Sunshine After the Rain: a feel good, laugh-out-loud romance. Daisy James

why are you all just standing around like guests at a royal garden party?’ demanded James Bradbury, striding into his eponymous gallery, his Italian leather loafers squeaking on the varnished parquet flooring. ‘There’s already a long queue outside. Everyone, get into your positions please! I’m going to cut the ribbon and announce this exhibition open.’

      ‘Awesome!’ Pippa clapped her hands and displayed her perfect teeth in such evident pleasure that she could have been a model for a toothpaste commercial.

      When she had dashed off in James’s wake, Sam leaned forward to whisper in Evie’s ear. ‘Once again, it seems you’ve escaped my interrogation as to why you choose to curate other artists’ exhibitions rather than organizing your own. I know you are much too discreet to reveal what you truly think of these canvases, but I’m sure your opinion is the same as mine. Jaxx Benson has little talent. Next time I see you I’m expecting a full-blown inventory of the progress you’ve made towards fulfilling your own dreams instead of delivering on others’.’

      A blast of hot indignation shot into Evie’s chest. How dare he accuse her of shelving her dreams as though she had a choice? Sam had no idea what it was like to have to work for a living. It was all right for him. He didn’t have to worry about landing the next big, juicy libel case, because he was secure in the knowledge that if he couldn’t pay his rent, there would always be room for him at the family home in Guildford.

      ‘Is that what you’re doing, Sam? Because last time I looked you were following in your father’s – and your brother’s – footsteps by providing the capital’s criminal fraternity with legal services. So why aren’t you focusing on your own passion to paint?’

      ‘Touché.’

      Heat flooded her cheeks, but Evie managed to rein in her emotions, as she didn’t want to engage in a rerun of their habitual sniping contest before the Jaxx Benson exhibition even got under way. They both had their reasons – albeit very different ones – for putting their dreams on hold. She replaced her frown with a smile; after all Sam Bradbury was her boss’s son.

      ‘Why don’t you stay? It’s not just star-struck Fire of Fury fans with VIP tickets. We’re expecting quite a few journalists and art critics too.’

      She watched Sam’s gaze follow his father’s ramrod-straight back as he strode towards the door to admit the waiting guests into his gallery, issuing staccato directions over his shoulder to Antoine and Pierre about keeping the guests’ drinks topped up.

      ‘Dad made it perfectly clear he doesn’t want me here. I had the misfortune to bump into him at my brother’s house last weekend. I had to endure yet another one of his lectures about his disappointment and frustration that I haven’t ditched my passion for creating art in favour of honing my networking skills – not to mention how well Ben’s doing as a tax barrister at his chambers. My brother thinks it’s funny, tells me to ignore him, but to be honest, Dad’s constant criticism is really starting to get to me.’

      Evie glanced from Sam to James. Save for the smattering of grey hair at his temples, he was a carbon copy of his son. They both sported deep creases across their foreheads and a fathomless sadness in their silver-grey eyes. Whilst Sam’s reflected the same cause of pain, it was not as acute as his father’s. Evie hadn’t met Sam’s older brother, Benjamin, but she could hazard a guess that he too carried his grief with a heavy heart.

      James Bradbury Art had been Esme Bradbury’s dream project, set up to show the artwork of young, fledgling artists as well as more established painters. She had displayed a wide spectrum of canvases – from realism to abstract, Old Masters to contemporary geniuses, home-grown talent to the internationally famous and everything in between. Sadly, she had enjoyed her dream for a measly five years before the evil scourge that was breast cancer had snatched her away from her family two years ago.

      The Bradburys were still reeling from the shock. Benjamin had point-blank refused to set foot in the gallery, declaring that he couldn’t bear to come when his mother was no longer at the epicentre of its success. James had wanted to sell up straight away and retreat to his house in Guildford to nurse his agony away from the public eye, but Sam had persuaded him to keep it open as a monument to his mother’s talent for interspersing more serious, renowned artists, photographers, and sculptors with debut and avant-garde artists.

      Once a year, the whole gallery was turned over to a local high school’s A-level students who dreamed of a career in the art world. The creator of the exhibit that garnered the most votes was given a stipend in Esme Bradbury’s name to see them through college or university, and any profits from the exhibition were split between the school and Cancer Research UK.

      James had stipulated that if they were to keep the gallery open they would need a manager. Evie had been overjoyed to secure the job and she had been given free rein, with James only dropping by when he absolutely had to. However, in recent months, he had become increasingly irritated with the amount of time and effort the business stole from his already very busy schedule as a sought-after criminal defence barrister hoping to take silk.

      ‘You know, perhaps you’re right, Evie. I actually think Dad would be happier if I spent all my time defending tax dodgers like Ben does! Maybe I’ll grab my brushes and paint palette and join you in front of that bonfire of broken dreams. So, no thanks. If you don’t mind, I won’t take you up on your offer to stay for the opening. If you get a minute later, would you remind Dad that he’s promised to meet me here after the show?’

      ‘Sure.’

      Evie watched Sam slip out of the side door without a backward glance at his father. She knew she was lucky to have parents who were incredibly supportive of whatever decisions she made. All they had ever wanted was for her to be happy and she struggled to understand why James refused to support his son’s desire to follow in his mother’s footsteps, consistently blocking all of Sam’s pleas to allow him to exhibit his work at Bradbury’s. However, whilst she was saddened by his stance, she had no intention of arguing Sam’s case. There was no way she was getting involved in family disagreements – she couldn’t afford to lose her job.

      James wrenched open the front door and forced a smile on his handsome face – his palm outstretched, every inch the esteemed West End gallery owner. Evie knew he was performing the role under sufferance, utilizing acting skills more befitting of a West End theatre production, but then, wasn’t that one of the must-have attributes of a successful barrister?

      ‘Ladies and gentlemen, a very warm welcome to James Bradbury Art. Tonight we are honoured to be showcasing the debut exhibition of an emerging young artist, Jaxx Benson, entitled Twisted Infinity. Please indulge in a glass or two of champagne and take your time to linger and enjoy the paintings. I think you will agree with me that Mr Benson is a creative star in the ascendant. Evie Johnson, our knowledgeable gallery manager and the curator of the exhibit, is available to answer any questions you may have, as is her assistant Pippa Newton-Smith. Now, it gives me great pleasure to declare this exhibition open!’

      There was a smattering of applause immediately interrupted by the inevitable enquiry.

      ‘Will Jaxx Benson be making a personal appearance?’ demanded a stout woman with magenta hair teased into spikes over her crown and sporting a pair of bejewelled spectacles on a string at her chest. Evie recognized her immediately as the editor of a specialist contemporary art magazine.

      With great difficulty James managed to maintain his composure. He had been asked the same question many times since they had announced the exhibition and his patience was clearly wearing thin.

      ‘I’m afraid not, madam. This way please. Can I offer you a glass of champagne?’

      Evie saw a flash of irritation in his expression as he welcomed the next VIP guest who asked the same question. She smiled to herself as she stepped forward to join the welcoming committee, just in time to see Sam disappear around the corner at the end of the street. A spasm of annoyance shot through her veins. Couldn’t he have stayed to help his father deflect these questions?

      Within minutes the gallery was buzzing with