Stella didn’t need to see his bank statements to know he was telling the truth. The expensive refurbishment of Trencarrow, the swish Bayswater apartment and Chessie had the best car and clothes and an expensive London social life. She really had bled him dry.
‘What about selling some of your work?’
‘I haven’t worked in years,’ he said quietly. Stella noticed he was now directing his conversation at Tom, as if it was easier to talk to a relative stranger.
‘Well, can’t we sell some of your old stuff?’
‘Have a look around,’ he replied sweeping an arm around the room. ‘There’s not much left. I must have sold about fifty pieces over the last ten years. High-maintenance wives can be expensive you know,’ he said with a small smile.
It was something that had been nagging at Stella since they had arrived: how few of Christopher’s sculptures were dotted round the house. In many ways her father had been a victim of his own success. Twenty, thirty years earlier, his Mayfair art dealer Bartholomew Davies would sell his sculptures as fast as Christopher could produce work, but now the famous bronze curves had gone and so too had the income.
‘I’m an old fool, Thomas,’ said Christopher. ‘A fool for love. I’ve lost count of the pieces I gave away – seduction tools as it were,’ he smiled. ‘And the rest have gone on divorce settlements and holidays. The only thing still left is Byzance.’
Stella’s heart fluttered. Byzance was her favourite piece. A six-foot bronze in the shape of a sail that took pride of place in the garden behind the house, sheltered from the sea and the rain. There was no way she was going to let him sell that.
‘Tell me, Thomas, do you like art?’ asked Christopher. Tom walked over to two brightly
-coloured paintings by the door. They were vaguely nautical. Tom thought he could make out a boat and a lighthouse.
‘These are great,’ he said.
Christopher nodded.
‘A great friend of mine and Saul’s did those, Ben Palmer. You won’t have heard of him. Poor sod didn’t have two brass farthings to rub together, couldn’t even afford materials. He used to hang around the Porthmeor Studios, using paint left over from other artists’ sessions. That painting on the left is done on a piece of chipboard that was put over a broken window.’
‘What are the Porthmeor Studios?’ asked Tom, genuinely interested. This was a part of his Uncle Saul’s life that he’d never heard about.
‘Oh, the studios are a piece of Cornish history,’ he replied. ‘Everyone worked out of there at some point. Sandra Blow, Patrick Heron, even Francis Bacon for a few months.’ Christopher shrugged. ‘Sadly Benjamin didn’t quite take off in the way they did. I’d sell those pictures if I thought they’d raise anything. But I’m quite happy to look at them every day though.’
Stella felt tears welling up. She had grown up listening to her father’s stories of the St Ives art movement and she knew how much her father treasured Ben’s paintings. It broke her heart to see that he was prepared to get rid of them so readily.
‘It’s late,’ said Christopher grabbing onto the arms of the chair to pull himself up. ‘Do you mind if I turn in?’
‘It’s not that late,’ replied Stella, wanting to stay up and talk despite feeling emotionally exhausted herself.
‘It is for me, darling,’ he said, rising with difficulty, gently squeezing her arm.
‘Don’t blame Chessie,’ he said quietly. ‘She’s a young woman like you. What does she want with an old man who goes to bed at seven o’clock?’
Tom and Stella watched him leave the room.
‘Can you believe he’s making excuses for her?’ asked Stella when he had gone.
Tom shrugged. ‘When a relationship ends, sometimes it’s easier to believe it was your fault.’
Stella suddenly thought of Johnny and her heart felt raw. The tears began to come again. She leant into Tom and he put a fraternal arm round her shoulders.
‘It will get better you know,’ he said, giving her a gentle squeeze.
She nodded her head sadly. ‘I had a narrow escape with Johnny, I’m sure of it. Yes, it hurts like hell, but I’m sure it’s more painful after marriage and kids.’
She stood up and started pacing around the room to stop herself dwelling on her own problems.
‘Tom, I can’t let him sell Trencarrow.’
‘Maybe those paintings are worth something,’ said Tom, pointing to the Ben Palmer oils.
‘It’s worth asking your mother,’ said Stella.