The Liberation of Alice Love - Abby McDonald [102]
When he called the next morning, she didn’t pick up.
Chapter Twenty-three
As Alice set about surreptitiously wooing her new clients with careful phone calls and clandestine meetings, she realized that she had, perhaps, more spirit than she’d given herself credit for. On the surface, she may be going about much the same life as before her reckless jaunt to Rome, but she was starting to see her routine wasn’t set in stone; there was, it seemed, scope for a little of her foreign flair on more familiar soil. From the spritz of perfume and those brightly colored silk blouses she now selected for work in the morning, to snatched coffee breaks with her new friend Nadia and the riskier matter of her secret maneuverings at work, Alice began the strange—yet exhilarating—task of bringing spontaneity, daring, and general hints of irresponsibility to her old, no-longer-so-predictable life.
“I just love these early watercolors. You can really see the sense of youthful naïveté in her brushstrokes.”
Alice melted back against the gallery wall as another cluster of guests strolled closer, gazing with tilted heads at Flora’s collection of paintings. It was the opening for her grand retrospective, and the sleek, airy space in Notting Hill had been transformed into a haven of floral studies, garden views, and—at last—assorted kittenish delights. It was still early, but already the gallery was buzzing with throngs of enthusiasts. The event, Alice was proud to see, was an unqualified success.
“The washed color palette is very important in her early work, isn’t it?” One of the women, middle-aged in flowing silk trousers and a fine-knit vest peered knowledgeably at the prints. Helena, the gallery manager, materialized beside them.
“Absolutely,” she agreed, polished blond hair swept back from her face in a high, tight ponytail. “You know, not many people notice, but you can see how Flora was inspired by the pale tones, giving the paintings an almost ethereal effect.”
The group nodded, but Alice hid a smile. Those pale tones that had proven so inspirational were actually the result of her father knocking a pitcher of water over on a stack of finished paintings, the night before Flora’s first-year portfolio was due. They’d dried them on radiators, and ironed the pages flat while Flora wept inconsolably, but the damage had been done; the washed effect was unavoidable.
“There you are.” Julian made his way through the sleek hair and loosely draped suits, ducking to kiss her on the cheek. “I almost didn’t see you hidden away back here.”
“I’m eavesdropping,” Alice told him. Despite her decision to detach a little, she was glad to see his face in the crowd. Still, after their last meeting, she wasn’t so quick to relax. She cast a careful eye around the room, before asking casually, “Is Yasmin with you?”
“She’s not coming, actually.” Julian didn’t seem disappointed. In fact, he appeared affable and at ease, back in a pair of his slouchy corduroy trousers and a crisp shirt.
“Oh, shame,” Alice murmured, relieved. “Everything all right?”
Julian shrugged. “Honestly, I didn’t think it would be her thing. And I guess I haven’t seen you for a while—I mean, just the two of us.” He looked at her, giving a slight double take.
“Wow. You look great tonight.”
“Thanks.” Alice glanced down. After much deliberation, she’d decided to wear that infamous red dress again. “Flora insisted we go dressy,” she explained, feeling the need to justify it. “She’s around here somewhere in a full-length ball gown.”
Julian laughed. “I’ll have to say hi, congratulate her on all of this. Or, should that be Stefan?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, this is all his doing, isn’t it?” He nodded at the spotless white walls, neat rows of paintings and flow of admiring fans.
Alice frowned. “Not at all, Flora’s worked really hard getting things set up. She’s been planning the curating all month.”
“My mistake.” Julian held up his hands.