Best Laid Plans by Patricia Fawcett Read Free Book Online Page B

of the two bedrooms upstairs as a studio. On the Sunday before Christmas, Monique, her pale blonde hair caught back in childish bunches tied with narrow black ribbons, was working in it, putting the finishing touches to a painting. Mike was out on a secret mission – probably a last-ditch attempt to buy her Christmas present.
    She was trying a more commercial approach these days and concentrating on what she could sell; namely pretty watercolours of local scenes. She had handed some over to a shop in Lancaster that specialized in local craftware and they had seemed pleased with them so she was hopeful that they might display them prominently and maybe they would catch somebody’s eye. She had also put some into a small exhibition organized for local artists and by pitching the price right had managed to sell several. Sol had offered to put some on display in his shop but she had declined thatdubious offer.
    Carefully, she added her name in the bottom right-hand corner.
    Despite her supposed lack of ambition, her desire for an easygoing lifestyle, her lack of real success was beginning to get to her. She still just about held onto the belief that one day people might clamour to own one of her paintings. On the other hand, it was more likely that Frank Fletcher would crack a proper smile. She had known when she took up the course at art college that the chances of success out there in the real world were slim but she had hoped that eventually she might earn enough from her paintings to think of it as a proper career. Still, as Christine said she was young yet and there was lots of time so she must stay positive.
    Leaning back and squinting at the canvas, she nodded at last with satisfaction. It was a painting of Beacon Fell. Christine knew quite a bit about local history and had told her that it got its name because in medieval times it was the ideal place to put up a string of lit beacons to warn of danger or to celebrate major events. From the high point there were panoramic views in all directions over Snowdonia and North Wales, the coast of Fylde, the Lake District and even on a clear day the Isle of Man. The air up there was forever clean and crisp and chill.
    This painting was one of a series and she had sketched this one back last year, remembering the smell of summer as she spent a day up there, soaking up the atmosphere and taking a picnic with her. Christine offered to come along but she wanted to be alone because she could not paint and listen to Christine chattering at the same time.
    ‘Do be careful up there on your own. It’s a lonely place,’ Christine had said. ‘Take your mobile with you.’
    ‘Of course,’ she said knowing that she would leave it at home. She needed solitude away from a constant stream of trivial text messages and anyway, it probably wouldn’twork up there. As it turned out she had a lovely day and never once did she feel worried about being alone. Up in her studio, recalling the scene vividly, she blew gently on the name she had just written on the painting. She used her maiden name professionally and it was unwise to change it.
    Monique Fox.
    She was born in France to a French mother and English father although they had moved to the northwest of England when she was just a few months old. It was so annoying that her parents had not persisted with teaching her to be bi-lingual, her mother deciding that if she was to be married to an Englishman and live in England then she would more or less abandon her own language. Once she started to dream in English her mother said then that was the time to give in. So, Monique could speak French no better or worse than any other student in this country.
    There was a Christmas card – a large, expensive one with a Victorian snow-scene – from her father and his second wife. Her father now lived in Kent and she had not seen him for some considerable time. The card was not even written by him but was signed ‘With best wishes from Trevor & Jill