‘A Party Ring?’ Sadie asked hopefully.
Beatrice had been thinking more along the lines of a plain Rich Tea, not a biscuit covered in lurid-coloured icing sugar.
‘Don’t push your luck,’ she told her, relieved when Sadie bounced out of the bedroom, her tummy ache clearly gone.
Beatrice went back to her hunt for her jeans, and as she did so her attention was caught by the dress she’d bought in the sales last January and had never worn. Should she wear it to dinner with Mark? Black, figure-hugging to a certain degree, but not too much, and covered in a layer of black lace dotted with the occasional tiny diamante beads, it was both partyish and sophisticated – a typical LBD. But was it too over-the-top for aquiet dinner in a small restaurant with a man she shouldn’t feel the need to impress?
This wasnota date. She was doing him a favour and getting to enjoy a nice meal at the same time. As long as she didn’t look like she’d just been cleaning out the chicken coop on the farm, did it matter what she wore? Mark wouldn’t notice. So why did she feel this need to look her best?
‘Mummy, I want my biscuit!’ Sadie called, and Beatrice sighed.
She sighed again when Taya cried, ‘Why doessheget a biscuit and I don’t? That’s not fair!’
Grabbing the first pair of jeans she laid her hands on, Beatrice yanked them on, then went downstairs to distribute the biscuits before she had a full-blown mutiny on her hands.
‘Mr Stafford? Mr Stafford!’
Mark halted in the middle of the pavement and glanced around. A plump middle-aged woman wearing a multicoloured voluminous coat and a pink knitted hat was waving frantically at him from the opposite side of the high street.
Mark had no idea who she was.
She darted across the road, and he winced when a car screeched to a halt as she stepped out in front of it. It missed her by a hair.
‘ItisMark Stafford, isn’t it?’ she panted as she hurried towards him.
‘It is,’ he confirmed.
‘Thank god. I’d feel awful accosting a total stranger.’
He didn’t like to point out she was doing precisely that. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Oh, I do so hope you can. My class would love you.’
‘I’ve already visited the school,’ he said. Maybe she’d been off sick or on a course and had missed it.
‘I know, that’s why I wanted to talk to you. I hear you’re a very amenable chap, very generous with your time.’ She was trying to butter him up.
He said nothing and waited for her to continue, a polite smile on his face.
‘I’m Melanie Parker and I run an art class at the community centre. We do all kinds, from watercolour to acrylic, landscapes to nudes, although it’s probably best not to mention that, ha ha. Would you be kind enough to give a talk? A demonstration would be even better. I understand you do all your own illustrations.’
‘I do, but I’m primarily a digital artist.’
‘That’s what I’d like you to talk about.’ She leant in and lowered her voice. ‘Some of them can’t paint for toffee, bless them, so I was hoping they’d do better with an app.’
‘Admittedly, it’s a different skill set,’ he replied, his voice guarded. App or not, he still had to draw the image, he still painted it: the only difference was the medium. Instead of paintand paper, he used a stylus and a screen. And he often perfected the initial drawing on paper first.
‘I’m sure my students would be fascinated. They’ll be interested to learn how you put a picture together.’
Mark wasn’t sure what to say. He was used to giving interviews and talking about his books, and was used to going into schools and reading to the children. But this was the first time he had been asked to demonstrate the illustration side of his books.
He said, ‘I’m not sure how it would work. I’d need an internet connection and an interactive whiteboard, so I can share my screen.’
Melanie Parker beamed at him. ‘I’m sure we can cobble something together. Can you do tomorrow? We meet every Tuesday at two p.m. in the community centre. I’ll be there from one thirty, setting up. Thanks ever so much. Toodle-oo.’
And that was how Mark Stafford, successful children’s author, found himself trying to explain the ins and outs of digital art to a group of pensioners who thought the term ‘graphic art’ meant drawing people with no clothes on and appeared to be quite put out when they discovered it wasn’t.
The coffee was mud-coloured and had a plasticky taste, but the Jammie Dodgers were nice. As biscuits went, it was one of his favourites. Mark helped himself to two.
