Two Kinds Of Truth(42)

“Really; she sounds very talented. So, what about ye?”

“Me?”

“Aye, haven’t ye won any awards?”

“Yes, of course I have, but we were talking about Keira.”

“So, tell me about yir accomplishments.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Everything.”

“Oh, well, let me see. I’ve been crowned Interflora’s florist of the year—twice.”

“Wow, I’m impressed.”

“And I was runner up in the British Florist Association, last year. That competition was fierce, and my Brazilian headdress was pipped at the post by a woman from Woking.”

“Aye, well, truth is, ye cannae win them all. Come on, jump in. I want to show ye something.”

“Show me what?”

“Well, if ye don’t get in, you’ll never ken, will ye?”

I’m intrigued by the sudden air of mystery in his voice. I’m keen to find out where he’s taking me, so I quickly strap myself into my seat as Jamie starts the engine. He clicks on the indicator and turns, leaving the centre of town behind. The buildings soon fall away, and open roads stretch before us. I wonder if we’re going to Inverness, but when he doesn’t turn off at the exit, my excitement grows. My gaze notes the road signs, and then, after another sixteen miles or so, he steers the Range Rover off the main road. That’s the moment I realise we’re driving past a deep inlet of the North Sea.

I suck in my breath as my eyes devour the passing scenery, staring out of the car window as Jamie concentrates on the road ahead. We follow a straight road until we reach a quaint fishing village with row upon row of whitewashed houses. Out to sea, there’s a harbour wall, and the water sparkles like diamonds as we pass by. The tide is out and the water is still, the surface of the sea shimmering despite it being as smooth as glass. I glance towards the shore, seeing ripples in the sand and barnacle shaped rocks protruding out of the ground.

“Where exactly are we going?” I probe.

“Wait and see,” Jamie says, clearly refusing to give anything away. His foot eases off the accelerator as we come into the village, then we’re out the other side, soon surrounded by open countryside again. He slows even more, though, when he sees horses on the road ahead, but then he indicates left and pulls up just inside a small carpark. Killing the ignition, he gets out of the car.

“And here we are,” he says as I climb out of the passenger side, to stare at a beautiful church standing in front of me.

“Is this what you wanted to show me?”

Jamie grins. “Nah, not exactly, but it’s breath-taking nonetheless.”

There’s a sign to one side of the church which says: “Welcome to Ochmore Gallery”. I let out a deep sigh. I’ve seen a few old churches turned into living accommodation, but never an art gallery before.

“Let’s go inside. There’s something I want to show ye,” Jamie says.

He hurries ahead and I follow him in through a set of double doors, whereupon I’m left speechless by what now lies in front of me.

Rising over two floors and with multi gallery spaces below it, a large church window anoints an array of unique paintings, crafts and silverware, the room shimmering with golden rays of sunlight. The entire gallery is bright and airy, and there’s sleek white boxes on which the glass art, sculptures and ceramics are shown off. I’m in awe of this place in seconds, and it makes my creative juices flow. I’m like a river that’s swiftly transforming into white water rapids.

I follow him to where a painting rests on a large wooden easel. The wood has been sanded down to look distressed and it’s very affective in drawing one’s eye to the painting, but before I’m even up close, I’m in love with it. The image is of a potted plant, a fuchsia, but it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Its dark green leaves are vibrant and bold, and the tiny dancing ballerina flowers, with their purple and pink skirts, are plump and heavy with colour. The backdrop is a vivid blue, the whole painting alive and vivacious.

“It’s stunning,” I say, tentatively stroking the canvas with the tips of my fingers. “The colours: they pulsate with life, and the picture lights up the entire room.”

Jamie nods, “Aye, I thought it might be to yir taste.”

“I have to buy it for Keira,” I insist. “My God, but this painting will make her year.”

I flick over the small white tag and catch my breath at the price. It’s over one hundred pounds and will take most of the money I have left, but I don’t care; I must buy it for her. I’m quick to grab the sales assistant and point out the painting.

She smiles then nods. “Yes, it is rather beautiful,” she says in a posh British accent.

“Will ye take eighty for it?” Jamie asks. I swing round in surprise and he tips me a wink.

I turn back to notice the young assistant’s cheeks are now flushed pink. She flutters her eyelashes, as though she’s got something in her eye.

“Well, I’ll have to speak to the manager,” she tells him and hurries off to the office.

“Ye have to barter,” Jamie says with a shrug. “Ye ne’er willingly pay the full asking price.”

I hear tip-tapping of high-heels on the floor as the assistant makes her way back.