Set Me Free

by Jennifer Collin

  Set Me Free

  By

  Jennifer Collin

  Evans Trilogy: Book One

  Published by Jennifer Collin

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2013 Jennifer Collin

  Cover art © Cameron Eaton

  All Rights Reserved

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For Audrey and Lola.

  Acknowledgements

  For their advice and support: thanks to Laurel Cohn, Kimberley Albrecht, Effie Stanley, Wendy Schmalkuche, Libby Zavros-Brown and Ros Baxter.

  Thanks also to my husband, for his patience from the beginning, and his enthusiasm at the end.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter one

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Chapter four

  Chapter five

  Chapter six

  Chapter seven

  Chapter eight

  Chapter nine

  Chapter ten

  Chapter eleven

  Chapter twelve

  Chapter thirteen

  Chapter fourteen

  Chapter fifteen

  Chapter sixteen

  Chapter seventeen

  Chapter eighteen

  Chapter nineteen

  Chapter twenty

  Chapter twenty-one

  About the author

  Chapter one

  ‘Why are you sniffing me?’ Charlotte Evans asked her sister Emily as she savoured her downy, pillow-soft hug.

  ‘Just checking to see if you’ve washed that man out of your hair,’ answered Emily, squeezing her tight.

  ‘Ha, ha. Very funny.' Charlotte stepped back and took in her sister. In her baby blue 1950s polka-dot shirtwaist dress, she lit up the airport terminal. Her honey-blonde hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, completing the look of someone just visiting this decade. Emily was a sight for sore, and exceedingly tired, eyes.

  ‘And the verdict, smarty pants?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s not stale man smell.’ Emily sniffed the air some more. ‘But there’s definitely something funky in there.’

  Charlotte used the hand still resting on Emily’s shoulder to give her a good shove. After twenty-two hours in transit she didn’t need to be told she smelt as revolting as she felt.

  Yesterday in Rome, she’d dressed for comfort before boarding the plane: khaki yoga pants and a faded black t-shirt. Black ballet flats on her feet. Her hair hung loose; big, bold auburn curls kissing the very top of her shoulders. The look was fetching; until hours and hours of sleepless tossing and turning left a tangled bird’s nest on the back of her head, and her clothes sticking to her in all the wrong places. Her skin was leaching out the last greasy airline meal she’d eaten at the unholy hour of 5am, and her grey eyes were half-closed beneath the pressure of a headache, which was most likely a product of the aforementioned meal.

  It was not fair of the bubble of freshness before her to pass judgement.

  Emily ignored her sister’s scowl. ‘Where’s Mum?’ she asked, looking over Charlotte’s shoulder towards the hidden customs checkpoint. ‘Please don’t tell me she’s giving the poor customs official a lecture about oppressive Orwellian bureaucracy promulgating a culture of over-surveillance.'

  The image of their mother doing just that brought a wry smile to Charlotte’s lips, despite her painfully pulsing head. Formulating the answer to the question, quickly wiped that smile away.

  ‘I’m sorry, Em. She had to get back to work. She changed her flight in Singapore to take a direct one to Melbourne.’

  Emily’s hands went to her hips. ‘Are you kidding me?'

  Charlotte shook her head slowly.

  It was highly unlikely anything work-related lured Professor Diane Wallace back to Melbourne, although she would have them believe the university couldn't possibly survive another day without her. Charlotte and Emily were well aware a missing English Literature professor would barely cause a ripple on campus.

  ‘So she’s happy to fly halfway around the world with you at the drop of a hat, but she won’t even stop off here to spend a few days with me? And a couple of months ago she flew to Sydney just to see Andy play at some dingy suburban pub.' Her hands flew from her hips into the air. ‘Does she really hate my husband that much?’

  ‘I’m sure she would have come if she could have, Em,’ said Charlotte, biting her bottom lip.

  ‘Huh! You believe that as much as I do,’ Emily replied.

  Charlotte draped her arm across her sister’s shoulders. ‘Thanks for coming to pick me up,’ she said, leaning on Emily a little too much. ‘Now, can you please take me home before anyone I know sees me in this state?’

  Outside, the blazing heat of an early November heat wave assailed them. After the crispness of an Italian autumn, the humidity of Brisbane was suffocating. It did nothing to ease Charlotte’s headache.

  Emily’s bright yellow Morris Minor stood out like a beacon in a sea of vehicles at least 40 years younger than it. ‘So how is Geoff anyway?' Charlotte asked as they walked towards it.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Emily replied. ‘He’s working so much lately I hardly see him.’

  Charlotte threw her backpack on to the back seat of the car Emily affectionately dubbed ‘the Monster’. They eased themselves down onto the vinyl bench seat and shut the heavy doors behind them with a resounding thunk, thunk.

  ‘That sucks. Is there an end in sight?’

  ‘I hope so. He can’t tell me anything about the case, so I’m no longer asking.’

  Emily steered them into the early morning traffic, heading towards Charlotte’s West End apartment. Watching the cars moving around her with jet-lagged withdrawal, Charlotte was for once nonchalant about Emily’s tendency to swerve recklessly between lanes. The traffic roared around them through the open windows. There was no air conditioning to cocoon them in the Monster.

  ‘So tell me about the trip?’ Emily asked, oblivious to the aggressive honk of an outraged horn as she cut off a shiny new BMW.

  ‘It was great,’ Charlotte sighed. ‘Well, Rome was awful; stinky and noisy and crowded. But Tuscany was amazing and we went to this little strip of the northwest coast called Cinque Terra. There are five or so little villages built into the side of the mountains overlooking the Mediterranean. At the foot of the mountains are these little beaches of stones. No sand, not a grain, just all of these beautifully rounded stones about this big.’ She made a circle with her thumb and forefinger. ‘The villages were straight out of a storybook.’

  Overtired and slightly strung out, Charlotte was rambling.

  ‘There’s a train line that runs between the villages and one day Mum and I caught it from where we were staying down to the next village to explore. After lunch, I sent her back on the train with all of my stuff so I could hike back along this mountain track. As I passed through this little village perched on top of a cliff, I realised I had nothing on me: no money, no passport. It was so liberating! Here I was on the other side of the world with nothing but the clothes on my back. I didn’t feel alarmed at all, just completely free. Nothing tied me to my real life; I could have been anyone in the world.’

  Keeping her eyes on the road, Emily shuddered. ‘I’m not sure I like that story. Please tell me you don’t make a habit of doing that in foreign countries.’

  ‘Oh, Em. You’re so uptight. You ought to live a little.’

  ‘Hey! I’m not uptight! I’m an artist. How can I possibly be uptight?’

  Charlotte snorted. ‘You’re the most disciplined artist in the world. Believe me, you're uptight.’

  ‘You just think that because I’ve nev
er been overseas.’

  ‘No, I think that because the thought of being unencumbered and totally free gives you the heebie-jeebies.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad to have you back in one piece anyway.’

  Charlotte’s addled brain cooperatively skipped on to the next topic. ‘How are things on Boundary Street?’ she asked. ‘How’s the gallery? Has it been busy?' While she'd barely spared it a thought while she was away, now she was home, it was time to get back to work. The Evans Gallery needed to make some sales in order to pay next month’s rent. Her backup funds, intended to cover the slow periods, had taken a hit, thanks to the unplanned European vacation.

  ‘It’s been quiet,’ Emily said.

  ‘No different than usual then. It’s always quiet after one of your sell-out shows.’

  Charlotte couldn’t have left the country under any other circumstance: a sold out Emily Evans exhibition on the walls and Emily herself manning the desk.

  ‘Have you managed to pin down M Talbot? Is he ready for Friday?’ Charlotte asked. She’d also arranged her trip to ensure she was home in time to finalise the new exhibit scheduled to open at the end of the week. M Talbot was another of her regulars. He usually drew a small crowd of family and friends and his sales were reasonably reliable.

  ‘I think you’re going to have to chase him. He hasn’t been returning my calls.'

  ‘Great. Also no different than usual. How much have you spent on promoting him?’

  ‘I did it on the cheap, just as you asked. Flyers in the key suburbs and a social media campaign.'

  ‘Thanks. I’ll hunt him down today if I can. He does this every time but usually comes through in the end. Bloody emerging artists.'

  ‘Hey, I’m still one of those. An uptight one at that.’

  ‘Actually, it’s because you're uptight that you can’t really consider yourself ‘emerging’ any more, Em. You're prolific and reliable. Not to mention stupidly talented. You’ve worked hard to get where you are. Given your shows have been selling out consistently for almost two years, I think you've already emerged, honey.’

  Charlotte’s considered Emily a far superior talent to the vast majority of her peers. She was brilliant. She painted like she was running out of time, churning through the canvases. What poured out of her was considered bleak by some, but poignant by most. She favoured urban landscapes, washed in sombre shades of grey or brown. All of her works featured something small, colourful and full of promise, though difficult to find. The promise juxtaposed the desolation of the setting. A kitten playing with a ball of brightly coloured wool in a littered alleyway or a parakeet in the branches of a dying tree.

  ‘Well, I may have already reached my peak. I’ve had painter’s block for the last three weeks.’

  ‘It’ll come back. It always does. What you need is some drama in your life. What about an overseas holiday?’

  Emily gave her a look as she parked the Morris outside Charlotte’s apartment. ‘Or, I could take Geoff down to Melbourne to visit Mum,’ she said.

  They climbed the rickety external stairs of Charlotte’s fibrous-cement apartment building to the second and top-most floor. The complex was in need of a coat of paint, preferably something more modern than the shade of faded lemon currently casing it. It was old, and moaned and groaned and creaked with that age, but the rent was irresistibly cheap and the other tenants inoffensive.

  ‘I can see it now, a whole series of an old crone lording over a cowering man. Not sure where you would put your little parcel of promise though,’ said Charlotte.

  She unlocked her front door to the stale smell of rooms in desperate need of fresh air. A short hall led to a compact 1960s kitchen, and she felt a warm rush as she took in her little apartment: the vintage canisters and crockery in the kitchen; the large, modern red leather couch, and her lovely Art Deco dining suite with its four matching bucket-shaped chairs.

  Dropping her backpack on the black and white checkered kitchen linoleum she crossed to the French doors at the back of the apartment. She threw them open to let the air in, eyeing the dying plants on the small balcony.

  ‘Shower,’ she said, whizzing past Emily en route to the bathroom. ‘And then coffee.’

  ‘Do you want me to make some?’ Emily asked after her.

  Charlotte paused. ‘No, I want Ben’s. I’ve got to stay awake until tonight. I need the good stuff. Espresso.’

  From the bathroom, she added, ‘I’m going to spend the day in the gallery, so I don’t crash out here. Can you come with?’

  ‘For a coffee,’ Emily called back. ‘Then I’ve got a blockage to work through. You never know what being scorned by Mum this morning might have cleared.'

  Half an hour later Charlotte was clean, though once again on the outskirts of the lucidity she’d been drifting in and out of all morning. The greasy feeling was gone, and she now smelled delicious, but as she searched through her disappointing wardrobe, she was unable to make a choice. A regular, but not a wise shopper, she had a wardrobe full of clothes and nothing to wear.

  Hearing her whimper, Emily came to her rescue.

  ‘Here,’ she said, pulling a bright red A-line skirt out of the somewhat musty free-standing 1930s wardrobe and handing it to her sister.

  ‘And here.' She offered a delicate, very feminine sleeveless black top to match.

  ‘And where are your new shoes?’ she asked, strolling back out to the kitchen and commencing a search through Charlotte’s backpack.

  ‘What makes you think I have new shoes?’ Charlotte asked as she pulled her top over her head.

  Triumphantly holding aloft a new pair of black Italian leather sandals, Emily declared, ‘Because you always get new shoes. Two things match your count of ex-boyfriends, my dear sister: the number of departure stamps in your passport, and your collection of international shoes.’

  Charlotte snatched her new sandals off her sister and slipped them on her feet. She checked herself one last time in the mirror and hardly recognised herself. ‘My God, I look human,’ she said, pushing back an errant curl. ‘Now let’s get some coffee so I can feel human too.’

  Five minutes later she was on Boundary Street, sipping a latte at Bean Drinkin’, soothing her feet where the sandal straps had rubbed her heels and grinning like an idiot at her best friend while he took a break from his espresso machine to catch up with her.

  The coffee had an instant effect on her headache. As it abated, Charlotte pulled affectionately at Ben’s tawny ponytail, and he slapped her hand away playfully. He and Emily were trying to extricate the details of any sordid Italian affairs out of her.

  ‘That wasn’t the point of the trip,’ Charlotte reminded them. ‘I was getting away from a man, not looking for one.’

  ‘You know, Charlotte,’ said Emily, ‘sometimes I think you have it all back to front. Every time you go overseas you're on the run from someone. With all this travel, there must be dozens of opportunities to run into someone that go begging. You know, a ‘no strings attached’ kind of collision.'

  ‘Well, that was hardly going to happen this time with Mum in tow,’ Charlotte said to Emily. To Ben she said, ‘She’s all talk, you know. Emily’s not a ‘no strings attached’ kind of girl.'

  Ben shrugged and Charlotte beamed at him, delighted to be there with him, breathing in the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans. This morning, this place smelt more like home than her stale apartment.

  She zoned out again and looked around to see if anything had changed in the last few weeks. Bean Drinkin’ was busy as usual; the locals loved it. Mostly for the coffee, but the atmosphere, created by the 1970s schoolroom décor, was a significant draw card as well. Vintage wooden desks with flipping tops or built-in shelves and matching wooden chairs filled the space. One of the walls was painted with blackboard chalk and decorated with the scrawl of a hundred doodling customers. The other main wall was covered in posters advertising gigs and events, which added to the schoolroom feel. Just below a flyer promoting M Talbot’s sh
ow, Charlotte spotted a poster advertising her brother’s band, Reality Cheque.

  ‘Is Andy coming up to play?’ she asked her sister, interrupting a whispered conversation between her and Ben.

  ‘Yeah, in a few weeks. He wants to stay with you, I think. Maybe some of the band too. You should give him a call when you get a chance.'

  ‘So have you washed Mr Jackson Phillips out of your hair then?’ Ben asked. Charlotte gave Emily a look before she answered. Interesting that they’d both used the same turn of phrase.

  ‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘What the hell was I thinking?’

  ‘Probably that if he was as much fun in the bedroom as he was on the dance floor then you were on a winner,’ said Emily, gazing out towards the street.

  Charlotte groaned. ‘That’s just it. Jackson is a self-indulgent dancer, and he was a self-indulgent boyfriend.’

  Her fling with Jackson, her swing dance partner, had lasted all of two months. They fell into it through a mutual attraction, but as it turned out, he was a thoroughly disinterested boyfriend who spent most of their time together talking about himself; which made him a thoroughly uninteresting boyfriend.

  She continued to berate them. ‘You know, I rely on you two, my sister and my best friend to let me know when I’m doing something stupid. Where were you?'

  ‘Well I, for one, knew it wouldn’t last, so I didn’t see the point of interfering,’ Emily declared.

  ‘And I didn’t think he was all that bad,’ defended Ben.

  ‘Are you serious? You men have such low standards. And you,’ she directed to Emily, ‘thanks for the vote of confidence.’

  ‘Oh come on, Charlotte. You’ve never had a relationship last longer than six months. You have a commitment phobia,’ Emily retorted.

  ‘I do not. I commit to things. Look at the gallery. I’ve been running it for five years.' Sure, she wasn’t one for lasting relationships, but that was only because she hadn’t found the right man. Better to be selective than to settle.