that had been opened up onto the stunning patio overlooking the south bank of the Thames on this cloudy June evening. The weather was warm with only a slight breeze. Perfect. Just the way she liked it.
Her skin did not do well in hot sunshine. Too fair. Too freckly.
Much better to stay here for a few minutes and enjoy this painting all to herself while she had the chance before the evening really got started.
The food was all ready to be served in the small kitchen behind the bar, the waiting staff would not be here for another ten minutes, and even the artist had not made an appearance yet.
So she could steal another few minutes of glorious self-indulgence before she had to go back to work.
This was her special time. To be alone with the art.
Lottie waggled some of the tension out of her shoulders and rolled her neck from side to side before lifting her chin and sighing in pleasure.
Most of the exhibition was high-art portraits and landscapes in oils and multimedia in a startling bright and vibrant colour palette, but for some reason she had been drawn to this far corner of the room. It was away from the entrance and the drinks table but was bright with natural light flooding in from the floor-to-ceiling windows.
And the one picture in the whole collection that was muted and subtle.
It was a small canvas in a wide red glass frame just like all of the others.
But this one was special. Different. She had seen it in the catalogue for the exhibition that her friend Ian had created and had been immediately drawn to it.
It was hard to explain but there was just something about the image that had taken hold of her and refused to let her go.
Lottie’s gaze scanned the picture.
A middle-aged woman in a knee-length sleeveless red dress was standing on a sandy shore edged with pine trees and luxuriant Mediterranean plants. She was slender and holding out her arms towards the sea.
Lottie could almost feel the breeze in the chiffon layers that made up the skirt as they lifted out behind her.
The woman’s head was held high and tall and there was a faint smile on her lips as she stared out to sea, reaching for it with both hands while her pale feet seemed totally encased in the sand.
It was dusk and on the horizon there were the characteristic red and gold and apricot streaks in the misty shadows that stretched out to the horizon. Soon darkness would fall but Lottie knew that this woman would stay there, entranced, until the last possible moment, yearning for the sea, until the very last of the day was gone.
While she still had a chance for happiness.
A single tear ran down Lottie’s cheek and she sniffed several times before diving into her bag for a tissue, but then remembered that she had left them back at the cake shop, so made do with a spare paper napkin she had popped into her bag for spillages.
Last chances. Oh, yes. She knew all about those.
Until three years ago she had been a business clone in a suit, trapped in cubicle nation in the investment bank where her father had worked for thirty-five years. All she’d had to do was keep her head down, say the right things and do what she was told and she’d had a clear career path that would take her to the top. She’d even had the ideal boyfriend with the right credentials on paper just one step higher than her on the ladder.
How could her life have been more perfect?
The fact that she hated her job so much that she threw up most mornings was one of the reasons she was earning the big bucks. Wasn’t it?
Until that one fateful day when all of the pretence and lies had been whipped away, leaving her bereft and alone. Standing on a beach like the one in the painting. Holding out her arms towards the sea, looking for a new direction and a new identity.
She wasn’t balls-of-steel Charlie any longer, the girl who had walked away from her six-figure salary and the career track to the top of her father’s investment bank to train as a pastry chef. Oh, no.
That girl was gone.
The girl sitting with tears in her eyes was Lottie the baker. The real girl with the real pain that she had thought she had worked through over these past three years but was still there. Catching her unawares at moments like this when the overwhelming emotion swallowed her down and drowned her.
For the first time in a long time she had allowed her public face to slip and reveal that she was hurting.
Foolish woman! Exhaustion and unspoken loneliness made her vulnerable. That was all.
The paper napkin was starting to disintegrate so she stuffed it back into her bag.
Maybe at the end of the night when everyone was heading home she could steal a few minutes with the artist and ask her about ‘Last Chances’.
Who knew? Maybe Adele Forrester might be able to answer a few of her questions about how making the most of last chances could change your life so very much. And what to do when all of the people and friends that you thought would stick by you decided that you had nothing in common with them once you jumped ship and stopped answering your calls.
Starting with that, oh-so-perfect-on-paper boyfriend.
Yes, maybe Adele had a few answers of her own.
With one final sniff, Lottie blinked and wiped her cheek with the back of her finger. Time to repair the damage to this make-up and get ready to rock and roll. She had two hundred portions of canapés to plate out.
Busy, busy.
Yes, she should really make a move now. Oops. Too late.
Lottie sensed rather than heard someone stroll closer and stand next to her, so that they were both looking at the canvas in silence for what felt like minutes but was probably only seconds.
‘It’s perfect, isn’t it?’ Lottie sniffed as yet another tear ran down her cheek, preventing her from turning around and embarrassing herself in front of a complete stranger.
‘Absolutely perfect. How does she do it?’ Lottie asked. ‘How does Adele capture so much feeling in a flat image? It’s incredible.’
‘Talent. And a deep feeling for the place. Adele knows that beach at all times of day and season. Look at the way she blends the ocean and the sky. That can only come from seeing it happen over and over again.’
Lottie blinked again, but this time in surprise.
He understood. This man, because it was a man’s voice and definitely a manly pair of designer trousers, was echoing the exact same thoughts that were going through her head.
How did he do that? The tremor in his voice was instantly calming and restorative. Someone else saw the same things in this work that she had. How was that possible?
It was unnerving that he knew what this painting was all about and could talk about it with such passion.
And then the harsh reality of where she was struck home and she felt like a fool. Ian had
