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‘I do like that. There is so much to see in it. Refreshing in an art world where painting seems to be a rarity.’
‘Ah, tell me about it,’ he says.
I cast another look around for Gabriella as he moves me on to another exhibitor’s sculpture, made from what he calls industrial sweepings. Creatures modelled from assorted nuts and screws, bottle tops and micro-chips, set on plinths around a massive crocodile made of tractor tyres.
‘It’s beautifully worked,’ I say, admiring the use of the tyre tread to form the croc’s scales. I think of Charlie bemoaning the lack of craft. ‘It’s good to see art that is so, well, grounded, I suppose.’
A tap on my shoulder spins me round. It’s Gabriella looking flustered but gorgeous in a brown silky shift-dress.
‘Pat, I’m so sorry.’ She gives me a polite peck on the cheek, hint of musky perfume and sweat.
‘Don’t worry.’ I feel my heartbeat rise. ‘Alex has been looking after me.’
‘Ah, he’s a good-un.’ She pats him on the arm. ‘Honestly, I invite the woman, she hardly knows me, and then I’m really late.’
‘Well, that’s not like you at all, Gabriella,’ Alex mocks.
‘Shh.’ She gives him a playful punch and I feel ridiculously jealous of their easy banter.
‘Pat’s an artist, too,’ Gabriella tells Alex. ‘Really exciting political collage.’
‘If that’s not a contradiction in terms,’ I say, awkward with the attention.
‘Why should it be?’ Alex says. ‘I hope I get to see your work too, Pat.’ He takes a bow with his hat, moves to talk to someone waiting for his attention.
‘Oh, I am so pleased you are here.’ Gabriella’s eyes shine behind her glasses. ‘Let’s look round together.’ She touches my arm, sends a shiver of excitement through me.
She takes me to another set of metalwork sculptures, constructed out of old cutlery, bicycle chains, tools. We pause in front of a large owl made of feathered knives and forks.
‘So, this gallery is connected to your studios?’ I ask.
‘Yes, the studios are on the other side.’ She points to the entrance, the light catching the line of her forearm, the glint of her bracelets.
‘Well, I’m impressed. I love this sense of art emerging from the ruins of the past, so rooted in this part of the city.’
She nods slowly, moves a strand of hair behind her ears, her fingers stroking the line of her bare neck.
I catch my breath, look away. ‘It just highlights for me the emptiness of most of the work at Cuttin’ Edge,’ I mutter, as if to the owl.
‘Well, your work shone out at that place,’ Gabriella insists.
I pull a nervous smile, drink my wine.
‘Seriously, why do you think I found you on Facebook? You were in such a hurry to get away, I didn’t get to say how much I admired your piece.’
I feel flushed with this rare attention. ‘Your friend request was so out of kilter with my mood, to tell you the truth. But I think curiosity got the better of me.’
‘While ever we have curiosity…?’ She flicks her tongue over her bottom lip. ‘Come and see my studio!’
She steers me along the dark graffitied passage to another top-lit area partitioned into low walled studios.
‘Here we are.’ She leads me through a wooden gate to the faded orange sofa along one side. ‘Make yourself comfortable, I’ll get us more wine.’
She rummages through a cupboard while I look around. There is work hung on every available space and piled up at the back, but the picture on the easel attracts my attention. A large collage of overlapping images of poster-sized magazine women, painted with a thin strip of translucent yellow, like cellophane wrapping.
‘Wow!’ I say as Gabriella emerges with half a bottle of wine. ‘I like that image. Is it finished?’
She cocks her head to one side, looking at the picture. ‘I think so.’ She pours us both some wine.
