Hearts On Fire Episode 18
Wizzy had just returned from a twilight dip and was towelling herself dry when she noticed an unusual amount of noise from Charlie’s room next door: drawers opening and ramming shut, muttering, clumping about.
No doubt Charlie had lost something again.
For someone who had a rare ability to spot the tiniest detail on a picture of a horse, her friend was remarkably likely to miss a thing right under her nose.
Wizzy dressed and wandered through to find out what was causing the fuss this time.
Charlie’s suitcase lay on the bed, nearly full.
Wizzy stared at it.
“What are you doing?”
“We’re leaving.” Charlie threw her soap on top of the clothes in the case.
Wizzy fought the urge to argue.
Years of friendship had taught her that having a blazing row was not the way to deal with these outbursts.
“What’s brought this on?” she asked.
Charlie threw out her arms.
“What do you think? This course is a disaster. I won’t bear it.
“As soon as I’ve packed, I will order Marianna to arrange a flight home. And I shall expect a full refund.”
“But what about me?” Wizzy demanded.
“You?” Charlie stopped and looked at her as though this was the first time she’d had to consider that her friend was not an extension of herself.
“Yes, me,” Wizzy snapped. “I don’t ask for much, Charlie, but there are two of us on this retreat. I am enjoying it.
“In fact, I can’t remember when I felt so enthusiastic about my painting.”
“You do?”
“And don’t forget this is my one chance to get abroad because Duncan won’t leave the UK,” Wizzy reminded her. “What has brought this on?”
Charlie slumped on to the bed.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
Wizzy frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m supposed to paint something that’s not actually there. But how?
“I work from photos, and now all I’ve got is a sketch and instructions to paint something else.”
Suddenly Wizzy saw a side to Charlie she had never seen before.
She sat on the bed and put her arm around her friend’s shoulders.
“Charlie, paint the statue of Isabella faithfully if you wish. Or work on another horse from a photo, if you prefer. No-one is forcing you to do anything.”
Charlie sniffed and Wizzy realised she was crying.
“What’s the point?” her friend cried. “I haven’t sold anything for three years.”
So that was it! Charlie was finally acknowledging the problems she faced.
“But you have your pension,” Wizzy soothed. “And your lovely flat. You have me and Constance.”
Charlie sniffed when Wizzy mentioned their mutual friend.
“Even Connie has abandoned me. Swanning about in Botswana while I’m stuck here up some creek without a paddle.”
Wizzy rubbed Charlie’s arm.
“Connie is smarting from being given the heave-ho as resident artist here. She has gone on safari with her Frank to prove to herself it doesn’t matter that Marianna doesn’t want her.
“I’m sure next year she’ll want to meet up again.”
Although, if Wizzy were honest, she wasn’t sure.
“She did ask us to go with her,” she reasoned aloud.
Charlie gave a laugh.
“Like I could afford that! I have to scrimp all year to come here these days.”
A lightbulb lit up in Wizzy’s head.
“Exactly. You’ve spent a fortune on this holiday. You might as well make the most of it,” she pointed out.
“And I really do need you to help me with the light effect on my painting,” Wizzy continued.
“You’re so talented, Charlie. I’m sure you’re the one to make a difference.
Then Wizzy slipped into the language she’d heard her husband use so often.
“I think this is a perfect opportunity to learn to add value to your paintings,” she declared.
Charlie turned away to stare at the floor.
“No-one’s willing to pay what I charge now!”
Wizzy stood and leaned on the kitchen counter directly in front of Charlie.
“Adding value doesn’t mean charging more. It means your paintings offering more than a mere photo can give.”
“I have no idea what that means,” Charlie said.
Wizzy pondered how to explain a whole new approach that would resonate with Charlie.
Then it came to her.
“Remember Rameses III?” she asked.
“The Egyptian pharaoh?” Charlie frowned, confused.
“No, that horse of Priscilla Marchington’s.”
Charlie grimaced.
“Oh, yes. Everyone was terrified of the thing. I nearly painted it with red eyes and horns.”
“Exactly,” Wizzy said, then waited.
Charlie’s face moved through a succession of different emotions.
“You think Priscilla would have bought it had I given him horns and red eyes?”
“No. I mean you could have added a murderous glint to his eye, the merest hint of steam issuing from his nostrils, ears that were perhaps a little pointier than in real life.
“Think of the expression Thelwell got into his cartoon ponies,” Wizzy went on. “You needn’t be that obvious, but you can add personality while still being faithful.”
Charlie stared for a moment, then she clapped her hands and beamed.
“Why didn’t you say that earlier instead of blathering on about Churchill?”
Her eyes darted about the room.
“What did I do with my canvas?”
Wizzy laughed.
“I’m delighted you’re so enthused, Charlie. But it’s suppertime. The others will be waiting for us, and you’ll be in a foul mood by bedtime if you skip supper.
“Besides, I expect your work in progress is the first thing you packed.”
Charlie stilled and her gaze moved to the suitcase.
“You’re right, Wizzy. What would I do without you?”
To be continued…