She got none. Bonita Green was interested only in dimensions. ‘Doesn’t look standard,’ she said, before checking the edges with a transparent plastic ruler. ‘No, if you want to keep it this shape, you’ll have to have a frame made.’
‘What do you mean, “if I want to keep it this shape”?’
‘Well, it’s clearly been worked on in Photoshop. You could crop it again to get it to a standard size.’
‘That is the size I want it,’ said Carole with an edge of asperity. The gallery owner hadn’t exactly gone as far as to criticize her Photoshop skills, but had been too close for comfort to such a social lapse. ‘It is a rather special photograph for me.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ said Bonita Green, still insufficiently in awe of Lily’s beauty. ‘Had you any thought of what kind of frame you’d want?’ She gestured to the Christmas trees of samples behind her. ‘As you see, we have quite a wide range to choose from. I would have thought, for an image that size, you would need the frame to be at least this thick. But as to colour or finish, of course that’s up to you. What did you have in mind?’
Carole was somewhat distressed to realize that she didn’t have anything in mind. Her intention had been to get Lily’s photograph framed. She hadn’t given any thought as to how it should be framed. Characteristically, she felt annoyed by her lack of preparation.
‘Presumably you’ve decided where you’re going to put it? So you’ll probably want to consider the decor of the room, so that it tones in with the colours there . . .?’
‘I think I’m probably after something neutral,’ Carole replied safely, at the same time hating herself for taking the safe option. She had a vision of her neighbour, Jude, selecting something exotic and multi-hued.
Bonita Green’s hand moved to the relevant display. ‘These are the blacks, whites and metallic finishes. And if you want decorative motifs on the frame, there’s a wide selection of additional—’
‘No, I think just plain, thank you,’ said Carole.
She eventually opted for a colour which Bonita Green descried as ‘gunmetal’, but which she herself would have called ‘grey’. It was appropriate. The colour matched Carole Seddon’s helmet of hair, and there was sometimes a grey bleakness in her pale blue eyes. Slender, with a good figure – though she would never have thought of it in that way – she was in fact a good-looking woman in her fifties. But she didn’t like drawing attention to herself. She maintained her parents’ tradition of keeping below parapets.
But in fact, by choosing the unobtrusive from the framing options, Carole had selected something rather stylish. Bonita approved her choice, and the approval sounded more than the automatic blandishment of a shop-owner. ‘You don’t want a frame that’s going to distract from the colours of the photograph itself,’ she said. That was probably the nearest Carole was going to get to a compliment on her granddaughter’s beauty.
Colour was not the only decision that needed to be made. There were also choices available in material, finish, mount and glass. Carole opted for a wooden frame with an ‘antique’ gunmetal surface, an Ice White mount and White Water glass. This last was the most expensive, but she let herself be persuaded of its superiority over other glasses. Again, Bonita Green seemed to approve of her selections and that gave a small boost to Carole’s fragile confidence.
The cost of the work was considerably more than she had anticipated, but she managed not to blench, reassuring herself that only the best was suitable for Lily. Then came the question of how long the work would take. Would the photograph have to be sent away?
‘No, all our framing is done on the premises,’ replied Bonita Green. ‘Just a moment.’ She moved towards the door from which she had emerged and called out, ‘Spider, could you just come here a minute?’
After a moment, a large man lumbered into the gallery. He wore blue overalls, spattered with a Jackson Pollock of paint and glue drips. The remarkable thing about him, though, was his hair. Dyed black, swept back in a quiff with long straight-cut sideburns, it had the complete Elvis Presley look. And in fact Spider’s bulk helped to make him look quite like the deceased superstar, in his late Las Vegas diamanté Babygro incarnation. He loomed over his employer, a presence that was at the same time protective and slightly threatening. Carole tried very hard – and not entirely successfully – to avoid looking at the hair.
‘Spider . . . this lady . . .’ The gallery-owner maintained the local convention of ignorance. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’
‘Carole Seddon.’
‘May I call you Carole?’
‘Please.’
‘Thank you. And I’m Bonita.’
This was a very important moment in Fethering protocol. Though the two women had both known each other’s names for years, from this moment on they would be able actually to use them.
‘And this is Spider, who does all my framing.’
‘Good morning.’
The big man nodded acknowledgement. Bonita Green lifted up the photograph of Lily. ‘Carole wants this framed. We should have everything we need in stock. I know you’ve got a bit of a backlog at the moment . . .’ The big man nodded again. ‘So when do you reckon we can promise this for?’
There was a silence. He seemed to have an aversion to speech and Carole wondered if he was actually dumb. But at length, slowly he articulated the word, ‘Thursday.’
‘What sort of time would that be, Bonita?’
‘First thing. If Spider says Thursday, he means he’ll have finished it on Wednesday.’
‘So I might be able to pick it up on Wednesday?’
‘No. I usually close the gallery round four thirty. Spider often works on after that, sometimes Fridays and weekends as well. Isn’t that right?’
With a nod of confirmation and farewell, the taciturn framer went back into his workroom.
‘Oh, very well,’ said Carole. ‘First thing Thursday I’ll pop in. What time do you open?’
‘Ten thirty. Ten thirty every day, except Sunday and Friday, when we’re closed.’
The Calvinist work ethic within Carole could not repress the thought that ten thirty to four thirty was a fairly undemanding opening schedule. And taking Fridays off. But then again she knew very little about Bonita Green. Perhaps the woman was lucky enough to have a private income, and maybe the Cornelian Gallery was nothing more than a wealthy woman’s hobby.
‘Anyway, I’d better be off. Would you like me to pay now or pay a deposit or something?’
‘No, that’ll be fine. Settle up when you pick the thing up on Thursday.’
‘Well, that’s very good of you.’
‘Oh, if you were a complete stranger, I’d ask for payment upfront. But because you’re local . . .’ said Bonita Green, thus deflating the Fethering convention that they didn’t know anything about each other.
‘Thank you so much, anyway, and I’ll—’
But Carole’s parting words were interrupted by the appearance from the back of the gallery of a man in his early thirties. He had floppy brown hair, and was dressed in an expensive pinstriped suit. The tie over his white shirt was of that lilac colour favoured by politicians.
‘Good morning, Mother,’ he said breezily.
‘Morning. Giles, this is Carole Seddon. My son, Giles.’
They exchanged good mornings.
‘I was actually just leaving.’
‘And has my mother given you an invitation to our Private View?’
‘No, I haven’t, Giles.’
He shook his head in mock reproof. ‘Dear, oh dear. Where’s your entrepreneurial spirit? I thought we agreed that you were going to hand out invitations to everyone who came into the gallery.’