‘That sounds like your kind of castle.’
He laughs. ‘Not really. But I’m glad you’re painting lots of plants. Cuthbert will love playing in them.’
‘He isn’t coming anywhere near my castle,’ I say, shielding it from him with my arm as he zooms the puppy towards it. ‘And put him down before you break him.’
‘You sound like my mum,’ he says.
I can’t help smiling. ‘I sound like my mum too. What a terrible thought. Fly him around the castle as much as you like.’
He swoops the puppy in circles. ‘Who needs Godzilla when you have Cuthbert? But perhaps he’d better not fly over the castle anymore. I’d hate for him to forget himself at that height.’
I put down my paint brush and look at the finished castle.
‘It’s lovely,’ he says. ‘I can see why you went into art.’
‘Graphic design,’ I say.
‘But it must take a lot of the same skills. I think I’d know who had painted that castle even if no one told me. It’s neat and delicate and thoughtful and original and very pretty, just like you.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, embarrassed.
He waves the puppy at me. ‘Cuthbert is waiting for a similar compliment.’
‘He’s definitely an Alex Fielding creation,’ I say. ‘Messy and unpredictable, but oddly lovable.’
He gives me a smug look. ‘That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.’
I pick up the castle. ‘I think it’s dry enough to take it to the counter. Come on, Cuthbert.’
The young boy takes our models. He looks appreciatively at mine. ‘You’re very talented.’
‘And?’ Alex prompts him.
The boy looks at the puppy. ‘It’s a good effort. Practice makes perfect. Maybe you can come again and try painting a different model?’
‘That put me in my place, didn’t it?’ says Alex when we get outside. ‘It reminds me of my old school reports.Tries hard, could do better.I bet you never got comments like that.’
‘Probably not,’ I say. ‘I was always terrified of my teachers being upset with me, so I worked really hard.’
‘Whereas I wasn’t particularly bothered,’ he says. ‘Where did you get that from?’
‘Get what from?’
‘Caring what people thought about you.’
I’m about to brush this off with a light comment, but he’s looking unusually serious.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say slowly. ‘Perhaps from my mother. It’s always been important to her what people think of her. She lives in dread of not having a perfectly clean house and an immaculate garden. And she likes to be appropriately dressed for every occasion.’
‘Some people are like that,’ he says. ‘But I can’t imagine you being obsessed with a house and garden and fancy clothes.’
I look down at my faded jeans. ‘I’m not sure what leads you to that conclusion! I don’t know why school made me so nervous. It just did. It felt important for my teachers to have a good opinion of me.’
‘I’m sure they did,’ he says. ‘How could they not? So, that’s what led to you being such a perfectionist?’
‘Am I a perfectionist?’
‘Surely you’ve realised that by now? I noticed it the first time we met when you were so insistent on getting every tiny little detail of that mural right. It didn’t seem hugely important to me that Mr Toad had a checked waistcoat instead of a striped one. But it was obviously important to you, and I respected that.’