‘They were collecting dust because you’ve always said they held no artistic value and it would damage my artistic reputation if I were to, “peddle” them, I think that’s the technical term you used.’
Patrick’s jaw tightened.
She rounded on him. ‘That’s what upsets me the most. For years you’ve been putting my mice pictures down. And then when you need some money, all your artistic integrity flies out of the window. And do you know what? It’s taken me a while to realise it, but I’m bloody proud of those pictures. They’re honest. They give genuine pleasure to people. That’s worth so much more. I’m gutted that you’ve sold so many of them, that was my work. A body of work but I do take comfort in the fact that the people who have paid your extortionate prices must really like them to have paid that money. I’m hoping that they get great pleasure from them.’
‘I told you I made a mistake.’ He held out a hand in entreaty. ‘An honest mistake. I didn’t realise that people would love them as much as they do. But that’s what art is, completely subjective. If we all liked the same thing, we’d still be rolling in Old Masters.’
Ella’s throat tightened. He didn’t get it. Completely and utterly had no idea what she was getting at.
‘What about the earnings from the books?’
Patrick blanched but rallied with an easy smile. ‘What do you mean? They don’t earn that much.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Patrick. I’ve just had a tax statement.’
‘What do you mean? How? I manage your tax affairs.’
‘I gave my address to Gavin in the art supplies shop for my P45.’
‘Well, I can sort that out for you. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Don’t worry? But I am. My dad says it’s a statement on account. How much they predict I will owe, based on previous earnings. Do you know how much it was for?’
Patrick studied the mirror above the fire with seeming nonchalance. ‘They make mistakes all the time.’
‘Patrick. It was for over seven thousand pounds. They don’t make mistakes that big.’
He frowned. ‘I’ll have to look into it. Without my records I can’t be—’
‘Bullshit.’ She lowered her voice, aware that she’d started to shout. ‘I phoned the publisher. They emailed me royalty statements for the last year. I earn enough to live on but you never told me that. What happened to that money?’
‘Well, it . . . you’ve benefited. The gallery needed a cash injection. I knew you wouldn’t mind. It was for us. We’re a team.’
‘So why not tell me?’
‘Ella, you’re getting this out of perspective. As if I was deliberately stealing from you. That’s a terrible accusation.’
He pursed his mouth, his eyes softening. ‘I know it’s been tough for you recently. I didn’t realise how tough. You’re still a bit off balance. I spoke to Britta and she said you weren’t yourself.’ He nodded slowly. ‘It’s still the hormones, isn’t it?’
Red hot fury raced through Ella and she jumped up. ‘You . . . you . . . ’ Incandescent, she couldn’t find the words.
Patrick jerked back, sloshing a spattered stripe of coffee all down his cream flannel shirt and across the cream cushion of the sofa.
Ella pushed him out of the way and seized the cushion, her heart thudding furiously. If she focused on the cover, she wouldn’t give in to the powerful temptation to punch him. The coffee would stain. It would ruin the sofa for ever. She had to get the cover off the cushion. She had to get the stain out.
She ran into the kitchen, tears fogging her eyes.Bastard, bastard, bastard.
The image of those bloodsoaked jeans filled her head as the pungent cleaning spray tainted the air and she paused as the pain of loss rolled over her, bringing wave after helpless wave of misery. She set to scrubbing at the stain on the cushion, rubbing at the unfocused edges of the dark brown stain which bled into the fabric.Just get it clean. Just get it clean. She kept telling herself the words, as she tried to shut out the explosion of thoughts and emotions jostling for space in her head.
Behind him the dogs explored the undergrowth in the garden as Devon strode up the path eager to hear how Ella had got on. She’d looked so nervous as she’d headed out.
He knocked on the door, watching the dogs as they pottered their way towards him. Tess no doubt would collapse in a heap. He had to admit Ella had done wonders with her. Nothing like the pitiful, overweight and sad-looking creature he’d seen all those weeks ago up in the woods. Now she looked bright-eyed and alert, her tail on warp speed most of the time which was a pretty good indicator that she was one happy dog. Rather like Ella these days.
His pulse quickened at the thought of her opening the door, the sparkle in her eyes and the roses blooming in her cheeks. Her smile came far more readily and she’d lost that stiff repel-the-borders-at-all-costs attitude. He smiled, not sure how Ella would react at being compared with a dog. Probably quite well these days. She definitely found it much easier to laugh at herself. Quick anticipation raced through him as he heard the latch on the door. While out walking he’d decided that he’d take her out somewhere nice for a meal. There was that new place in Wendover, he’d heard good things about.
‘El—’ His voice died.
Patrick stood in front of him.
