Page 141 of Guilty Pleasures

Tom had walked over to the big bay window and was staring out into the darkness, wondering vaguely how much Trencarrow was worth and how much Chessie would get her claws on.

‘What’s that big building out by the cliffs?’

‘The barn? It’s dad’s studio.’

‘Can I have a look?’

‘There’s not a lot to see. As he told you, he’s given up. There’s probably just a load of rusty chisels and dust in there now. I’m sure he’ll walk you down after breakfast tomorrow.’

‘Come on,’ he said with a grin. ‘It looks spooky … It’s a fine old night to be scared.’ He made a weak attempt at a werewolf’s howl and started pulling on his coat. Stella started laughing.

‘Tom, it’s pitch black out there! And it’s pissing down.’

‘You must have a torch, come on! It won’t seem quite as romantic in the morning.’

‘Romantic?’ said Stella, feeling a little awkward.

‘Not like that,’ he grinned.

‘If I fall flat on my face in the mud you’re paying for the dry cleaning.’

‘You’ll be lucky, love. I’m a penniless fool,’ he said spreading his hands to the sky.

She laughed but she was already reaching for her coat. She found a torch by the door and then reached into a ceramic jug to pull out a set of keys.

‘Creature of habit. Still keeps them in there after all these years.’ The back door creaked as it opened and a gust of chilly air rushed into the house. As Stella pulled up the collar on her coat, she could hear the low swoosh of the sea unseen below. Outside, the sky was mottled in a thousand shades of black and as she felt Tom’s protective hand on the small of her back, she suddenly felt excited by this little adventure, even when the reassuring amber spilling from Trencarrow’s windows grew faint and the barn loomed ominously in front of them. Stella handed Tom the key and whispered, ‘You go first.’

‘Wimp,’ he hissed, fumbling the key in the lock and opening the heavy wooden door. He flashed the torch up the wall, flicked a switch and flooded the barn with light. Stella gasped. She had been expecting to see an empty, desolate space, forgotten and forlorn, but the barn was full of sculptures, some small and exquisite, some five feet high. Although some looked rough and unfinished, many were polished and complete. Stella felt the familiar rush of excitement when she saw good art – no, great art, she thought. Right in the centre of the room was a large stone sculpture, obviously recently worked on. There were some tools on a table next to it: chisels, hammers and a smaller clay model of the larger work. It was amazing.

‘Shit …’

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Tom, walking slowly around the room, gazing at the sculptures. Stella walked over to the large stone and ran her hand across its surface.

‘Nothing’s wrong, far from it. It’s just a surprise that Dad’s still working on stuff,’ she said quietly.

‘I thought he said he wasn’t.’

‘He was lying,’ she said, looking at him sadly.

Behind them the door swung open sending droplets of rain sweeping into the barn. Christopher was standing at the barn door, still in his dressing-gown, his shoulders wet.

‘What are you doing in here?’ he said. His voice was stern, a mixture of anger and alarm.

‘Tom wanted to see the studio,’ said Stella nervously, recognizing the disapproving expression on his face.

‘You told me you’d stopped working,’ she said, walking slowly towards him as if approaching a cornered animal.

‘I have,’ he said, looking away from her.

‘Well, what’s this?’ she said, pointing to the large sculpture in the middle of the room.

‘It’s rubbish,’ he said stiffly.

‘Dad. This is not rubbish, it’s amazing, I’ve never seen …’

‘I said it’s rubbish!’ he shouted. ‘Can’t you understand plain English?’

He strode over to the table and swept his arm across it, sending his tools and the model flying to the floor.