Highgate, London, Autumn 1969Ricky Lucas heaved a dispirited sigh. Cigarette attached to narrow lips, eyes squinting against the smoke, he placed the two paintings carefully onto the back seat of the Consul. Suppose they didn’t like them. Suppose they suggested he stick to his job as a painter and decorator instead of even attempting to become an artist. The paintings were all of women. Young women of course. Ricky enjoyed nothing better than drawing women; voluptuous ladies with long flowing hair, heaving breasts and tiny little waists. He drew them day and night until his old man called him a pervert.
In Ricky’s mind there was nothing at all perverted about the female form. He was young, nineteen years old, hot blooded with turbo charged hormones. He’d just enrolled in an art college bu
