‘Then I am,’ I decided, finding her attitude refreshing.
‘What sort of art?’
‘Sculpture.’
‘A sculptress! How interesting. We badly need more sculptresses. Far too many men win the big public art commissions – it’s depressing. What do you sculpt?’
‘Mostly people, but it’s been a while since I’ve created anything half decent.’
‘Why’s that, then?’
‘I’ve had some setbacks.’ I paused, but she seemed to be waiting for me to go on and I found myself telling her. ‘Myparents died a few years ago and I lost the love of it for a while. I’m only just starting to get back into it.’
‘How old are you?’ she asked, not shying away from my tragedy.
‘I’ve just turned twenty-five.’
‘You’re very young to have lost them,’ she said, and it felt like her way of saying that she was sorry without actually using the words. ‘Tell me about your favourite piece,’ she prompted. ‘What have you created that you’re proud of?’
So I told her about Gran. She gave me her details and asked me to email her pictures, which I did the following morning, and within half an hour of sending them off, she replied to ask if she could commission me to create a similar piece of her husband. She wanted it cast in bronze.
I still can’t believe my luck.
‘It looks finished,’ Finn says of David’s portrait.
‘It is. I finally stopped tweaking it a few days ago. I’m taking it to a foundry on Monday.’
‘And then what?’
‘Then they’ll make a mould out of it and cast it in bronze.’
He shakes his head, awed. ‘You’ve done it. You’re earning a living as a sculptor.’
I smile. ‘I’m not quite earning a living yet – I still need to work at Seaglass – but I’m happy. I have the best of both worlds: lively summers and peace and quiet the rest of the time so I can sculpt.’
He leans forward and kisses my lips. ‘Sounds perfect. So is this your permanent studio now?’ He looks around at my parents’ former bedroom.
‘I guess so, yes. The kitchen really wasn’t big enough.’
I’ve tipped the bed up onto its side and pushed it against the wall, covering all the furniture and carpet with big sheets of plastic.
‘When Michael walked in, he said it looked like Dexter’s kill room,’ I say with a laugh.
I didn’t know what that meant, but I looked it up later and felt squeamish.
Finn chuckles. ‘Does he still like watching serial killer stuff?’
‘More than anything else.’
‘How is he these days?’
‘He’s all right. He had a nasty cough last month that wouldn’t shift, but he seems to be on the mend. People with Down’s syndrome are prone to infections, so I was worried. I live in fear of him ending up in hospital.’
‘Hasn’t he already been in hospital with an infection?’ Finn asks, his eyebrows pulled together with concern.
‘Yes, with a chest infection. Have I told you that before?’
‘A couple of years ago.’
