A summer that changes everything …

Frazzled workaholic Evie Johnson has finally had enough! When she’s blamed for a publicity disaster at the art gallery she loves, she decides to flee the bright lights of London for the sun-drenched shores of Corfu and turn her life upside down.

Under the shade of the olive trees, she picks up her dusty paintbrushes and begins to chase the dreams she had put aside for so long. But she never expected to bump into drop-dead-gorgeous Sam Bradbury – and certainly not whilst wrapped only in a towel!

A summer fling is the last thing Evie wanted but a few stolen kisses under the stars might just begin to change her mind …

The new delightfully uplifting beach read from Daisy James. Perfect for fans of Mandy Baggot, Christie Barlow and Zara Stoneley.

Also by Daisy James

The Runaway Bridesmaid

If the Dress Fits

When Only Cupcakes Will Do

There’s Something about Cornwall

Sunshine After the Rain

Daisy James

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Author Bio

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Excerpt

Endpages

Copyright

DAISY JAMES is a Yorkshire girl transplanted to the north-east of England. She loves writing stories with strong heroines and swift-flowing plotlines. She has written four novels, The Runaway Bridesmaid, If the Dress Fits, When Only Cupcakes Will Do, and There’s Something about Cornwall, all contemporary romances with a dash of humour. When not scribbling away in her peppermint-and-green summerhouse (garden shed), she spends her time sifting flour and sprinkling sugar and edible glitter. She loves gossiping with friends over a glass of something pink and fizzy or indulging in a spot of afternoon tea – china plates and teacups are a must!

Daisy would love to hear from readers via her Facebook page or you can follow her on Twitter @daisyjamesbooks.

To Carol Coulson, Hilary Hicks, Jane Sharples, and Margaret King for their unswerving love and support, not to mention the wonderful indulgence of regular afternoon teas.

To everyone who craves a little Sunshine After the Rain.

Chapter One

‘Oh my God! Please tell me this isn’t happening!’

Evie stalked to the front door of James Bradbury Art and grabbed the envelope attached to the front of an enormous canvas wrapped in a protective coat of bubble wrap that had just been delivered by special courier.

‘Calm down, Evie! Just watching you flap is giving me palpitations!’ Pippa giggled.

‘How can I slow down? This is the most important exhibition the gallery has ever handled. In less than an hour, all the great and the good of London’s venerable art world will be descending on our little corner of the capital expecting to be bowled over by the creative genius of Britain’s newest contemporary artist. Everything has to be perfect!’

Evie slid her scarlet fingernail along the flap and withdrew the unwelcome missive before scanning the contents. She opened her mouth to object but no words tumbled forth. Her brain had temporarily disconnected from its modem and was refusing to register what her eyes were seeing. She felt a heavy fist of shock ram into her solar plexus, stealing her breath away, and a ripple of nausea threatened to overwhelm her.

‘Oh for heaven’s sake! This really is the final straw. The arrogant, self-centred …’

‘What’s the matter? What does it say?’

‘It’s from Jaxx Benson, our esteemed debut artist. It looks like we’ve got just over fifty minutes to swap this canvas – which he has helpfully labelled “the centrepiece of the whole exhibition” – with that one over there, which we spent the best part of yesterday positioning as the previous so-called “star attraction”. Quick! Antoine, could you and Pierre take the “Muswell Musings” canvas down and hide it in James’s office for the time being, then come back to help me and Pippa hang this one in its place? Hurry!’

As Pierre and Antoine rushed off to do as bid, their black waiters’ aprons flapping at their waists, Evie felt a surge of panic twist through her veins and sparkle out to her fingertips. A flush of perspiration gathered beneath her breasts and along her upper lip. She sent up a quick thank you to the gods of Estée Lauder for the staying power of her foundation and mascara.

She crouched down to tear away the cardboard armour from the late arrival, cursing the audacity of Jaxx Benson – heart-throb and lead singer of one of the hottest bands in the country who had decided to turn his hand to painting – for thinking it was okay to demand such a late substitution. She allowed her thoughts to whirl back over the hectic past few months during which she had spent twelve hours a day at the beck and call of the art world’s latest sensation until her nerves were frazzled and frayed.

She kept telling herself, and anyone else who chastised her for her workaholic tendencies, that once the opening night was out of the way she would take a break. However, at that moment, as she had single-handedly curated the whole exhibition, she couldn’t risk anything going wrong. This was her one big chance to show James Bradbury what she could do, but the stress of pulling off such an important show was taking its toll. Every night she had lain awake chasing the ‘what if’ demons down blind alleyways until her exhausted brain could take no more. All she wanted to do now was crawl into her bed and sleep until Sunday.

‘Thanks, Antoine. Pierre, can you help me get rid of all this packaging, please? It’s making the place look untidy.’

When Bradbury Art had taken delivery of the first of Jaxx Benson’s paintings to be revealed to his adoring public, the excitement in the gallery had been palpable. Evie had unpacked the artwork with the reverence demanded of a collection of Monets or Renoirs. But when she and Pippa had stood back to admire the canvases lined up in military precision along the West End gallery’s ice-white walls, they had been stunned into silence. Neither of them had wanted to be the first to comment, but Evie had eventually managed to ask how on earth the young musician had attracted such critical acclaim.

Whenever she considered any piece of art – whether it be a painting, a sculpture, a photograph, or an installation – she wanted to experience a thrill of emotion, any emotion. But Jaxx Benson’s artwork did nothing for her. It was clear to her expert eye that the singer had received no formal tutoring – his chosen subject matter was a collision of random splodges of black, taupe, and grey paint selected from a limited spectrum at the depressing end of his artist’s palette. The canvases lacked any kind of perspective or complexity in their composition. There was no use of symbolism or, as far as she could ascertain, any hidden meaning or energy beyond the surface.

Clearly Jaxx’s musical fame had preceded him and there was nothing she could do about it. It was up to her to deal with the shock and make the heart-throb’s debut into the art world as noteworthy as possible. Nevertheless, she could already envisage the art critics’ disdainful headlines printed on a loop of ticker tape coiling around her brain and she cringed. She had longed to show James what she was capable of, that she could curate a successful exhibition of this calibre, but tonight would not be that occasion. It was going to be a disaster; she could feel it in her bones.

She checked her watch again and began clawing at the bubble wrap. ‘Jaxx Benson really is the most unprofessional, egotistical, irritating person I have ever had the misfortune to …’

She was forced to pause in her character assassination when the new piece of artwork was unveiled in all its technicolour glory. Unlike its drab companions that hung on the walls around the gallery, this late arrival depicted a vibrant landscape – possibly of Devon or Cornwall – and was a complete departure from the other pieces in the exhibition.

‘Wow! That’s amazing!’ declared Pippa, coming to stand next to Evie with her arms folded as she studied the last-minute substitution. ‘No wonder he wants the canvases switched. Come on. Let’s get this beauty on the wall before the guests start to arrive.’

‘I have to agree with you, Pip. In fact, I might just have to reassess my initial opinion of Mr Benson’s artistic prowess if this piece is representative of his new stuff.’

Between the four of them they lifted the huge canvas onto the back wall. In unison, they took a step back and allowed their eyes to linger on the new leading lady. The canvas’s inclusion had lifted the rest of the collection from dull and mundane to quirky and almost interesting in a light, uplifting sense of contrast. It was as though the sun had appeared from behind a bank of bruised clouds to illuminate the whole space and a wave of relief surged through Evie.

She acknowledged for the first time that the feeling in the pit of her stomach had been one of dread. She had believed that the patrons of the art world who had been invited to the opening that evening would, like she and Pippa, consider the collection to be subpar; that they would arrive at the inevitable conclusion that James Bradbury Art had lost its edge or been blinded by the celebrity of the musician-turned-painter and had chosen to overlook the fact that he had little talent.

She needn’t have worried. Now she could genuinely dedicate herself to an evening of conversations in which she could happily wax lyrical about the artist’s indisputable talents.

‘Do you think this means Jaxx Benson has changed his mind and decided to come to the opening night now?’ asked Pippa for the hundredth time that day, her chestnut eyes sparkling with hope.

‘You know he won’t. One of the criteria for him agreeing to hold his debut exhibition at Bradbury’s was that we wouldn’t insist on him attending in person to publicize it. His agent made sure the stipulation was written into the contract. Even James Bradbury himself couldn’t persuade him to change his mind. So, Pip darling, you can put your autograph book and camera back in your handbag!’

Evie held her tablet aloft and took a succession of photographs of the spectacular canvas to upload to the James Bradbury Art Gallery’s Facebook and Instagram pages later.

‘Well, I don’t know how he can stay away. If this were my exhibition I’d be here soaking up the compliments, explaining the road to my inspiration, talking up the prices and smiling for the photographers. Don’t look at me like that, Evie. You would too!’

‘Ah,’ she sighed, rotating her aching shoulders and massaging her temples with her index fingers to soothe away the stress headache that was threatening to overwhelm her. ‘But that’s not likely, is it? I haven’t lifted a paintbrush in months.’

‘Well, whose fault is that?’

‘You know I’ve been too busy with the gallery to think about painting, Pip. And on the rare occasions when I do get a day to myself I’m just too exhausted to drag out the easel and my paint box. Anyway, you can hardly compare my artistic pulling power with that of Jaxx Benson. You’d have to press-gang people into attending an exhibition of my watercolours.’

‘You shouldn’t belittle your work, Evie. It’s true – Jaxx doesn’t need any extra publicity for this to be the must-have invitation of the month. But, if I was forced to choose between one of your watercolours and one of those moody, abstract landscapes over there, then I would choose yours every single time.’

Evie smiled at the enthusiasm in her friend’s voice and opened her mouth to thank her for her support, but Pippa hadn’t finished her lecture.

‘You should still make time to paint. It’s what you love the most, isn’t it? Why don’t you take a few days off next week? Go home to Cornwall and take your easel with you? Start chasing your own dreams instead of other people’s! You know what Sam says. We all have to be prepared to “carve out the time to coax our passions from their slumber”,’ quoted Pippa using her fingers as speech marks. ‘And don’t forget that “creativity is a muscle that needs to be exercised to keep it in tiptop condition.”’

‘Yes, well, not all of us are as fortunate as Sam “Silver Spoon” Bradbury. When you have a lucrative career as a newly qualified barrister to fall back on, you can spend as much time as you want on “flexing your creative muscles”!’

Evie hoped the envy in her voice wasn’t as apparent to Pippa’s ears as it was to her own. Everything her friend had said was right of course. She suspected that shelving her dream of becoming a commercially successful artist was the real cause of her recent melancholy and insomnia and not the stress of organizing Jaxx Benson’s debut.

When she had taken on the role of manager and curator for one of the hippest independent art galleries in London’s West End two years ago, she had reassured herself every time she surveyed a fresh exhibition with the ‘one day this will be mine’ mantra. But the leather portfolio under her bed had become a comfortable colony for dust bunnies that even a ravenous Dyson would struggle to evict.

She refused to admit it to anyone but she was now frightened to revisit her canvases in case the unbridled passion she had possessed at university had been shipwrecked on the sea of necessity to pay her rent. Even Pippa, the most positive person she had ever encountered, had downgraded her constant barrage of encouragement to weekly instead of daily. It was just the evening’s events that seemed to have reawakened her friend’s indignation that Evie was concealing her ambitions under a veil of workaholic mist.

‘And, whilst we’re on the subject of self-interested creatives, what’s happening with you and Dylan?’ asked Pippa, holding Evie’s gaze so that she wasn’t tempted to avoid the subject. ‘Why isn’t he gracing us with his presence tonight? What can be more important than being here to support his girlfriend?’

‘I told you, his band’s got a gig. It’s been such a long time since the last one, I couldn’t expect him to turn it down. This could be the breakthrough he needs to get his career back on track.’ Evie hoped her optimism wasn’t as misplaced as it had been many times before and that his refusal to come to the exhibition before the gig was not yet another symptom of the fizzling out of her relationship with would-be rock guitarist Dylan.

‘You can’t keep defending him, Evie. You deserve better.’

Evie flashed Pippa a grateful smile but before she was able to respond, her colleague erupted into a volley of excitable squeals.

‘Look! Look! Oh my God, I don’t believe it! The paparazzi have arrived!’

Evie took time out of her frantic list-checking mode to glance at the violet-tinged street beyond the huge, plate-glass front window. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the uniformed doormen – straight from central casting as extras in a Mafia movie – hired by James Bradbury to guard the entrance in case of gate-crashers from the Jaxx Benson Fan Club intent on getting a personal audience with their idol. It would be a fruitless wait but that never seemed to deter the most ardent of admirers.

It was almost seven o’clock and twilight had started to tickle the rooftops and send shadows skipping across the pavements. All day the sky had presented a canopy of darkening clouds but the expected rain hadn’t materialized – yet.

Pippa was right – a gaggle of photographers had set up camp on the opposite side of the road where they jostled to secure the best vantage point for their long lenses and stepladders in a misinformed fit of optimism over reality. Jaxx Benson had made it abundantly clear via his Twitter and Facebook accounts that he had no intention of attending the gallery that evening. He had declared that he had hung up his microphone and shunned his addiction to the limelight to concentrate on his first love – not the creation of music but of art.

The pop star had stated that his life as a rampant exhibitionist – which necessitated the tossing of chairs from third floor balconies of Knightsbridge hotels – was all in the past. He had gone on to report that, now he had succeeded in evicting the stimulants provided by Messrs Jack and Daniels from his life, he was able to feel his creativity flow through his body once more and it was liberating. He professed to prefer his self-imposed isolation at his farm in South Wales and had stubbornly refused all of James Bradbury’s attempts to cajole him into appearing at his opening night, even for ten minutes.

When Jaxx had reasserted that he no longer craved publicity to justify his existence, Evie had laughed. If that were true, why then had he ordered a full-colour portrait of himself at the height of his fame to be splashed across the front cover of that evening’s glossy brochure? What was the point of the life-sized billboards flanking the entrance?

Evie shook her head and returned to the lengthy list on her iPad, grateful for her detailed preparation for the evening’s event. To her, obsessive organization was the salvation of the workaholic and had served to save her skin on frequent occasions when time was her enemy and reluctant delegation a necessity. She ran her fingertip down the remaining items.

‘Antoine, have you checked the champagne has been chilled to the correct temperature? You know how particular James is about that.’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘Does anyone know why James hasn’t arrived yet? He promised he’d be here at six-thirty. He’s ten minutes late already, which is really unusual for him.’

‘Don’t worry, he’ll be here.’

‘Did you display those extra copies of the inventory, Pip?’ asked Evie as she shot forward to nudge a recalcitrant canvas a little to the left.

‘Yes,’ replied Pippa automatically, rolling her eyes at Pierre when she thought Evie wasn’t looking, a smirk playing at her lips as she applied an extra layer of apricot lip gloss to her perfectly outlined cupid’s bow. ‘Relax, Evie, or you’ll have a coronary. Everything is perfect. You’ve done an awesome job. How do I look?’

‘Gorgeous, as always.’

Evie watched Pippa check her mascara in the solid gold compact her parents had presented her with when she had acquiesced to their persuasion to spend six months at the gallery belonging to her father’s best friend and fellow barrister, James Bradbury, instead of chasing around the capital’s night clubs and bars in pursuit of unsuitable men and the most exotic cocktails. Sadly, their plan had backfired as Pippa continued to reel in a string of very ineligible bachelors who called into the gallery on a regular basis to add a piece of artwork to their already bulging collections and took a fancy to the living work of art poised behind the reception desk.

And who could blame them? Pippa Newton-Smith was a classic beauty, with a smooth porcelain complexion, wide brown eyes enhanced by copious coatings of mascara, and a mane of glossy mahogany hair that rippled freely to her shoulders. But it was not these physical attributes that drew her admiring audience. She had been bestowed with a sweet, caring personality and her unquestioning friendship had provided an invaluable balm to Evie’s ragged nerves, which enabled her to sustain the manic schedule required to run the gallery successfully in the increasingly difficult economic climate.

‘Look, Evie, there’s only twenty minutes to go until we open the doors. Why don’t you go and swap your ballet flats for those stilettos you’ve been drooling over all week?’

‘Okay. But, Pip, whatever you do, do not open the door to anyone, no matter what excuse they come up with. Jaxx’s management were very specific about the guest list. Promise?’

‘Yes, Miss.’ Pippa saluted, before pushing her gently towards the circular steel staircase that led to the private quarters on the first floor that James Bradbury had allowed them to use that evening.

Evie glanced at her watch again and a spasm of panic shot from her chest into her throat. This was the biggest night of her career so far. Okay, so it was someone else’s exhibition, not hers, but she had organized every aspect, right down to the museum-themed loo roll in the bathroom. It was good practice for when she did … eventually … one day … probably in the far distant future … have her own opening night.

She slotted her toes into a pair of towering heels but the expected whoosh of confidence didn’t materialize. She had curated over two dozen VIP exhibitions since she had landed her job at James Bradbury Art, but none had been as high profile as this one. What if it was a disaster? What if a bevy of Fire of Fury fans forced their way inside and the resulting turmoil was caught on camera and splashed all over the internet? What if no one bought the artwork? Whilst she had accepted a long time ago that the appreciation of art was extremely subjective, apart from the new canvas, the paintings were lacklustre at best. Would their specially selected guests feel the same way?

She squashed her insecurity demons into their well-used box and turned the key. She was determined not to allow anything, even Dylan’s absence, to spoil this evening. She attached the pearl earrings her parents had presented her with as a congratulatory gift when she had graduated with a first class honours degree in Art History, and allowed a sigh of relief to escape her lips. Thank God she’d had the foresight to visit Henrik that afternoon to have her hair pinned and teased into an elegant chignon – at least she looked like she was ready to do battle.

An insistent hammering floated up the stairs.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it!’ called Pippa in her sweet sing-song voice.

‘No! Wait! Don’t!’

But it was too late. She heard the tinkle of the chime as the front door was wrenched open.

A blade of anxiety sliced through Evie’s chest and her heart drummed out a painful concerto against her ribcage. She wouldn’t put it past Pippa to have succumbed to the charms of an early arrival. Or worse – had she inadvertently fallen victim to the persuasive prattle of an overzealous paparazzi keen to snatch a first unauthorized image of Jaxx Benson’s foray into the world of fine art?

Chapter Two

‘Hi, Sam,’ cooed Pippa, as she let their boss’s son in to the gallery. ‘We weren’t expecting you until later.’

‘I thought I’d pop in to wish you luck, and to take a quick peek at what the famous Jaxx Benson is offering his adoring fans by way of artistic talent. Don’t worry, I’m not staying long. Wouldn’t want my presence to wind Dad up on such an auspicious occasion, but I’ll be back when the gallery closes. There’s something I need to talk to him about after the show, and a hint from the wise – you might want to make yourselves scarce. If I know Dad at all, I’m not expecting an enthusiastic reception. How’s everything looking?’

‘Fabulous! Especially now that the pièce de résistance has arrived. Better late than never, although I’m not sure Evie would agree with me. That girl is seriously stressed out.’

‘What do you mean “better late than never”?’ asked Sam, slotting his hands into the pockets of his elegant dinner suit and flapping his elbows.

‘Prepare to be amazed!’ exclaimed Pippa, as Evie arrived back downstairs.

Whilst Pippa pointed out the new arrival, Evie stole a covert sweep of Sam Bradbury from under her lashes. Whenever Sam called in to the gallery to chat to her and Pippa and scrutinize the various exhibitions, he was usually dressed in his ‘starving artist’ uniform of faded jeans and washed-out rock band T-shirt liberally splattered with splodges of oil paint.

She knew he did it just to annoy his father who disapproved of his son’s adamant pursuit of his passion for painting instead of being crowned the next Lord Chief Justice. But, in honour of that evening’s exhibition, Sam had clearly reverted to type. His short blond hair had been professionally tamed into a trendy quiff and he wore a tailored dinner jacket, starched white collar, and a jaunty crimson bow tie.

Evie smiled to herself. For James’s sake she was pleased Sam had decided – for one night only – not to engage in his usual rebellious warfare with his father. She knew James had christened Sam the ‘wild child’ of the family and Sam seemed to do everything he could to live up to the badge of honour. Nevertheless, Evie had struggled to figure out why his father steadfastly continued to refuse to allow Sam to exhibit his own art at the family’s gallery. If Sam Bradbury, privileged and precocious heir of James Bradbury, couldn’t get a break in the art world, then what hope was there for her?

‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked, joining Sam and Pippa in front of the star of the show, taking a few moments to consider the subject matter with her artist’s eye. ‘Your professional opinion, please. Personally, I think it’s the best piece in the collection. It’s probably Jaxx’s most recent canvas judging by the darkness and despondency of the rest. Either that or it’s been “ghost-painted” by someone else!’

Unlike the canvases on either side, the last-minute substitution was lively and flamboyant – exactly what she had expected to see from the pop star-turned-painter. The juxtaposition between the cobalt and turquoise blues of the backdrop and the saffron and sap green of the foreground delivered a thump of joy to her soul, causing her emotions to scream a connection with the image. Its complex composition was an intensely woven poem of colours that pulled her into its embrace.

‘Well, I love it!’ declared Pippa, her eyes shining. ‘Hey, I’ve just had an amazing idea! What if Jaxx is the elusive street artist that everyone is talking about? Flex? You know, the guy who’s been painting the empty shop windows with those fabulous optical illusions?’

‘No one knows who it is, Pip, but I don’t think it’s Jaxx Benson.’ Evie laughed. ‘Anyway, what makes you think it’s a man? I happen to have it on good authority that they were painted by last year’s winner of the RCA Young Artist’s prize and that was a woman … and she’s called Martha Felicity Evans. Flex has to be her, don’t you think?’

‘I have to agree with Evie, I’m afraid, Pippa. You can’t compare any of the canvases hung on the walls in this room with what the street artist is aiming to do. Their art is a gift to the whole community, transforming ugly, disused retail premises into places of beauty for everyone to enjoy – free of charge.’

‘I loved the one that made it look like the store was a quaint, old-fashioned teashop crammed with people enjoying afternoon tea. It looked so real, like you could just push open the door and go inside and grab a cucumber sandwich and a cupcake. They’re even calling the artist – him or her – the new Banksy!’ said Pippa.

‘I don’t know why the press insist on labelling every street artist who chooses to maintain their anonymity the new Banksy. Why can’t they be individuals in their own right?’

Pippa rolled her eyes at Evie and turned back to the canvas in front of them. ‘What do you think, Sam?’

Sam folded his arms across his chest, his pewter eyes narrowing as he too studied the work of art. The lemony fragrance of his aftershave floated in the air between them and Evie suddenly wondered why he wasn’t accompanied by one of his many attractive female friends. Almost every time he came into the gallery, a different girl accompanied him, each of whom could have graced the cover of Vogue but who rarely, if ever, showed any interest in the artwork that was on display.

‘I think it’s …’ began Sam, tipping his head to one side and rubbing his thumb and forefinger on the point of his chin.

‘Hey, why are you all just standing around like guests at a royal garden party?’ demanded James Bradbury, striding into his eponymous gallery, his Italian leather loafers squeaking on the varnished parquet flooring. ‘There’s already a long queue outside. Everyone, get into your positions please! I’m going to cut the ribbon and announce this exhibition open.’

‘Awesome!’ Pippa clapped her hands and displayed her perfect teeth in such evident pleasure that she could have been a model for a toothpaste commercial.

When she had dashed off in James’s wake, Sam leaned forward to whisper in Evie’s ear. ‘Once again, it seems you’ve escaped my interrogation as to why you choose to curate other artists’ exhibitions rather than organizing your own. I know you are much too discreet to reveal what you truly think of these canvases, but I’m sure your opinion is the same as mine. Jaxx Benson has little talent. Next time I see you I’m expecting a full-blown inventory of the progress you’ve made towards fulfilling your own dreams instead of delivering on others’.’

A blast of hot indignation shot into Evie’s chest. How dare he accuse her of shelving her dreams as though she had a choice? Sam had no idea what it was like to have to work for a living. It was all right for him. He didn’t have to worry about landing the next big, juicy libel case, because he was secure in the knowledge that if he couldn’t pay his rent, there would always be room for him at the family home in Guildford.

‘Is that what you’re doing, Sam? Because last time I looked you were following in your father’s – and your brother’s – footsteps by providing the capital’s criminal fraternity with legal services. So why aren’t you focusing on your own passion to paint?’

‘Touché.’

Heat flooded her cheeks, but Evie managed to rein in her emotions, as she didn’t want to engage in a rerun of their habitual sniping contest before the Jaxx Benson exhibition even got under way. They both had their reasons – albeit very different ones – for putting their dreams on hold. She replaced her frown with a smile; after all Sam Bradbury was her boss’s son.

‘Why don’t you stay? It’s not just star-struck Fire of Fury fans with VIP tickets. We’re expecting quite a few journalists and art critics too.’

She watched Sam’s gaze follow his father’s ramrod-straight back as he strode towards the door to admit the waiting guests into his gallery, issuing staccato directions over his shoulder to Antoine and Pierre about keeping the guests’ drinks topped up.

‘Dad made it perfectly clear he doesn’t want me here. I had the misfortune to bump into him at my brother’s house last weekend. I had to endure yet another one of his lectures about his disappointment and frustration that I haven’t ditched my passion for creating art in favour of honing my networking skills – not to mention how well Ben’s doing as a tax barrister at his chambers. My brother thinks it’s funny, tells me to ignore him, but to be honest, Dad’s constant criticism is really starting to get to me.’

Evie glanced from Sam to James. Save for the smattering of grey hair at his temples, he was a carbon copy of his son. They both sported deep creases across their foreheads and a fathomless sadness in their silver-grey eyes. Whilst Sam’s reflected the same cause of pain, it was not as acute as his father’s. Evie hadn’t met Sam’s older brother, Benjamin, but she could hazard a guess that he too carried his grief with a heavy heart.

James Bradbury Art had been Esme Bradbury’s dream project, set up to show the artwork of young, fledgling artists as well as more established painters. She had displayed a wide spectrum of canvases – from realism to abstract, Old Masters to contemporary geniuses, home-grown talent to the internationally famous and everything in between. Sadly, she had enjoyed her dream for a measly five years before the evil scourge that was breast cancer had snatched her away from her family two years ago.

The Bradburys were still reeling from the shock. Benjamin had point-blank refused to set foot in the gallery, declaring that he couldn’t bear to come when his mother was no longer at the epicentre of its success. James had wanted to sell up straight away and retreat to his house in Guildford to nurse his agony away from the public eye, but Sam had persuaded him to keep it open as a monument to his mother’s talent for interspersing more serious, renowned artists, photographers, and sculptors with debut and avant-garde artists.

Once a year, the whole gallery was turned over to a local high school’s A-level students who dreamed of a career in the art world. The creator of the exhibit that garnered the most votes was given a stipend in Esme Bradbury’s name to see them through college or university, and any profits from the exhibition were split between the school and Cancer Research UK.

James had stipulated that if they were to keep the gallery open they would need a manager. Evie had been overjoyed to secure the job and she had been given free rein, with James only dropping by when he absolutely had to. However, in recent months, he had become increasingly irritated with the amount of time and effort the business stole from his already very busy schedule as a sought-after criminal defence barrister hoping to take silk.

‘You know, perhaps you’re right, Evie. I actually think Dad would be happier if I spent all my time defending tax dodgers like Ben does! Maybe I’ll grab my brushes and paint palette and join you in front of that bonfire of broken dreams. So, no thanks. If you don’t mind, I won’t take you up on your offer to stay for the opening. If you get a minute later, would you remind Dad that he’s promised to meet me here after the show?’

‘Sure.’

Evie watched Sam slip out of the side door without a backward glance at his father. She knew she was lucky to have parents who were incredibly supportive of whatever decisions she made. All they had ever wanted was for her to be happy and she struggled to understand why James refused to support his son’s desire to follow in his mother’s footsteps, consistently blocking all of Sam’s pleas to allow him to exhibit his work at Bradbury’s. However, whilst she was saddened by his stance, she had no intention of arguing Sam’s case. There was no way she was getting involved in family disagreements – she couldn’t afford to lose her job.

James wrenched open the front door and forced a smile on his handsome face – his palm outstretched, every inch the esteemed West End gallery owner. Evie knew he was performing the role under sufferance, utilizing acting skills more befitting of a West End theatre production, but then, wasn’t that one of the must-have attributes of a successful barrister?

‘Ladies and gentlemen, a very warm welcome to James Bradbury Art. Tonight we are honoured to be showcasing the debut exhibition of an emerging young artist, Jaxx Benson, entitled Twisted Infinity. Please indulge in a glass or two of champagne and take your time to linger and enjoy the paintings. I think you will agree with me that Mr Benson is a creative star in the ascendant. Evie Johnson, our knowledgeable gallery manager and the curator of the exhibit, is available to answer any questions you may have, as is her assistant Pippa Newton-Smith. Now, it gives me great pleasure to declare this exhibition open!’

There was a smattering of applause immediately interrupted by the inevitable enquiry.

‘Will Jaxx Benson be making a personal appearance?’ demanded a stout woman with magenta hair teased into spikes over her crown and sporting a pair of bejewelled spectacles on a string at her chest. Evie recognized her immediately as the editor of a specialist contemporary art magazine.

With great difficulty James managed to maintain his composure. He had been asked the same question many times since they had announced the exhibition and his patience was clearly wearing thin.

‘I’m afraid not, madam. This way please. Can I offer you a glass of champagne?’

Evie saw a flash of irritation in his expression as he welcomed the next VIP guest who asked the same question. She smiled to herself as she stepped forward to join the welcoming committee, just in time to see Sam disappear around the corner at the end of the street. A spasm of annoyance shot through her veins. Couldn’t he have stayed to help his father deflect these questions?

Within minutes the gallery was buzzing with activity as the privileged invitees studied the artwork and discussed its merits. Evie’s opening night jitters evaporated as the comments grew ever more complimentary and the little red dots more numerous.

‘It’s going really well, don’t you think?’ cooed Pippa, holding a glass of champagne aloft as she bent forward to whisper in Evie’s ear. ‘I just want to give you a heads-up, though. Avoid that guy in the yellow cravat studying the bronze. He’s just admitted to me that he’s the local bore. I mean, how sad is that!’

‘Who? Do you mean Jules Verbier, the celebrated art critic from Nice?’

‘That’s Jules Verbier?’

Evie burst into laughter, expelling the last vestiges of her anxiety. ‘Oh, Pippa, I do love you! He’s not the local bore as you so eloquently put it! He’s a locavore.’

‘A locavore? What’s that?’

‘Someone who only eats food that has been produced locally.’

‘Ah. Ooops!’

Still giggling, Evie slotted her arm through Pippa’s and together they made their way towards the canapés. She had just popped a tempura roll in her mouth when there was a loud agonized cry from the front door.

The whole room turned in unison to see who was causing the commotion, expecting to witness a ticketless Fires of Fury devotee being forcibly evicted from the gallery into the downpour beyond by the burly doormen.

But it wasn’t a disappointed fan.

There was a sharp, collective intake of breath as the audience realized that despite his vociferous denials, Jaxx Benson had decided to attend his exhibition after all. For a brief moment, shocked silence reigned until it was punctured by a shrill, anger-infused voice.

‘What the hell is that monstrosity doing in my exhibition?’ screamed Jaxx, his handsome, instantly recognizable face devoid of its usual colour, his lips twisted in anger.

Evie followed the line of his index finger to the magnificent canvas that hung centre-stage and was attracting the most accolades. She could have sold it ten times over, despite it being priced at quadruple the cost of the others.

‘It’s a bloody insult! What exactly is going on here? Wasn’t my art good enough for you upper-class, pompous, so-called art aficionados? I’m getting my lawyers onto this. By the time I’ve finished, James Bradbury Art will be history!’

Evie exchanged a look of confusion and horror with Pippa. A slab of concrete took up residence in her chest and squashed the air from her lungs. She took a step towards Jaxx but James beat her to it.

‘Mr Benson, if you would follow me into my office, I will ensure the unfortunate error is rectified immediately.’

‘I demand that whoever is responsible for this slur on my artistic integrity be dealt with in the strongest way. Where is Evie Johnson? She’s the one who is supposedly in charge of my debut. How could she let this catastrophe happen? The buck has to stop with her.’ Jaxx, his bleached blond eyebrows raised in question, swung his gaze around the silent gallery seeking her out.

At Jaxx’s insistence, every communication in the lead-up to the opening night had been dealt with over the telephone or via email, but as the avid audience’s eyes swung in unison towards Evie he was able to march straight over to where she was standing, his finger jabbing at her chest like a missile.

Heat flooded her body and surged upwards to her cheeks until she was aflame with mortification. It was starting to dawn on her what had happened, but she had no idea how or why.

‘How dare you humiliate me like this? Who does that painting belong to? Why have you substituted it for “Muswell Musings”? Wasn’t it good enough for you? Are you an art critic in your spare time? Or has it been painted by one of your friends, maybe? This is totally unacceptable. It’s …’

Fortunately, James succeeded in interrupting his monologue of ardent objection and guided the livid rock star, and his gobsmacked agent, into his office at the rear of the gallery and closed the door.

The all-consuming silence suddenly broke into a cacophony of excited gossip.

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