The Boy in the Rain by Stephanie Cowell

Author:Stephanie Cowell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Regal House Publishing
Published: 2023-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

17

The Exhibition

December 1905

Robbie’s patent leather evening shoes had already begun to pinch him when they arrived just before five o’clock at the Winchester Galleries. It didn’t matter. His body was filled with memories of the lovemaking between him and Anton last night. He sighed and thought, I am utterly, utterly happy and fulfilled. I don’t give a damn about anything but him and me.

And there was Keith Donovan, his face and voice without emotion, saying, “My word, Mr. Stillman, you’ve dark circles under your eyes! Evening, Mr. Harrington. The champagne and caviar have arrived in ice, and the waiter is in the office. Let me just take your coats and hats and I’ll put them aside for you.”

Robbie looked about, startled. It was real; this truly was the first night of his art exhibition with his paintings on every wall. Yet why did they seem remote to him? He felt the need to walk away somewhere and think. If only his shoes didn’t pinch! But there was no time as people began to pour through the door.

He pressed the hand of an ancient lisping woman, who was wrapped in enormous layers of fox with fox heads hanging down over her shoulders. Some men he didn’t know pumped his hand sincerely. Anton introduced them, but Robbie forgot at once because the young artists he had met last night rushed through the door with the clank of beads and jewelry, all outshouting each other. “Oh, how splendid!” they exclaimed. “Cakes and champagne! Lobster on toast! Oh, marvelous!” Many more people came in.

They said, “So here’s the artist! How do you do?” and he answered many times, “So glad you’ve come!” He drank one glass of champagne and then another. Yes, it was his art on the wall. There was the painting of the house he had made over the past weeks; there were the children, there was the housekeeper; but none of it seemed to have any relationship to him.

Near him a few men walked up and down before the pictures with hands behind their backs, muttering of the artist’s use of perspective and shadow. Another man in black stood motionless before one painting, taking notes.

Then a soft hand rested on his arm, and a musical woman’s voice said, “Robbie, it’s Louise.” He could smell the heaviness of rose perfume.… Louise, who was Louise?

The lovely young face above a pale green shimmering dress.

Surely it could not be…

The only time he had seen her, she had been huddled in a chair in the farmhouse on a winter’s day, fighting back tears, saying complimentary things to him about his work. He remembered bicycling madly to the Nottingham train station to find that she had gone away, taking Anton with her forever.

Of course, it had not been forever but still…she was Anton’s wife or had been.

Under his waistcoat, nausea nudged his stomach.

She touched his arm again and he stepped back, bumping into the ancient woman with the fox fur. “It’s Louise,” she repeated. “The former Mrs.

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