‘That damnable gap between intellectual intention and artistic execution.’ Self-honest to a degree—except where her emotions were involved—she could always see how far short of her aims she had fallen because, however successful in a commercial sense, she was not brushed with genius. She was mooning around the house, trying not to think of the painting on the easel upstairs, unable to concentrate on anything for long, when West drove into the yard. He parked by the wooden shed that was the garage, walked down to the garden gate, and continued on round the brick path to the front door. When she saw the expression on his face, she drew in her breath sharply because it was obvious that something had severely shocked him. What in God’s name had happened the previous night when he’d met the man to whom he owed all that money . . .? ‘Gertie . . . Oh, Christ!’ he said hoarsely. ‘How much does he want?
