‘Liv.’ He stares at me and it’s meant to be pointed, but his expression makes my insides swoop. ‘I draw pictures in the sand.’
He’s so self-deprecating, it’s infuriating.
‘Art is art,’ I state.
‘No, you’re right,’ he agrees, suddenly serious. ‘Just because my drawings wash away every six hours while your bronzes will last for an eternity doesn’t make them any less important.’
I roll my eyes at his teasing and he grins at me, his eyes alight with humour.
‘Do you fancy going to the Tate gallery after this?’ he asks.
‘Sure!’ I’d love to spend the day with him.
‘I’ve been dying to check out some of Barbara Hepworth’s famous sand sculptures,’ he adds glibly, trying to keep a straight face.
I reach out to playfully smack his arm before saying, ‘One day, you really must visit Florence to see Michelangelo’s spectacular pavement art. It’s really something.’
He throws his head back and laughs at me, and we’re both still grinning as we leave the foundry.
‘You must have been here so many times,’ Tom says almost apologetically as we walk down the steep hills of St Ives in full sunshine, the sounds of summer at the seaside carrying through the air towards us. The beach is just across the road from the gallery.
‘A few,’ I admit. ‘But it never gets old. Tate Modern in London is somewhere I really want to revisit.’
‘When was the last time you went?’ he asks.
‘When I was sixteen, seventeen? I know I could go to London on my own. Ishould. I’m desperate to check out some sculptures.’
‘Any in particular?’ Tom asks with interest as the Tate’s striking round white entrance foyer comes into view at the end of the road.
‘There’s a life-size Virginia Woolf bronze in Richmond upon Thames that I’d love to take a closer look at. The artist, Laury Dizengremel, sculpted her sitting on a bronze bench, looking very serene. People can actually sit beside her and watch boats drifting past on the river.’ I like the interactive nature of it. ‘Did you know, there are more monuments in London that depict animals than there are in honour of named women?’
Tom pulls a face. ‘Really? That’s bad.’
‘I know! Another statue I want to see is Emmeline Pankhurst standing on a chair, holding court, but she’s in Manchester, which is even further away.’
Hazel Reeves, the sculptor, has another public artworkinstalled in King’s Cross station, but I’m less interested in the subject, Sir Nigel Gresley. I’d still like to see her work up close, though: half a tonne of clay was used to create the scaled-up, seven-and-a-half-foot statue.
Sculpting is a tough profession to break into if you’re female, so Hazel and Laury give me hope.
‘Rach or Amy wouldn’t be up for a city break?’ Tom asks as we make our way up the external staircase to the entrance.
‘Nah, my friends aren’t interested in art and culture.’
‘Well, if you want some company, you can always give me a shout,’ he says casually, opening the door for me.
The balloon that presses against the inside of my ribcage is punctured by the realisation that he’s already almost halfway into his month-long stay at Beach Cottage.
‘You’re going back to Wales soon,’ I remind him over my shoulder.
‘So? They have trains to London from Wales too, you know,’ he teases, touching my lower back as we approach the ticket desk.
My insides glow at the thought that he’d like to stay in touch.
And we could…Wales is not LA.
As we wander from room to room, pausing to stare at the art, I have a surreal feeling that Tom and I are on our first date. When we come to a stop in front of a colourful abstract by Patrick Heron, his arm brushes against mine. I fight a natural instinct to edge away. But I stay put and so does he, and then I’m no longer thinking about the painting; I’m entirely consumed by the skittish feeling in my stomach.
It occurs to me, as we stand there for what feels like an age,that Tom came to St Agnes on the very day I’d decided I was ready for a fresh start.
