Love Amongst the Portraits

Emma was a single woman in her early 40s who adored art galleries and museums. For her, they represented sanctuaries where she could revel in solitude without succumbing to loneliness. The serene ambience of these spaces allowed her facial muscles to unwind from a week of stress and transformed her into a more radiant version of herself. As an independent soul, she relished mingling with others who shared her passion for art, enjoying the silent camaraderie of fellow gallery-goers.

That spring Saturday morning, in bustling Central London, where she resided, she visited the National Gallery, an incredible treasure trove overlooking the iconic Trafalgar Square, which was constantly awash with people—and pigeons.  

The National Gallery museum was always buzzing with activity, and Emma promised herself a delightful day of people-watching amidst its exquisite artworks.

******************

Ian, lost in contemplation before Holbein's portrayal of Henry VIII, steps back to appraise the portrait. It must have been Tudor propaganda to say this man was handsome. Henry's representation had small, cruel-looking eyes peering out from a ferociously obese fleshy face. The face was set atop an overweight body sporting an enormous girth. This presumably flattering portrait displayed a diabolical bully of a man who’d arranged the murder of two of his wives whilst unceremoniously dumping another couple who had become inconvenient.  

Coming out of his deep reverie about the Tudor King, he became aware of another person staring intently at Henry. He turned to find Emma, a fellow observer of the Holbein portraits. 

“Do you think he’s handsome?’ Ian asked.

Emma laughed and shook her head vehemently, “No,” and continued moving along to the other paintings in the gallery.

As Ian continued to study the Holbein portraits, she surveyed the observer. He was about 50, about 6 feet tall, and quite slim. His hair was beginning to grey, which perfectly complemented his expensive haircut. He wore blue jeans and a smart navy overcoat that went to his knees.  

“Good-looking man,” she thought. She moved on. It would be embarrassing if he turned around and caught her staring at him. She turned in the opposite direction from him and soon found herself in a long gallery displaying images of the rich and famous of Tudor times.  

Their brief exchange had led to mutual observations. Emma had noted Ian's attractive appearance, while Ian had admired Emma's looks and elegance. After a short hesitation, Ian followed Emma into the adjoining gallery.  

“Goodness, you like your Tudors”, he said.

She jumped with surprise, jolted from her deep concentration, and they laughed in unison.  

“‘Goodness, you like your Tudors’. Couldn’t you think of something else to say, Ian?” he scolded himself. He rapidly moved on, cursing his ineptitude.

“Damn, damn”, Emma thought. “Why am I so shy with men? I assume he’s married or gay or gay married or a tourist on the last day of his vacation. Forget about him.”

Although fleeting, the encounter left Emma annoyed with herself for failing to initiate a conversation, even if it was only a brief one. She retreated downstairs to the tranquility of the museum cafe, deciding a coffee and cake would cheer her up, as any future exchanges with the attractive man were unlikely to happen.

The cafe was surprisingly quiet for a Saturday. As she casually looked around, waiting for her coffee to cool, she could hardly believe her eyes when she saw him walk into the cafe's seating area carrying his tray. He sat a few tables away without looking in her direction. Sitting on separate tables, they drank their coffees in silence. She looked at him from the privacy of her corner table and told herself, “If he just looks my way, I will smile at him. I will try a witty comment about the Tudors. Look my way, damn it.”

After a while, Ian looked around the half-empty cafe and looked surprised to see her sitting alone, apparently draining the remains of her coffee. He half-stood up, grinning at her, when he heard a male voice shouting: 

“Hi, how are you?” and saw a man striding confidently towards Emma!

Emma inwardly groaned. It was a man from work. “My wife’s just gone upstairs to the David Bailey exhibition. Not my thing so I decided to have a coffee. Shall I join you?”  

“What a shame,” replied the quick-thinking Emma. “I, too, am on my way to the Bailey exhibition. But you have my seat. Enjoy your coffee,” she said as she stood up to leave.

Emma collected her coat and handbag, waved goodbye to her work colleague and turned towards her mystery man just in time to watch Ian rapidly disappear through the cafe door.

“Damn, damn”, she thought. “Another chance missed. Why did that idiot from accounts choose that moment to come and join me!”

************

“She,” Ian thought, “is a looker.” He had noticed her immediately in the Tudor section, and despite both of them displaying shyness, he felt they had connected. He had promised himself that if he saw her again, he would talk, introduce himself, and see if she might like to have a coffee with him. Apart from her good looks and beautiful smile, she enjoyed the same galleries as him, which surely meant she would be easy to converse with. 

What a surprise when Ian saw her sitting alone in the cafe. Deciding that it was ‘Now or Never,’ Ian had stood up in his chair, willing himself to go over and say hello - and as he stood - he saw another man making his way purposefully towards Emma. Ian sat down abruptly with his back to her, thanking his lucky stars for not going over. “Must be her bloody husband?” he thought moodily. Without looking behind him, he left half his coffee in the cup and exited the cafe without looking back.

************

Emma climbed the cafe's exit steps and immediately saw a copy of a stunning black and white photo of a youthful Mick Jagger on the wall. It was an advertisement for the David Bailey Exhibition the museum was running. She’d already told the work colleague in the cafe she was attending, and being a genuine fan of “Bailey”, she eagerly paid her entrance fee.  She slowly forgot about the attractive man who had charmed her as she joined the happy crowd of Bailey fans, going from one captivating photo after another, intently studying some of the most iconic people of the 1960s and 70s. As she approached Jean Shrimpton’s beautiful face, she became aware of a body close to hers. She turned to look and couldn’t believe it - it was him!

“You again!” she said brightly.

“Wow, fancy meeting you here in the 1970s— I thought you were a 15th-century aficionado,” he said.

“Well, I am - love Holbein - but equally love David Bailey”, Emma said excitedly.

He stared at the Shrimpton photo as if displaying expertise in photography - which, in reality, he didn’t possess. He had just wanted to give her the time to pass by unimpeded. However, she didn’t pass; instead, she stood beside him and shared her thoughts about the images they were looking at. Their delight at re-encountering each other was palpable, sparking playful banter during the shared admiration for the iconic figures captured in Bailey's lens. As they meandered through the gallery, their conversation flowed effortlessly, punctuated by shared anecdotes and mutual appreciation for art and culture. At no stage did either venture into personal details or contact information.

Halfway around the exhibition, Ian trailed behind to examine the Jack Nicholson black-and-white photo. Emma wandered a little further and entered the colour section, confident they would catch up shortly—almost as if they were genuinely together on an afternoon out. The space between them was quickly filled with strangers, each enjoying their favourite images in the exhibition. 

Suddenly, a klaxon started loudly sounding an alarm, and the lights within the museum began flashing on and off. The museum staff stepped in and started shouting loud, clear instructions—‘Single file, exit as quickly as you can, single file please’. Amidst the chaos of evacuation, Emma's frantic search for Ian was thwarted by museum staff, who insisted on an orderly departure. As Emma desperately tried to push forward to get to her companion, a staff member took her arm roughly, pushed her back into line, and said sternly, ‘Single file, please’.

By the time she finally spilt out of the museum, alongside hundreds of other people, all watching the arrival of fire brigades and police, she knew it was useless. He’d gone.

******************

Sitting in her office the following Monday, she appeared to be working diligently, but her brain constantly fought to return to dreamland. She could have kicked herself for not even asking his name. Emma was haunted by the memory of their encounter, replaying their brief conversations.

“Are you OK, Emma? You seem very quiet. Did you have a good weekend?” said Wendy, a close colleague.

“I’m OK, how about you?” lied Emma cheerfully. “What did you do?”

“Oh, the usual. Husband and kids. What about you?”

“I went to the National Gallery but had to leave when a fire broke out. Only a small fire, nothing major. It was a shame, as they had a great David Bailey exhibition.”

“Well, you could always go back and finish it this weekend if it was that good”.

“Ooh, I hadn’t thought of that”, Emma said brightly, and her face began to shine. Wendy looked at her, surprised at how quickly her friend’s face had changed.

“It must have been a wonderful Exhibition. Look how much you’ve cheered up. Anything else you want to tell me?”

Emma couldn’t help but tell Wendy about the encounter during their shared lunch break. Wendy thought the whole story was exciting and romantic. 

“Well”, reasoned the ever-practical Emma, “I know nothing about him. He could be married, gay, a mass murderer.”

“You’re right, but he could also be a thoroughly nice single person who shares your interests and is very pleasant. But as you never exchanged even your names, you may never know. Fancy not telling him your name!”

“Well, he didn’t tell me his name either!” exclaimed Emma.

“You two are made for each other! You need to find each other again. Let's put a notice in “Missed Connections” in the personal ads. I’ve got the Metro in the office. We’ll sort it out this afternoon”. 

That afternoon, with Wendy’s assistance, Emma submitted a personal ad:

“Are you the man who likes Holbein and Bailey? I thought we had a connection, but the fire separated us. I’m checking on my friend Henry at 11 on Saturday - will you be there?”

************

Meanwhile, Ian's thoughts mirrored Emma’s. Their chance encounter lingered in his mind, a serendipitous moment he couldn't shake. How the hell was he going to meet her again? What about the man in the cafe”?

He spoke to his sister and told her about his Saturday in the Gallery. When he got to the part about the man in the cafe, his sister said,

“Was she wearing a ring?”

“No..oo..oo! No ring.”

“OK, well, that’s something. Could it have been her brother, her gay friend? Are you sure they were together?”

“No idea.”

“How did you get separated”?

“When everyone was exiting the Museum, a quite senior gentleman slipped and nearly fell down a few stairs, so I helped him. He was shaken, so I suggested we have a cup of tea together until Chris recovered from his fall. The Museum had hundreds of people pouring out, and the wardens directed us all to avoid blocking the Museum to enable the Fire Brigade to get in. I helped Chris limp to a nearby cafe and persuaded him to ring his son to take him home. I sat with him in the cafe until the son arrived.  As magically as she’d appeared, she disappeared, and London is so big and full of people it’s unlikely I will ever bump into her again,” said Ian miserably.

“Ian, you’re a very kind man but slightly useless in the land of romance", said his sister.  "I suggest you return to the Gallery this Saturday - what time were you there? 11? (he nodded). Ok, go back to King Henry and let’s hope she returns.” 

****************

Her visit to the Gallery the following Saturday was tinged with anticipation even though she had convinced herself he wouldn’t or couldn’t be there. But he was! He turned and smiled broadly at her.

“I knew you thought Henry was handsome and would be back for another good look at his generous waist. By the way, I’m Ian.”

“Emma”, she said, holding her hand out so they could shake hands.

“Was that your husband you were here with last week?”

“Husband? No, I’m not married. You?”

“No, completely single.”

He leaned in towards her and kissed her cheek. “Good to meet you, Emma”.

************

A group of well-dressed, giggly people, the women wearing large flowery hats, assemble below Holbein’s Henry VIII, ready to take photographs. The happy bride and groom are in the middle of the group, grinning from ear to ear.

“Thank you, Henry, for introducing me to my wonderful wife”, said Ian, kissing Emma.

“Thanks also to you, my sister and Wendy, for playing such a big part in this romance and helping us reconnect under Henry’s portrait.”

******************

It’s time for us to go, Reader. We’ll leave them all there, laughing and cheering, with Henry looking down proudly at an elated couple standing lovingly hand in hand.