Art and Soul Read online

  Table of Contents

  JUNE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  JULY

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  AUGUST

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  SEPTEMBER

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  OCTOBER

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  NOVEMBER

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  DECEMBER

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  JANUARY

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  AUGUST

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  Claire Huston

  Copyright © Claire Huston 2020

  The moral right of Claire Huston to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Goldcrest Books International Ltd

  www.goldcrestbooks.com

  [email protected]

  ISBN: 978-1-911505-65-5

  eISBN: 978-1-911505-66-2

  For Sam and Oscar

  xx

  JUNE

  Chapter 1

  The security gates were wide open. Hoping against all sense this was a sign Charlie was expecting her, Becky drove in and parked the unfamiliar car by the porch. She yawned, rubbed her eyes and sat back to collect her thoughts while admiring the imposing beauty of the Old Station House. Even she, who would happily admit to knowing nothing about Victorian architecture, could appreciate the original features: looped terracotta ridge tiles, steep gables topped by spiked finials, meticulously carved white bargeboards and three massive brick chimney stacks.

  With so little notice, and a screaming toddler to contend with, her research the previous evening had been rushed and scrappy. When she finally got to bed, her ethics kept her awake. Charlie had clearly been drunk when he called her and left a message. She should return his call and give him the chance to withdraw his invitation. But then, from what his sister had said, he needed help and wouldn’t ask for it when sober.

  That morning, as she made herself a vat of black coffee, Dylan strapped in his highchair with more breakfast in his hair than in his stomach, the latest gas bill dropped through the letterbox and silenced her qualms. Placing the envelope in the neat pile next to the toaster, Becky decided a conscience was another item on the growing list of things she couldn’t afford.

  She got out of the car, tucked two strands of fine mousy hair behind her ears, adjusted her glasses and knocked on the door. Calm and composed, calm and composed, was her silent mantra. The key to a first meeting was to appear confident; the client needed her to be. Nevertheless, the fluttering in her chest reminded her just how out of practice she was and her empty stomach growled. Great. Exactly what she needed.

  She was raising her hand to knock again when Charlie opened the door and stunned her into momentary paralysis. Oh dear God. Why hadn’t Lauren warned her about this?

  His facial hair was rampant, tufted and piebald. Above that undergrowth, dirty brown hair, with patches of grey at the temples, rambled down past his shoulders. Worn, faded jeans and a paint-stained T-shirt completed the crazy castaway look. But his eyes were of more immediate concern. They brought to mind those of a chocolate-brown Labrador she had once seen tied up outside the supermarket in the chill rain waiting for its owner to return.

  She smiled. Calm and composed. Calm and composed. Kill Lauren later.

  ‘Mr Handren? I’m Rebecca Watson.’

  He blinked but showed no sign of recognition.

  ‘Your sister, Lauren, emailed me. She gave you my number and then you called and left me a message last night. Around midnight.’ She searched the visible parts of his face for any reaction. ‘You asked me to come here after lunch. I wasn’t sure when that was. I hope I haven’t interrupted anything.’

  He opened and closed his mouth but all that came out was an incoherent stutter.

  ‘I’m sorry, you are Mr Handren, aren’t you?’ She gave him a tight-lipped smile. ‘Please don’t tell me I’m in the wrong place.’

  His startled expression softened. ‘No. I mean, yes. You’re in the right place.’

  ‘Great!’ Becky pressed on. ‘So can I come in or are we going to chat out here?’

  ‘Look, sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘I think I made a mistake, that is, I called you by mistake.’

  Becky refused to be so easily dismissed. The gas bill was no longer alone at the front of her mind. It was jostling for pole position with the boiler, which was grumbling and likely to take strike action soon. And this brown-eyed castaway needed help. She had to get through the door.

  Charlie fiddled with the security chain. Becky decided it was time to push the point.

  ‘You meant to call someone else at midnight and invite them here today?’

  ‘No. I mean …’ He faltered and scratched his beard. ‘I shouldn’t have called you. Sorry. It was late and I’d been … you know, I’d been thinking … and drinking.’ The tips of his ears turned pink. ‘I guess I wasn’t thinking that clearly.’

  Her lips twitched. Nearly there.

  ‘Mr Handren,’ she said, peering at him over the top of her glasses. ‘I spent an hour this morning persuading my cranky best friend to look after my son and lend me her car so I could get here. I hardly slept last night because he’s teething. So I am begging you to let me in. I promise it’ll take under an hour and if you’re still not convinced I can help then you’ll never have to see or hear from me again.’

  She watched as he blinked and swallowed. She needed a clincher.

  ‘And if nothing else, you can tell your sister you talked to me and get her off your back.’

  Charlie scratched his cheek, snorted, and opened the door. Becky hurried past him before he could change his mind.

  To the left, the old station waiting room was now a bright study. To the right, the ground floor of the two-storey part of the house had been opened up to form a large living room. Beyond it lay the other single-storey section of the building:
a spacious kitchen-diner. All the rooms were bathed in afternoon sunlight which streamed through windows at the rear of the house. In the study and dining area French doors opened to the back garden. The lush green lawn was bordered by rose bushes, purple foxglove spires and bursts of yellow marigolds. Charlie might not invest much time in maintaining his personal appearance, but his home was idyllic.

  As she followed him into the kitchen, Becky compared his house to her own IKEA shoebox. Charlie interrupted her covetous thoughts.

  ‘Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Water, please. From the tap is fine.’

  Charlie left Becky standing on the other side of the breakfast bar. Opening and closing doors, he shuffled between cupboards, his shoulders hunched. When he found the glasses, his hands shook as he carried two of them to the sink.

  Hoping to calm his nerves and hers, Becky started with a compliment. ‘Your home is beautiful. It must have been a lot of work.’

  Water sloshed over the rim as he thrust the glass towards her. Drops pooled on the countertop and he stared at them as if they were something he’d never seen before.

  ‘A lot of dealing with bloody lawyers, I remember. My wife managed all the renovations.’

  She nodded, glancing at the gold band on his left ring finger which glinted as he worried it with his thumb.

  ‘I suppose doing any work on a listed building is a challenge and particularly on one that’s been left to fall down.’ She smiled but only received a grunt in reply. Time to get down to business. ‘I guess you have some questions for me?’ she said.

  He went back to the sink and filled the other glass, moving his shoulders to shake out the tension. ‘I might, if I understood what it is you do.’

  ‘Ah. Well, I suppose the simplest explanation is that I’m a very hands-on life coach. But to really understand what I do, it’s probably best to explain the process I usually follow.’ She pointed towards the dining table. ‘Do you mind if we sit down?’

  ‘Of course not. Sorry.’

  Good manners, in Becky’s opinion, were sadly undervalued and vanishing. So as Charlie rushed to the table and pulled out a chair for her, he went up several notches in her estimation. Perhaps her first impression had been harsh.

  She jammed her knees together and, keeping her back straight, lowered herself to the seat in what she prayed was a ladylike movement.

  Her host retrieved his drink and took the seat at the head of the table. Becky took a sip of water to buy herself a few more seconds to compose her thoughts and avoid Charlie’s expectant stare. His dark eyes and long black lashes were his most prominent features, although they had the advantage of not being obscured by hair.

  Maybe sensing she needed some encouragement, Charlie said, ‘Your process?’

  Grateful for the prompt, Becky launched into her opening pitch.

  ‘When I first meet a potential client—so you, in this case—we talk about you and your life at the moment. Once I have a good idea of what needs to be done, I go away and come up with a proposal for what I think we can do to improve your current situation.’

  She watched for a reaction. His features remained inscrutable under the fuzz. At least he wasn’t smirking or rolling his eyes.

  ‘I’ll also tell you how long it will take and what my fee will be. Then you can accept, negotiate or reject the proposal. If you reject it, that’s it: I charge you nothing. Everything you’ve told me stays between us and I won’t contact you again.’

  He continued to stare at her, perhaps waiting for her to say more, or maybe preparing to dismiss her already?

  Becky wrung her hands under the table, trying to keep her fidgeting out of sight. That had to be the worst explanation she had ever given. About anything. She wouldn’t blame him if he told her to get stuffed and get out.

  But when his reply finally came, his tone was unexpectedly playful. ‘And if I say yes? I sign a contract in blood and the devil gets my soul when you’ve granted all my wishes?’

  The tension in her neck eased. ‘I prefer ink, but I’ll take blood if you insist. I’m a modern Mephistopheles. I don’t want my Faustus’s soul, just fair payment.’

  At the corners of his lips was a movement Becky interpreted as a mouth-shrug, rather than a smile. ‘Is striking these Faustian bargains your full-time job?’

  ‘It was. I finished my last commission a couple of weeks before I had my son, he’ll be two in September, and you would be my first client since he was born. But before Dylan came along I’d been doing this eight years. I also do some events work.’

  ‘Events work?’

  Becky stifled a sigh and the urge to tell him she thought of her current employment as putting out fires for people too posh to piss on them themselves. Instead she said, ‘Crisis management, that sort of thing.’

  He nodded. ‘So, what do you need from me? I expect my sister has already told you everything she thinks she knows.’

  ‘She’s told me a bit, but I need to hear things from you. How about we start with your routine? What do you do on a typical day?’

  ‘I get up at seven. I take Phoebe, my daughter, to school and sometimes go shopping. Maybe a run after lunch, and the gym about three times a week. Then cleaning, washing, gardening … I collect Phoebe from school, make dinner and three nights a week I teach a class at the adult education college.’

  Becky glanced at the patchwork of stains on his faded T-shirt. ‘And I guess in there somewhere you paint?’

  Charlie rubbed his left thumb across the dried black smear on his right knuckles and sighed. ‘Every day. I try.’

  ‘And what do you do at the weekends?’

  He shrugged. ‘More of the same.’

  ‘Your daughter will be eighteen in October?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘And she doesn’t drive herself to school?’

  ‘Sometimes, when I don’t need the car.’

  ‘This coming academic year will be her last year at school?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Is she planning to go to university?’

  He rubbed his brow line. ‘I don’t know. She might prefer art college.’

  ‘She’s an artist too?’

  ‘She’s good. She’d be better if she practised.’

  Becky tapped her index finger on the table. She had been warned he would be less than receptive, but Charlie’s monotone mumbling was testing her mask of composure and her conversation skills. What did she have to do to get more than eight words out of him?

  ‘Your sister mentioned your wife left about six years ago. Does your daughter hear from her?’

  His eyes narrowed and he pressed his lips together. A flush appeared around the edge of the beard and he scratched his cheek, raking his nails through the thick hair. ‘She sends birthday cards.’ He coughed, but failed to dispel the sudden venom in his tone. ‘Christmas too, last year.’

  Becky swallowed a sigh. While part of her was delighted to have provoked any display of feeling from Charlie, angering him at this early stage would be stupid. She needed to retreat to less sensitive ground. What had Lauren said about a home studio? His pride and joy, an inner sanctum?

  ‘I believe you have a studio here. Is it upstairs?’

  Charlie’s lips curled and he snorted, holding back a laugh. ‘It’s outside.’

  If you could make someone laugh, you were halfway to getting them to like you. Sensing progress, she pushed on.

  ‘May I see it?’

  He tilted his head to one side and fixed her with a disconcerting stare. It seemed to absorb every surface detail while slipping under her skin to seek out her secrets. Was this a professional habit or an attempt at intimidation? Well, if it were the latter, he was out of luck.

  Charlie blinked first. ‘All right,’ he said, rising and beckoning for her to follow him out into the garden. ‘Come with me. I’ll show you.’

  Chapter 2

  Charlie waited for Becky to step out onto the concrete band which had once been the northbound plat
form.

  Even with his eyes narrowed against the bright sunlight, Charlie noted with pride how the garden was at its best in early summer. The air was still. Birds were singing in the sycamore trees and bees hummed among the sweet pinks of the border roses. And next to him, shading her eyes with her hand as she scrutinised every inch of it, was Rebecca Watson. An unwanted intruder, dark against the view.

  This was mostly Lauren’s fault. She was the one who had found this life-fixer character and foisted her number onto him. Although he had to take the blame for calling her and letting her into the house. God, he was pathetic! He’d allowed embarrassment and guilt to push him into being accommodating. And now he was taking her to the studio! What was he thinking?

  As he closed the door after Becky, Charlie entertained a fleeting fantasy in which he hopped back inside, turned the key in the lock, and left his sister’s spy to find her own way out of the grounds.

  ‘Is that your studio?’

  Her right hand still hovering over her eyes, Becky was using her left to point towards the large red brick building to the south, close to the perimeter wall.

  ‘Yes.’

  Without wasting energy on extending an invitation, he made off towards the building. If the woman wanted to see his studio she could bloody well keep up. ‘It was the engine shed and workshop,’ he said, glancing at Becky who had caught up and was trotting along next to him. ‘We kept as much of the original walls as we could. We bricked in the windows on the long sides, which are about fifty feet long. We also restored the two sets of large wooden doors in both of the short ends of the shed. And the roof is new.’

  They paused as they reached the nearest end of the building. An ordinary-sized door nestled within the giant frame of the original wooden gates.

  ‘We’ll go through the small door on the south side.’ He set off down the small strip of shade along the east side of the studio.

  ‘Why can’t we use the door here?’

  He rolled his eyes. Without turning back, he raised his voice and arm to beckon. ‘Come on!’

  Moments later she was back at his elbow. ‘What did you do to the roof?’

  ‘It had all but fallen in. We took what was left away and put up a roof with two slopes. At first the sides go up steeply.’ He held his hands up, palms facing, and tilted his fingers together. ‘Then the pitch changes and the slope is much flatter until the two sides meet at the apex.’ He let his fingers drop until the tips touched.