Page 45 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

Now, all these years later, her dreams of having her work exhibited had finally happened– albeit posthumously. I thought about her portraits of her ex-fiancée and her husband. I buried an admiring chuckle.

What a woman!

I just hoped that she was looking down out of that tumble of hair of hers and smiling with pride. She deserved this.

As I’d suggested, there was a nod to her love of butterflies, with tea and coffee being served from butterfly-sprigged crockery.

There were also glasses of Talisker on offer. Tonight was all about my much-loved and much-missed grandma.

I glanced up and noticed that Mitch was watching me.

He looked so dashing in his three-piece charcoal suit, grey shirt and lavender tie.

A journalist was asking him about his artwork.

‘I just follow where my inspiration takes me,’ he answered smoothly.

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ He made a beeline for me through the body of people.

He whispered into my ear. ‘I’m hoping I don’t have to bullshit my way through any more questions.

I’ve managed to draw on what I’ve read up about, on the technique side of things, but I’d prefer if we didn’t have to keep this up for much longer. ’

I nodded emphatically up at him. ‘As soon as Ruth is about to introduce you, that’s when we’ll come clean.’

My attention lingered on his chiselled, dark looks. Mitch gazed down at me. ‘You behave yourself, Ms Winters, otherwise I’ll have no alternative but to throw you over my shoulder and take you straight home.’

A frisson of anticipation rocketed through me at one hundred miles an hour. ‘Promises, promises.’

Mitch allowed his gaze to rake my piled-up curls and then my knee-length, mint green woollen dress. ‘It’s not a promise. It’s a fact.’

Reece, also looking very dapper in a pin-striped suit, blue shirt, and silver tie, materialised beside us. ‘I don’t think Cruella de Vil has spotted either of us yet, Rosie.’ He took a swig from his flute.

‘No, she can’t have done, otherwise she would’ve been straight over, asking what the hell we’re doing here. She’s too busy schmoozing.’

Despite my nibbling nerves about what would happen this evening and Ruth’s reaction to our revelations about the artwork, I was also experiencing bubbles of happiness exploding inside me whenever I looked at Mitch.

And because of that, what happened next was my own fault. I’d been too busy mooning over him and not concentrating on what was happening around me.

I’d allowed myself to drift within Ruth’s line of sight without realising I had done so.

I’d been too preoccupied making plans for the future.

Everything seemed to be slowly slotting into place now, but what about my writing?

I hadn’t really thought about what I intended to do in the future.

My confidence had taken such a devastating knock ever since Joe.

I’d had the courage to admit my feelings for Mitch, but what about my novels?

Did I feel brave enough to reconsider that too?

Whilst I was mulling all this over, I inadvertently glanced across and realised with a jolt of horror, that I was in Ruth’s eyeline. I moved to duck behind a tall, thin couple who were engaged in animated conversation, but it was too late. Ruth had spotted me. Her smile collapsed.

The woman she’d been chatting to, who I realised was Kirsty Ralston, watched in bemusement as Ruth stalked rudely away from her, mid-conversation.

Shit.

She came storming towards me. ‘What are you doing here?’ she snapped, her red mouth contorting into a grimace. ‘I don’t remember you being invited.’

I should’ve been careful for a little bit longer.

I opened my mouth, willing my brain to come up with something fast, when Mitch emerged at my side. ‘Rosie’s with me.’ He allowed his simple explanation to hang in the air. His expression brooked no argument. ‘You said I could bring a plus one on the invitation. Well, Rosie is my plus one.’

There was an embarrassing silence. Ruth’s hard eyes scorched into me. ‘Oh. I see. Right.’

I noticed out of the corner of my eye, that Reece had spotted what was happening and had managed to dart behind a gentleman in a checked cap who was admiring my grandma’s painting of the dressing table still life.

‘Hello again,’ I said, conjuring up a cool smile for Ruth.

She didn’t reply.

‘So, this is the talented artist?’

The icy exchanges were broken by the man in the red spectacles. He cut through our threesome and shot out one hand towards Mitch. ‘Your work really is sublime, Mr Carlisle. It has an old worldly feel about it, which I love.’

Mitch remained unflustered. ‘I appreciate that. Thank you.’

The man in the spectacles let out a chuckle. ‘Oh, forgive me. I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Grant Hefton, art critic for The Review magazine.’ He gestured at the paintings. ‘What art techniques do you prefer to use in your work?’

Mitch carried on. ‘Very nice to meet you, Mr Hefton. Well, I tend to enjoy dry brushing. It gives me that scratchy, textured finish when I’m trying to capture the essence and texture of nature: trees, clouds and hedgerows in particular.’

I gazed at him. He really was something special.

But he wasn’t finished yet. ‘And then, of course, there’s gestural painting, where I apply the paint in a series of free, sweeping gestures. It’s a great way to show your emotion on the canvas. Jackson Pollock was an advocate.’

Grant Hefton nodded vigorously as he plucked a notebook from his trouser pocket and started jotting down notes.

Mitch gave me a discreet wink.

My heart inflated. God, Grandma Tilda would’ve fallen in love with Mitch almost as much as I had.

Grant Hefton looked up from his spidery scrawl and was on the point of asking Mitch another question, when a woman with candy-pink hair, wearing a long, fringed, patterned skirt, appeared at Ruth’s elbow. She angled her way into the semi-circle. ‘Excuse me. Aren’t you Ruth Mangan?’

Ruth bathed her in a mega-watt smile. ‘Yes, I am. And you are…?’

‘Becky Hollis. I’m a journalist with The Tribune newspaper.’ She offered Ruth a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘I understand you were an artist yourself back in the day.’

Ruth’s expression pinched under her powder. Her demeanour changed in an instant. She started to angle her body away from the journalist. ‘Yes, that’s right, I was. Now if you’ll excuse me.’

But Becky Hollis had Ruth in her sights. Her pixie face morphed into a frowning expression. ‘Weren’t you accused of trying to take credit for another artist’s piece of work?’

The reporter had raised her voice an octave. The thrum of conversation lowered in the gallery and clinking glasses stilled. There were still the panpipes playing, but even they seemed to lower in volume so they could hear what was going on.

One of Ruth’s manicured, pale hands flew to her throat. ‘I… I don’t know what you mean. I… I would never do anything like that.’

Undeterred, Becky continued with her barrage of questions. ‘The artist in question decided not to proceed with any legal prosecution, didn’t they, Ms Mangan? You were very fortunate.’

Mitch and I stared at one another.

‘It was all an unfortunate misunderstanding,’ struggled Ruth. ‘I explained all this at the time. Now, I really must…’

Becky Hollis was unrepentant. ‘Is that why you felt you had no option but to stop painting, Ms Mangan?’

The reporter pinned her to the gallery’s shiny, wooden floor with her relentless, kohl-lined, light eyes.

‘Because of what you did to sabotage…’ She rifled in her bag and pulled out her notebook.

She flicked over a few pages. ‘Ah. Here it is. Tilda Michaels. You tried to pass off one of her paintings as your own, isn’t that right? ’

I spun round to look at Becky Hollis. Ruth was struggling to look at me or at the other guests, who were all murmuring amongst themselves. Stunned, I managed to find my voice. ‘Did you say Tilda Michaels?’

Becky gave me a quizzical look, as though she’d only just spotted me standing there. ‘Yes. Why?’

My eyes blazed at Ruth. What on earth had been going on here? What had this woman done to my grandmother, out of pure jealousy and spite?

It was then that Ruth’s hand settled on her chest, like a speckled starfish. The colour seeped out of her cheeks, and as if in slow motion, she began to crumple.

‘Ruth!’ called out Mitch, dashing forward and catching the fainting woman in his capable arms. ‘Quick! Someone grab that chair, please.’

I wanted to drill Ruth Mangan with questions, make her realise that she hadn’t achieved anything by being so spiteful; I wanted to reveal to these people what this woman, with the perfect, shimmery, grey bob and husky laugh, was really like, what she was capable of.

And yet, staring at her now, gulping a glass of water in her trembling hands, flopped in a chair like a ragdoll, I knew I couldn’t do it. At least not publicly. Everyone was examining her as it was, like something that had been dug up during an archaeological find.

It didn’t seem right. I wanted to know the truth. I wanted her to know what I’d discovered about her. But looking at her now, hunched over and taking deep breaths, she appeared old and fragile. What would my grandma do in this situation? I really didn’t need to ask myself that question.

‘I’m fine,’ bleated Ruth to a concerned woman, who was wrapped in a fancy shawl. ‘It’s just a little warm in here, that’s all.’

Becky Hollis sidled up to me. ‘Why did you just ask me about Tilda Michaels? Did you know her?’

She seemed oblivious to the wan figure of the older woman in the chair in front of her.

My attention travelled from Mitch, who was now standing talking to Reece, to the puzzled guests.

I turned my gaze to my grandma’s paintings observing everything from the four walls of the gallery, and then back to a shaken Ruth.

She was gripping her glass of water. She raised her sunken eyes and they looked into mine.