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‘Oh, they all need a bit of space at that age.’
‘I gave up on him, you see?’ My voice shakes with the difficulty of admitting this. ‘I hid my disappointment by throwing myself into my art. So now it seems tainted.’
‘It’s difficult for young people. There’s no clear sense of direction for many of them.’
‘He needed to be able to talk about that, some guidance.’
‘Well giving up your art won’t help him. Art broadens your mind to possibilities.’ She looks round her studio and then back at me. ‘At least, that’s what I’m banking on,’ she adds with a grin.
I can’t help smiling at the innuendo. I sip my wine and try to focus.
‘When I was his age, art was my passport to the wider world, you know? I painted expressionist landscapes of the Norfolk fens, desperate bands of melancholy, slashed with dark rain. Then my art teacher took me to London and introduced me to load of screen printers: all heavily Andy Warhol, to tell you the truth, but it stopped my sinking isolation, made me braver.’
‘So, it’s helped form who you are.’
‘Gethin hasn’t got anything like that.’ I feel a lurch in my stomach as I understand the truth of this. ‘He’s lost his passion.’
‘You have to let them find their own way and trust you have given them enough tools to do so.’
‘Yeah, well, I wish it were that easy.’ I feel myself tightening at her glib suggestions.
She takes a breath, raises her eyebrows. ‘Believe me, I know it’s difficult. My oldest went to university with flying colours and then crashed in his third year and was at home doing nothing for two years.’
‘I’m sorry, I had no idea,’ I say, foolishly.
‘Well, he’s coming through it now. Then my second son dropped out of sixth form like yours, hanging about doing fuck all. I had such a go at him one night, you know, overbearing Mum. The next morning, he got on a flight to Naples, and it was two months before he got in touch.’
I stare down into my cup. Of course, Gethin’s not the only troubled youngster. Am I over-reacting?
‘Giving up my art wouldn’t have helped either of them,’ Gabriella continues. ‘In fact, the older one’s helping me with my website design.’ She pauses, leaning into her knees. Her bare legs are blotchy with a few age spots and there are raised veins around the line of her feet in their sling-backs. Their imperfection moves me.
‘Talking of which,’ Gabriella reaches to top up our cups. ‘Is your work anywhere online? Your Facebook has virtually no art on it.’
‘I suppose lately I’ve thrown all I have into the one installation. Trying to say everything at once, you know? My son also helped me with a website, but I was so disappointed when not even my friends looked at it, I haven’t kept it up.’
‘You have to push it, Pat. Find other artists’ pages, connect online.’ She leans towards me, holds me with her gaze, flecks of gold in the hazel of her eyes.
‘I’d rather join your collective, you know?’ I say before I’ve even thought it.
‘Do both! We have studios to rent. The facilities are basic, but it’s probably cheaper than where you are now.’
‘I’m about to be made redundant, I’ll have to give up that place anyway.’ My eyes widen to that opening of horizons.
‘What better way to invest your pay-off?’
I shake my head, pull my shoulders up. This is all going a bit fast. I could be committing my redundancy money before I’ve even finished work. But the buzz of this place, this woman, is something I’ve not felt in a long time and I refuse to slap it down.
Gabriella takes off her glasses and leans back into the sofa. I sit forward, sipping my drink, allowing the sense of possibility to seep through with the wine, expanding with every breath, a tingling sensation of coming alive. I shift to rest my head against the sofa next to her. Her big expressive smile lights up her face, her eyes caressing, naked without the glasses.
I catch my breath, holding the surge of desire, my lips parting as I moisten them. I think of Gaynor, dancing to Love and Affection, the radiance of her face in that moment we first kissed, turning into Gabriella in my dream.
I put my beaker down, trying to regulate my breathing. I should get up and go while I still can. I’m not ready for this, am I? I sit back up – she still holds me in her gaze. I move towards her, my hand brushing her leg, feel its warmth through the silk of her dress. There is no way I’m backing out now.
She draws closer, her breath soft on my hand as I stroke her cheek, close my eyes as our lips barely brush. Slowly building up for more, my groin throbbing as she runs her tongue over my lips. I feel the softness of her hair falling around her neck, sink into the sweet fullness of the kiss.
The vibration of my phone in my pocket makes me jump. I pull back, look at the screen. It’s an unknown number.
‘I don’t know who it is, it might be important,’ I start.
