“I will, I promise.”
Reaching into her pocket, she retrieves her phone. “I’ll set another reminder to myself to check in on you next week and the week after.”
“You’re the best. Have I ever told you that?”
She grins. “Yes, but not often enough.”
“Come on, let’s stop by the cafe and grab a tea before we head out. My treat.”
“How can I say no to that?”
We exit the exhibit to the main museum and walk toward the gift shop. A banner advertises a few exhibits coming to the museum later this spring. Liz grabs my sleeve and stops me in my tracks.
“Oy, Min, look, there’s an exhibit for the fiftieth anniversary of the Westminster Ballet in February. That looks like it’s right up your alley. Do you want to stop and book tickets for it while we’re here?”
I swallow hard as my stomach muscles clench. It’s been four years since I was fired from the LABT. I should be able to look at a dumb ol’ tutu and not become so emotional about it. But I can’t. Artem managed to ruin the one thing I loved. I may have moved to London, started a new career, and a new life, but I still can’t seem to let go of the past.
“No, I . . . I can’t,” I sputter.
Liz has never pushed me to talk about the past, but she knows that I used to dance professionally. As she reads my body language, her face softens. “Tea, then.”
Like a mother hen tucking me under her wing, shesteers me toward the cafe and changes the subject. “Did I tell you that I have a few ideas for decorating my new flat? I’d love to hear your thoughts on it.”
“OK,” I croak.
Liz starts on about her bedroom, but my mind is still stuck on Artem. Will I ever be free from him?
Two
Itake a few steps closer to theSummer’s Dayportrait painted by the Impressionist artist Berthe Morisot. At first glance, it’s merely a portrait of two women sitting in a rowboat, speaking to one another. A trio of swans swims beside them.
Yet the longer I stand and stare at the portrait, the more details begin to emerge. I notice that each of the women is dressed in the latest fashion of the day. The woman on the left wears a light-blue jacket and straw hat. She’s staring out at the water, perhaps looking at the swans, or something else altogether.
I glance to the woman on the right. She’s the perfect contrast to her companion. She’s wearing a more muted jacket of lavender and white. Her hands are clasped on her lap, clutching a parasol. She appears to be looking directly at me. I wonder what she’d ask me if she could speak.
I take another step forward, soaking in the energetic swirls of color. The vigorous brushstrokes appear to mimic the movement of the water. My eyes don’t know where to focus. They’re drawn all over the canvas.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and slow my breathing. When I open them again, the first thing they focus on is the lavender jacket of the woman on the right. So I guess that’s what I’ll be drawing today.
I hold up my tablet, snap a photo of the portrait for future reference, and locate the nearest bench. As I sit down, I pull out my trusty sketchbook, flip to an empty page, and start sketching.
I start with a rough silhouette of what I think the jacket might look like if she were standing, then I start to add in a few modern tweaks. I shorten the jacket, sharpen the lapels, and change the shape of the sleeves. My mind races ahead, considering colors and fabric choices, and the design takes on a life of its own.
When I finally place my pencil down and admire my work an hour or two later, I’m in love. My imaginary model is wearing a fitted cream jacket, reminiscent of a classic Dior Bar jacket, over a billowing lilac tulle skirt, accentuated with a thick black belt. These are clothes that I’d wear in a heartbeat if I had the money to buy the fabric to bring them to life.
I let out a satisfied sigh and close my notebook. I knew I’d be able to count on the Impressionists to spark inspiration. Especially with a tight deadline. Whenever I see one of the beautiful portraits by an artist like Monet, Morisot, Degas, or Renoir, it feels like I’m being greeted by old friends.
They were artists who pushed the boundaries of art by experimenting with textures, colors, light, and angles. When I look at one of the portraits they’ve created, I never see the same thing twice.
I stand and stretch. The muscles in my legs cramp. The National Portrait Gallery is much more crowded than it wasan hour ago. Tourists are flocking to see some of London’s greatest treasures for themselves. The quiet won’t last much longer. Gathering my belongings, I shove everything into my backpack and make my way to the exit.
“Heading out, Minerva?” JT, one of the security guards, asks.
“Unfortunately. I wish I could squeeze in more time, but I have to be at work in an hour.”
He nods in understanding. “See you this weekend?”
My lips curve in approval. “It’s a date.”
