscape photography. At least until I’ve made a name for myself.”

“And if these London galleries don’t like you, then what?”

“I think you mean if they don’t like my work, Dad. That’s fine. My next project is going to be with frost patterns. I have some small-but-powerful magnets that I hope will react with the charge on water molecules. I hope they’ll create some fabulous patterns I can photograph.”

“And that’s it? Favors from friends of friends and one exhibition? You’ll never earn a living at this if your plans are so haphazard.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised; as they say, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

I did enjoy him taking an interest in something I loved, however.

“I notice those galleries you showed us mostly had three-dimensional art, meaning lots of available wall space. You should see about getting your photographs in there. And when it comes to the exhibition in March . . .”

He spoke all through our meal and all through dessert, then he invited me back to their rental so he could show me a list he’d made of artist-specific resources.

Creating art wasn’t the same as creating a business product or service, but the business of selling your art . . . well, business is business, right? I could see that Dad was making a real effort to be supportive in the only way he knew.

My father began his nearly forty-year career in business development for a family-run trucking company. He eventually became a manager for them, and then he oversaw their expansion into Europe. Now he was an executive director of the company, so he had always known what he was talking about. I just hadn’t been very interested until now. It was amazing how fascinating Dad became when he applied his business acumen to something I wanted to do—instead of to what I didn’t!

I was surprised to find it was nearly five o’clock when I left. I hugged my dad tightly. He still stood stiffly, but he did pat me on the back a couple of times.

I had noticed that while Dad and I talked business plans and websites at the house, Mum was writing furiously in the notebook I’d bought her.

I smiled as I left, but it faded into worry on my walk home. I hoped that I might have inspired my mum to pursue her dreams. I tried not to think that the fire I had lit under her might end up exploding their marriage. I had to hope that since Dad was learning to be flexible with me, he’d be able to apply that to Mum’s new interest.

***

The next morning I followed my dad’s example and began to research how to submit my work to proper galleries. Of course everything I found said that galleries get so many portfolios that they’re mostly ignored. The best way, they said, was to get an existing artist known to a gallery to recommend you.

Great. The only other artists I knew were local and mostly just starting out, like me. I supposed I could ask Bridget. I knew she used to be quite famous, but she preferred to keep things simple these days. She might still have London contacts, I supposed, although they would likely be in sculpture, not photography.

I thought of asking Tom if he had any contacts, but he’d done way too much for me already. Besides, he was unlikely to know many, if any, people in the art world.

Alas, it looked like I was going to have to bite the bullet and send out a portfolio of my best work. I was nervous about it, though, unwilling to face rejection when it felt like I had only just begun.

Next I researched photographic galleries in London that I could submit my work to, and I found about twenty. Two were large and quite well known; the others were less prestigious. I decided to divide the galleries into two batches. I’d send to the top ones first, and then I’d mail out to the lesser ones in a second round.

I wasn’t going to send anything until January, though. The advice seemed to be to pick quiet times to submit work, and most businesses are quiet in January.

Tom texted me while I was going through my digital albums, deciding which images to include in my portfolio. The Sound in Water series, while my best work, really weren’t enough on their own, I thought. I decided to include some of my landscape pictures, as well as one or two of the best of my Water in Motion pictures.

I had years of landscape pictures to choose from, and I’d already set aside some of the ones I liked best. I now weeded those down to about ten, only choosing the ones that were striking as well as beautiful.

I was so focused that I didn’t register the first text beep, only the reminder beep a few minutes later. I looked and followed the link Tom had texted to Instagram—only to find my picture up there!

One of Tom’s acting friends who I remembered meeting at the premiere had posted it!

I grinned like a loon as I texted Tom back, thanking him profusely for helping me.

My photograph was pictured hanging on a wall. It looked amazing to see my work displayed in someone else’s home. I also noticed that the image already had over a hundred likes, and it hadn’t even been up for long!

One of the articles Dad found for me advised me to call galleries before sending my portfolio. Without anything interesting to say, I had already decided I wasn’t going to do that. I was sure they must get calls multiple times a day pleading for them to please look at someone’s portfolio. But imagine if I could call and say, “My work has already gone viral.” That might pique their interest!

Tom and I texted back and forth for the next hour or two, talking about nothing important. Then another link came through. Another friend had tweeted a picture of my photograph!

This was unreal! I was ready to jump out of my chair and dance across the room! It was probably a good job that Tom wasn’t there.

I calmed myself down—after a loud whoop or two!—and forced myself to get back to work.

Now I’d chosen my best photographs, I was going to put them up on a new website. I wouldn’t sell prints like on my other site, just use this as an online portfolio.

I browsed the templates made for photographers and artists until I found one I liked, and then I began to individualize it. When my eyes began to grow sore, I decided my last job of the day was to buy my domain name, kelseybeaufort.com, which was available!

After long, hard thought I had decided to use my maiden name, Kelsey Beaufort. After all, I wasn’t going to hit Damien Hirst or Tracey Emin levels of success, so I’d still be pretty anonymous. Kelsey could be a boy’s or girl’s name, so sexism wasn’t an issue either.

With that done, I hopped in the shower. I was taking my folks out to dinner that evening, and I was really looking forward to telling Dad how busy I’d been.

I might even broach the subject of Tom with them. Then again, maybe not. I didn’t want to feel pushed into a relationship. To my parents, the only thing as important as a successful career was having a family.

***

We went to a local gastropub that had a sort of Old-World charm and good quality, traditional British fare.

I eagerly told them what I’d spent my day doing. I showed them two social media posts, one of which now had five thousand likes!

Dad seemed really pleased, which gave me warm and fuzzy feelings. I was still slightly sad that he couldn’t back my ambitions when I was younger, but I really was enjoying talking business with him. I tried not to let regrets taint the experience.

“So how on earth did you get all these celebrities to endorse your pictures?” Dad asked. “That kind of publicity is priceless.”

“Through a friend of mine here, Diane. Her son knows a few famous people. When he heard what I was doing, he suggested trying to get his friends to, well, do this.” I shrugged.

“I’d nurture that friendship, if I were you,” Dad told me with his you-should-listen-to-the-voice-of-experience face on.

I tried not to grin as I replied, “I will, Dad.” Ha! A directive from my Dad to nurture Tom! For once I would be quite pleased to take Dad’s advice!

Once we had talked my work to death, I asked Mum how her writing was going. The notebook was sticking up out of her handbag, so clearly she was enjoying it.

Dad didn’t seem confused, so I guessed she had told him what she was doing.

“I tried some sketches today,” she said, getting the notebook out and fishing some A4 sheets of paper from the front. She had drawn some cartoon characters, sort of reminiscent of Disney’s animation style.

“You did these?” I asked as I flipped through them. I’d never known my mother to draw anything more interesting than a diagram. “Wow, Mum!”

“I used to like drawing when I was young. It’s taking me some time to find my own style, but even if a publisher wants to have the illustrations professionally done, I think these will help sell the stories.”

As I went through I could see that her style was already becoming a little simpler—bolder, more fitting for a children’s book.

“These are really good,” I said. “How will you color them?”

“I thought with pencil, but I know most art is digital these days. Maybe I’ll have to learn to . . . graphic design?”

“There’s not much to learn,” I said with a smile. I’d used a few programs in my time. “You can either get a tablet and draw directly onto the screen with a stylus, or you can get, like, a fancy mouse pad. You can then either scan your drawings in, or trace them in and color them digitally. I have to say though, I quite like the idea of hand-drawn, Beatrix Potter–type sketches.”

“I suppose if this works, I’ll have to trust the publisher.”

I nodded. They probably would have ultimate power.

“Still might be nice to branch out into digital art, just for a new skill,” I suggested.

“Oh, I don’t know. I gather those programs and equipment are quite pricey.”

“Maybe you could take an evening class and work on their computers until you’re sure.”

Mum tilted her head on the side. “Do you know, that’s not a bad idea!”

She raised her glass, and I clinked mine against hers.

“I’m surrounded by artists,” Dad muttered in a tone that said “look what I have to put up with,” but I could tell he was just teasing.

“Well, it’s a good job we’ve got a good business brain like yours to keep us on track!” Mum shot back.

“Don’t think you can butter me up that easily,” my dad harrumphed.

I smiled as I sipped my wine, enjoying the show. My parents weren’t usually playful. Now I looked back, there had been quite a few teasing conversations like this when I was young, where one would pretend to be put out or insulted and the other would play along, trying to earn “forgiveness.”

It was amazing how much I’d forgotten about them. While my picture of them as stern and superior wasn’t wrong, we had been in conflict for so long that I had forgotten a whole other and much more loving side of them.

Maybe my suggestion that Mum write wouldn’t explode their marriage—maybe it would strengthen it. In any case, it was wonderful to see my parents enjoying each other. It had been a very long time since I’d seen Dad’s eyes twinkle at Mum.

As we left the pub and walked back toward their rental, I stood between them, my arms around their waists, like I used to do when I was a kid. I felt really hopeful for all our futures.

***

When I got back home, I put four panels of glass, about twelve inches square each, out in the garden, placing small-but-powerful magnets under them. One just had a single magnet in the middle, one had a circle of magnets, and one I made into a five-pointed star, but the fourth I decided to leave blank.

The next morning, I checked them. The pane that didn’t have magnets underneath looked beautiful, but it was just full of the regular frost patterns we’re used to seeing.

On the panes with magnets, because water molecules have a slight charge, the frost had aligned itself to each magnet. The patterns the frost created were much more geometric in shape, especially on those panes with multiple magnets.

I took some pictures with my new camera but quickly realized that before I could do it properly I would need some more equipment, such as a frame to hold the glass and a white sheet to reflect diffuse sunlight onto them. I needed it just bright enough to show detail but not but not so bright that fine details would be lost—or so hot it would melt the frost before I got my pictures. I knew the theory of using light reflectors and diffusers, but I hadn’t used them before. I’d need to do some experimentation to find out what worked.

If this looked good, I would next buy some magnetized sheets and cut them into interesting patterns, hoping the frost would then conform to those shapes. But one step at a time!

I took the panes inside to thaw and wrote a list of what I’d need to buy so I could shop on Amazon later. On a whim, I also added iron filings to the list. I remembered making patterns in iron with magnets from school. I wanted to see how a few very fine filings might affect the frost patterns. If I was right, they would make them even more stunning, creating contrast next to the delicate white ice crystals.

With that done, I wrapped up warm and headed out to meet Tom for our walk; he’d texted that morning asking if I was free, claiming it was a shame to waste such a sunny day.

The balloons in his leg were starting to be visible, even through his sweatpants, and they were definitely affecting the way he walked. I supposed it must feel like having a liter of water strapped to your leg, which didn’t sound like much, but it would be uncomfortable—like wearing one leg or ankle weight. No wonder he looked a little like he was limping before we’d even started.

“You look tired,” I noted as he kissed my cheek in greeting.

“I am,” he admitted, grimacing at his leg. “This thing is getting so big now that it’s hard to find a comfortable position to sleep in. Hell, I even need a special cushion just to sit!”

I’d noticed that he’d been perching on the edge of furniture for a while already, only his bum and perhaps four or five inches of thigh resting on the seat, making it look like he was slouching. I hadn’t really considered how uncomfortable that would be for someone who usually has such excellent posture. It must be verging on hell by now!

“When is your next operation?”

“Sometime in February, depending on how quickly the skin grows. Which is another thing . . . each time they’re filled with more saline, they become hot and itchy afterward.” Another scowl at his leg.

Someone was a bit tetchy today.

“When is your next fill?”

“Tomorrow.” He sighed as we set off walking. “I don’t think that knowledge is helping. The anticipation of the discomfort is actually keeping me awake worrying about how bad it might be!”

“I’m sorry.”

“I am so ready for this to be over,” he told me.

I looped my arm through his and rested my head on his shoulder.

“Just take it one day at a time,” I said. “Then soon you’ll look back and realize you’ve climbed a mountain.”

He sighed and pressed a kiss to the top of my head, but I felt some of the tension leave him.

“Thank you, love.” We strolled on for a bit before he asked, “When do your parents leave?”

“Tomorrow. Why?”

“Because I think keeping busy will be good for me. I hoped you might have time to take me to a few locations I want to scout out soon, but I’d hate to infringe on your time with your family.”

“As of tomorrow, I’m all yours. Just tell me when and where.”

He explained that he was looking at a couple of churches for the eulogy, ones that at first glance wouldn’t scream “church” because of the stone walls and stained glass. He was looking at modern churches, some of which were in Ipswich, a fair distance from us—well, just a forty-five-minute drive, but that’s a long way if you can’t drive at all.

Before turning to walk along the promenade of the town, we paused and looked out to sea, which was quiet. It really was a stunning day. If only it were a little bit warmer!

“Come on.” He tugged on our linked arms, and we headed along the front.

We chatted about a two-part miniseries. The first part had aired on Christmas evening, and we were both looking forward to part two, which would be out on New Year’s Day. Then we moved on to Christmas memories and discovered that in both our houses, the TV had to remain turned off on Christmas Day.

Now, as kids we felt that was an egregious abuse of power. When we were young, the movies played on Christmas Day were often their first broadcast since being in the cinema. Then it could be years before they aired again—it wasn’t like today, when everything is on DVD within three months.

We commiserated about times when the VCR hadn’t recorded, or there were two movies on that overlapped so of course, both couldn’t be recorded at once.

“So have you got any plans for New Year’s?” Tom asked.

“Not really.” I shrugged. “It used to seem important, but these days, getting to stay up until midnight just doesn’t have the same draw.”

“More of a Horlicks, slippers, and early night girl, are you?”

“Don’t forget the ratty, old, moth-eaten robe.” I laughed.

“Oh, of course not. And the Get Off My Lawn sign?”

“Well, I don’t have a lawn. But in theory . . .” I played along. “I should get a walking stick to shake when I yell at children.”

“Here!” He unhooked his own and opened it out before handing it to me.

Never one to back down from a challenge, I raised it high and yelled, “Get off my lawn, you damn kids!” We both broke out in fits of laughter.

I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d been so silly in public. It was liberating, and the occasional stare we got just made us laugh harder.

“Well, if you can drag yourself away from the excitement of Horlicks, Mum said to invite you to the Grange’s pub quiz that night.”

“Ooh, tempting.” I smiled.

“Winning team gets a bottle of prosecco,” he wheedled with a charming smile.

“Fine. Just remember never to trust me on sports or geography questions. Math and science I’m totally there for. And I’m not bad at history.”

“Understood.”