Page 45 of Under a Dancing Star

Ben drops down to his knees in the grass in front of me. “Ah yes.” He smiles wolfishly. “Give me a hundred kisses…”

“A thousand,” I correct him.

“Honestly, Bea,” he murmurs, leaning in. “You’re insatiable.”

I am laughing as his lips meet mine.

There’s a sound nearby, a foot treading heavily on a twig and an elaborate clearing of the throat. By the time Filomena comes into view Ben and I have sprung apart, our clothes still slightly rumpled, the pink stain in our cheeks a dead giveaway.

From the smirk on Filomena’s face I can see that we’re not fooling anyone.

“There you are,” she says. “I’ve been trying to track you down.”

“Have you?” Ben asks, aiming for nonchalance.

Filomena nods. “I wondered how the painting lessons were coming along?” she looks rather pointedly around us where there is a noticeable absence of art materials.

“Painting, yes,” I say, still trying to get my brain back in gear.

“Bea is coming along quite well,” Ben jumps in. He gives me a look filled with mischief. “With a bit more practice I think she might do quite nicely.”

“It was a shaky start,” I nod, flashing him a dirty look. “Ben’s teaching technique needed some refining. But things are definitely improving.”

“Wonderful,” says Filomena serenely. “I look forward to seeing the results. Perhaps Bea can contribute to the exhibition.”

“Exhibition?” I ask weakly, looking between her and Ben.

“That’s rather a grand description, I suppose,” Filomena says. “Really it will be a big party, where we display some of the work created here over the summer.”

“Oh yes,” I say. “I think Leo mentioned it when I first arrived.” It feels like a long time ago.

“I’d half forgotten about it,” Ben says, almost to himself.

“I thought perhaps you had,” Filomena says gently. “But this could be a good opportunity for you, Ben. Influential people come.”

“Yes.” Ben rubs his chin distractedly. “I know.”

“And,” Filomena says, “if Bea contributed as well, then I think Leo would be pleased.” He nods. “I will leave you to it then.”

She turns and walks away, her hips swaying and her long, dark hair swishing gently around her waist.

Ben stares after her.

“Are you all right?” I ask. He doesn’t reply and I touch his arm.

“What?” he says, turning. “Oh, yes.” He gives his usual carefree grin.

“Looks like you’re going to have to produce a work of dazzling talent, so that I can earn my crust around here,” he says.

“Hope you’re prepared to go hungry,” I grumble.

An hour later we are both standing before canvases in our – now thankfully flying-ant free – picnic spot. Once again, I am half-heartedly attempting to paint the view in front of me, while Ben gently corrects some of the many mistakes I make.

I sigh heavily, regarding the mass of marks and splodges on the canvas. “Is this any better?”

“Let’s try another approach,” Ben says, quite diplomatically for him. “Are there any particular artists that you’re drawn to?”

I think about this for a moment. “Father used to have a nice Stubbs before we had to sell it,” I say finally. “One of his horse paintings. It was above the mantelpiece in the drawing room. I liked that. It looked like – well, it looked like a real horse.”