‘Prepare to be disappointed,’ he said, with a chuckle.
‘Are you going for an Impressionist approach or painting me as you see me?’
‘I’ve decided on a Cubist feel. Square eyes, rectangular ears, a boxy nose… that sort of thing,’ he replied, cheekily.
‘My button nose could never be boxy.’
‘I’m using some extreme artistic licence.’
I pencilled out the big shapes. Tony’s easel, his head and shoulders, and the contours of his arm as he held his brush. His linen shirt and elaborate pale blue Swatch – the third different watch I’d seen him wearing. I found it easy to outline the blocks, my muscle memory kicking in from the hundreds of sketches I’d done at art school. A line here, a smudge there, a softer pencil for shading and hashing, concentrating on his skin tone to add light and shade. Staring at his eyes, to try and capture their shape and intensity as they switched from soft to studious, fleeting in their feelings and constantly changing.
I stopped for a moment to study him. The muscles in his painting arm shifting as he worked – the same arm that had scooped me up and thrown me on the bed with abandon only a few nights ago. My breath quickened as he glanced up and caught me staring a little too hard. There. That was the look I wanted to capture. Wide-eyed, open, questioning. Almost worried.
‘Everything OK?’ he asked.
I nodded, moistening my lips. His military-style hair had started growing out around his ears and there was an Italian curl in there desperately trying to get out.
‘I’m just looking,’ I said, sliding my sunglasses onto my head.
‘Nothing wrong with looking,’ he replied. His eyes slowly moved down my body as he worked, and my dress whipped about in the wind. Back and forth, from me to his easel, eventually bringing his gaze back up to my face.
I sketched out the curve and arch of his calves, remembering how it had felt to have those legs wrapped around me, his arms above my head. His body felt too easy to draw somehow; I almost knew it without looking. I focused on his feet to pull myself together and put the finishing touches to my pencil layer. It had been forever since I’d drawn freely, just for the fun of it. Caught up in the flow of creativity and playing with shapes and colours. It was the inner quiet of drawing and painting that I loved. The presence of mind it took to look at something and really see it, then commit it to paper in my own way.
‘Very good, Abi!’ Mia said, as she wandered past, and I glowed at the praise. ‘You must be a professional, no?’ She looked genuinely perplexed.
‘I studied art,’ I said, shyly, feeling like I was cheating somehow. Poor Tony wouldn’t be able to compete. ‘And being a make-up artist gives me an advantage – I spend most of my life staring at people and drawing on them.’
‘Wow, well I wish you were drawing me,’ she said, moving past to peer over Tony’s shoulder. It felt good to have some positive feedback. I’d loved my art teacher at school, Mr Pepper. Always encouraging me to fight against my imposter syndrome, pushing me to experiment with watercolours and oils and different types of paper. I’d loved playing with the materials and combining colours that had no logical reason to be together, just to see what happened. It was a joy in those early school days to be able to go for it with no expectation of perfection. Before the exams came along and we had to take everything seriously.
‘Tony! You are very talented, too!’ Mia said, delighted.
He gave her a playful nudge. ‘Gee, thanks, sis,’ he said, looking pleased with himself. I was desperate to see what he’d done, but I wasn’t ready to share.
‘I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours,’ he said, with a wink.
‘Not yet,’ I said, my paintbrush in my mouth, using the pencil to capture the furrow of his brow and the cheeky curiosity on his face. This man had so many expressions, and those blue eyes staring at me in duplicate made me want to walk over and rip his clothes off. There was something irresistible about the way he was studying my face. He was really looking at me. Taking me in. I used a softer pencil to add more depth and definition to his eyes, light strokes at first, using my fingers to blur the charcoal around his eyelids. Stroking his face on paper, then moving down to outline his lips as he watched me.
‘Where did you study?’ he asked, interrupting my fantasy.
‘Leeds University,’ I replied. ‘A fine art degree. I loved it.’
‘Getting lost in art is one of life’s real pleasures.’ Tony nodded. ‘Painting, drawing, writing – it’s completely absorbing. Meditation in action.’
‘Mum and Dad love going to art galleries, and they have stacks of art books at home. I was obsessed with them when I was little – I still am. I’d try and copy the paintings with my felt tips and Mum would stick my pictures up all over the house.’
‘A mini art exhibition?’
‘I’m not sure anyone but my mum and dad would have called it art.’
‘Sounds very cute. They encouraged your talents and that’s what matters. My obsession was always film. I studied at the New York Film Academy in Florence,’ Tony said. ‘The city is incredible – one of my favourite places.’
‘I’d love to go. I’ve always wanted to visit the Botticelli Room and seeThe Birth of Venus; I’ve just never had the time to come over before.’
‘Well, you’re here now, and you have all the time in the world,’ Tony said. ‘Florence is the home of fine art – you should go while you’re here. We can go to the Uffizi and see the Botticelli Room together, if you like?’
‘I wish I could. Holly suggested it too, but the museum is closed for renovation works for two weeks. What are the chances, eh? So I’ll have to stick to the photos for now.’ I took a dot of pink paint and added a smidge of brown, mixing the colours to get the right level of coffee cream for Tony’s olive skin.
‘What? I’ve never known it to be closed before. Half the building must’ve fallen down for it to be shut for so long. What a shame. Although there is so much more than the Uffizi in Florence if you’re looking for art. You can go and see the originalDavid?’
