White Nights - Ann Cleeves [2]
Roddy stood framed by light in the middle of the space. It was nine in the evening, but still sunshine came through the windows cut into the tall, sloping roof. It was reflected from the polished wooden floor and the whitewashed walls and lit his face. He stood still for a moment, grinning, waiting until the guests started to look at him, absolutely sure he would get their attention. Conversation faltered and the room grew quiet. He looked at his aunt, who gave him a smile which was at once indulgent and grateful. He lifted his fiddle, gripped it under his chin and waited again. There was a moment of silence and he began to play.
They had known what to expect and he didn’t disappoint them. He played like a madman. It was what he was known for. The show. That, and the music. Shetland fiddle music, which had somehow caught the popular imagination, was played on national radio, raved about by television chat-show hosts. Impossible to believe – a Shetland boy in the tabloids for drinking champagne and dating teenage actresses. He’d hit the big time suddenly. A rock star had named him as his favourite performer and then he was everywhere, in newspapers and on the television and in glossy celebrity magazines.
He hopped and jigged, and the respectable middle-aged people, the art critic from the south, the few great and good who’d driven north from Lerwick, set down their glasses and began to clap to the rhythm. He fell to his knees, lay back slowly so that he was flat on the floor and continued playing without missing a beat, then sprang to his feet and still the music continued. In one corner of the gallery an elderly couple were dancing, surprisingly light-footed, arms linked.
The playing was so furious that the watchers’ eyes couldn’t follow his fingers. Then suddenly the music stopped. The boy bowed. The people cheered. Perez had seen him play many times before, but was still moved by the performance, felt a jingoistic pride in it, which made him uncomfortable. He looked at Fran. Perhaps this was too sentimental for her. But she was cheering along with the rest.
Bella walked from the shadow into the light to join Roddy. She held out an arm, a self-consciously dramatic gesture to acknowledge the performance.
‘Roddy Sinclair,’ she said. ‘My nephew.’ She looked around her. ‘I’m just sorry that there weren’t more people here to see him.’ And in fact the room only contained a scattering of people. Her comment made it suddenly obvious. She must have realized that because she frowned again. Clearly she wished she hadn’t mentioned it.
The boy bowed again, grinned, raised his fiddle in one hand and his bow in another.
‘Just buy the paintings,’ he said. ‘That’s why you’re here. I’m only the warm-up act. The pictures are the main attraction.’
He turned away from them and took a glass of wine from a long trestle laid out against the one bare wall in the room.
Chapter Two
Fran had already drunk several glasses of wine. She was more nervous than she’d expected to be. When she’d worked on a London magazine she’d attended dozens of these events: first nights, openings, exhibitions. She’d circulated, chatted, remembered names and faces, hidden her boredom. But this was different. Some of the paintings on these walls were hers. She felt raw and exposed. If people rejected or dismissed her work, it would be as if they were dismissing her. She wanted to shout to the people who were catching up on island gossip, who stood with their back to the art: Look properly at the images on the walls. Take them seriously. I don’t care if you hate them, but please take them seriously.
And there were fewer people here than she’d expected there to be. Bella’s openings were always well attended, but even some of the people Fran had invited – people she’d considered friends – had failed to show.