Be Careful What You Wish For by Alexandra Potter Read Free Book Online

sky, fields and river the focus for their tubes of oil paint and brush-stuffed jam jars. This class is part of a summer-school programme run by Bath’s local art college and the students have travelled from Texas to take advantage of it. They’re being taught by Lionel, a robust, bearded man in his early sixties, who looks as if he’s travelled there in a time machine from the French impressionist era. Wearing a paint-splattered smock, a neckerchief, and a beret angled sideways over thick, black curls worthy of a man half his age, he’s striding round the class bellowing enthusiasm and advice.
    ‘Fabulous use of the magenta, Sandy.’
    A large-chested woman beams and continues daubing vigorously.
    ‘Spot-on sketching, George Junior,’ he growls, slapping the tiny shoulder of an elderly man in Bermuda shorts. ‘Now let’s see what you can do with the real stuff.’ He snatches the pencil out of George Junior’s fingers and replaces it with a horsehair paintbrush.
    ‘Lionel!’
    My voice catches my father by surprise and he swings round, smock billowing round him like a parachute. Waving at him from the wooden stile where I’ve been perched for the last five minutes, watching him proudly, I feel my heart tug. I’m very much my father’s daughter. Living in London I don’t get to spend as much time with him as I’d like, especially not now that he’s getting older, and I miss him. A wide smile stretches across my face and I yell even louder, ‘Lionel, it’s me!’
    Lionel peers down into his half-moon glasses and smiles back as he recognises the figure in a red T-shirt and cut-off denim shorts as his only daughter. ‘Heather, darling,’ he bellows, abandoning his students and striding over to greet me. ‘What a wonderful surprise!’ Throwing his arms round my shoulders he pulls me into a bear hug. ‘Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? Or did you, and I’ve forgotten?’ He rolls his eyes dramatically. ‘My memory’s getting worse. Rosemary fears I’m going senile,’ he confides, then laughs uproariously.
    As he clucks and coos over me, I ignore his reference to my stepmother. ‘I’m sorry, it was a last-minute decision. Brian gave me the day off and I just got my car back from the garage so I thought I’d come and see you.’
    Well, it’s partly true. Yes, it wasn’t until I’d woken up this morning that I decided I needed to escape London for the day. And, yes, I had really wanted to see my dad. But not calling beforehand? That was deliberate. I hadn’t wanted to let Rosemary know I was coming. If I had, she would have made some excuse about them having a prior engagement, or tell me she had one of her migraines, or suggest that perhaps another weekend might be better. This way, she can’t spoil things – but then again she did that when she married Dad.
    ‘Marvellous, marvellous,’ beams Lionel, releasing me from his embrace and turning to his students, most of whom are watching our reunion with interest. ‘Everyone, I’d like to introduce my beautiful daughter, Heather.’
    ‘Howdy,’ they chorus, in a strong Texas drawl.
    I smile sheepishly. Dad is always showing me off like some prized possession: he even keeps a photograph of me in his wallet, which he insists on pulling out in front of complete strangers – embarrassing enough, without the fact it’s a school picture of me at thirteen with braces and a custard-dip fringe.
    ‘She’s a photographer,’ he continues proudly.
    ‘Wow,’ come the gasps of admiration.
    Oh, no. I steel myself for the inevitable questions about supermodels and fashion shoots for Vogue. I always feel like such a disappointment when I have to admit the truth. People want to hear about exotic locations and the size of Kate Moss’s thighs, not someone-they’ve-never-heard-of’s wedding at Brixton town hall.
    But, thankfully, I’m saved by my father’s appetite. Digging out his fob-watch from the pocket of his voluminous corduroys, he