Perfect Imperfections (Moments Book 1)

by J Wells

  After the call I felt nosey and so Googled Gabriel Owens, wanting to see what all the hype was about. Mum wasn’t wrong, his work was out of this world, though it pissed me off to admit it. Seeing his paintings first hand put a different perspective on things. Did I like the bloke? No, definitely not. Would I go back? Yes. All I am is a face to be painted; I’m not his friend, so why am I taking this so personally? If I don’t spark up a conversation I can’t put my foot in it and say the wrong thing. I’ll take my iPod and earphones, and while he paints me I’ll close my eyes; before I know it he’ll be done and I’ll be out of there.

  I turned up at Gabriel’s half an hour late. Fighting my way through his overgrown garden, the first thing he did when I walked into the conservatory was offer me a drink; I couldn’t fault the guy’s politeness. Mr Pooch was sat on a round wicker chair in the corner. Purring to herself she seemed completely at ease, oblivious to the atmosphere that hung like a heavy cloak around us.

  I can’t put into words how much I hate his touch, the smell of his fingers; he said he was trying to quit, but during the three hours I sat for him he must have popped into the garden at least four times for a fag. The overpowering stench of tobacco seemed to seep from his skin and at times I couldn’t help but pull away. In an instant he’d manoeuvre my head back into position and once again his hands began to wander. As soon as Gabriel began to paint I turned my music on full volume and closed my eyes, though I still couldn’t help but cringe when his fingers wandered over my face. It felt wrong, an intimacy I was only happy sharing with Josh.

  Josh Skyped me on Tuesday and Wednesday evening. Both nights I went to bed after midnight; I tossed and turned, and hardly slept.

  Going home to an empty house was getting harder and harder; I felt I was going stir crazy and needed something to do. I decided on a spot of spring cleaning and began with our bedroom. I ran the vac round, polished and even took down the curtains to put in the washing machine.

  I stacked the tins in the kitchen cupboard, stood back and looked at the towers I’d built. Oh my God! I’d turned into my mother-in-law. No, I couldn’t be having that, so I messed them up a bit—much better. Next to the salt cellar there was a small cylindrical pot of bicarbonate powder. I grinned to myself. Last time this was opened Adrianna used it to piss on. No, I wouldn’t bin it; it would have other uses. I remembered reading a link on Facebook about a cleaning hack for the oven—white vinegar, with either orange or lemon peel. I rubbed my hand over my forehead. I couldn’t be sure which, and thinking about it I couldn’t remember how the bicarbonate powder was used either. I decided cleaning the oven would be a task for another day.

  I took the loose cushions off the settee, which were covered in Larry’s brown fur. I shook them out, and as I replaced them something bright caught my eye. Ten pounds in change had somehow found its way down the side of the cushions together with a gold stud earring that I had mislaid a couple of years ago. I pocketed the money and then ran back upstairs to put the stud in my jewellery box. I felt quite jealous seeing it back with its other half. Having a melodramatic moment and acting upon it, I tossed my head to the side, the back of my hand resting across my brow. Then, springing up, I catapulted myself into the centre of the bed. Breathing heavily, I lay staring at the ceiling. I was jiggered. I had cleaned the place from top to bottom, finding dust in places I didn’t think it was possible for dust to get. I could now boast that my house was almost as clean as Angela and Hughie’s, and that’s saying something.

  Once everything was clean and tidy, I sat down in my L-shaped kitchen with a hot cup of tea and reality sank in. There was nothing left to be done and I was completely alone. The silence was unbearable; the stool next to me sat empty, and Josh wasn’t sipping tea while reading the newspaper. I gazed through to the lounge; he wasn’t sitting on the sofa with his feet resting on the beanbag, or bending down to feed Larry a crafty treat. Our house just doesn’t feel like home with him away, and as soon as I put my key in the lock, turn it and walk in through the front door I’m hit by an awful sense of emptiness.

  The thought of upping sticks and living in America scared the shit out of me, but on the flip side, how could I sleep in our bed without him there, or walk into the bathroom each morning and not pick up the lingering scent of his aftershave? Even my toothbrush sitting in its little cup would feel his absence and be lonely in the holder without his at its side.

  I couldn’t help but wallow in self-pity. Then, all of a sudden it was like a light had been switched on in my head. I packed a small overnight case, and Larry and I went to stay with Mum, Dad and Adrianna for a long weekend.

  It was a typical weekend at home. As soon as we had eaten breakfast, Dad pulled on his old shoes and trudged out into the garden, keeping busy to begin with, then later keeping out of the way while Mum entertained Sylvia, the lady from next door. She turned up with a few bottles of her home-made wine and Dad joked that she came round so often she might as well move in.

  Adrianna tagged along with Larry and me as we walked round the block and then into a field full of horse chestnuts. Her intention had been to sit with her feet up in front of the telly, and it took a lot of persuading on my part, but eventually I convinced her to pop down the shops. Adrianna did nothing but complain the whole time.

  Taking her arm, I walked her up and down the aisles of Babies and Bumps. She was offish and quite disinterested to begin with, but once I started flicking through the rails and picking up newborn Babygros and the tiniest pair of blue shoes I think we’d ever seen, her aches and pains seemed to disappear.

  We filled our baskets with vests, nappies and bedding, and still had many other items hanging over our arms. We moved to the far end of the shop to look at the cot beds and prams. I pulled my bank card from my purse and told her to put a hundred pounds towards the overall cost. With carrier bags galore, we stopped off at Costa for a coffee. She was now actually smiling and flicking through the newly bought items. She grabbed a pen from her bag and started writing down baby names that she liked on a paper serviette and asking me, Aunty Tasha, for my opinion. We narrowed it down to three—Tyler, Riley and Logan—but I guess she’s got plenty of time to make up her mind. My smiles soon joined hers when she told me how much she was looking forward to having a little boy of her own. She seemed to lighten up and almost have a change of heart; her baby blues had turned into a bedroom full of blue accessories and a wardrobe filled with brand new blue outfits.

  So here I am, on a Sunday night, trying to watch Dirty Dancing with Adrianna. It’s not like I don’t know the film like the back of my hand. I stare at the forty-inch screen, but nothing goes in; even Patrick Swayze dancing bare chested can’t seem to spark the slightest interest.

  “I swear that bloke’s enough to turn anyone straight,” Adrianna pipes up, rocking on the settee. She pushes her glasses as close to her eyes as she can get them.

  “Stick your tongue back in your mouth.” I throw a cushion her way. She catches it between both hands and throws it back. “God, you’re literally drooling. Anyway, give us your phone; let’s have a look at your bloke. Maybe he’s worth drooling over.”

  “Nah, my phone’s fucked so I haven’t got any photos.”

  “Any excuse,” I find myself muttering under my breath. Why can’t she own up, be straight with us? There is no guy now; I glance at her stomach. Obviously there was four or five months ago, but it’s plain to see by her reaction that it’s over. The film catches my attention again.

  “Look, Tash, he’s moving.”

  I gaze back in her direction and see that Adrianna has placed a line of chocolate truffles on her bump. I sit staring as every so often they jump. Our eyes meet, and my smile dissolves.

  “Chin up, Tash, he’ll be home soon.”

  Am I really that transparent?

  The chocolates fall to the floor as she stands and makes her way across the room. She slaps my leg.

  “Move over, sis.”

  I squash myself up agains
t the arm of the chair as she shuffles in at my side. Lifting her arm, she brushes my hair from my face.

  “So, what time’s he Skyping tonight?”

  I shrug. “He’s in meetings all day, so said it would be about half ten our time.”

  I lean forward and grab a strawberry cream from the tin of chocolates on the coffee table. Twisting the red shiny paper between my fingers, I pop it into my mouth and suck hard. I realise it’s Monday tomorrow and suddenly lose the excitement of Josh’s pending Skype call. All I can see is Gabriel’s face and picture his hands as they come closer and closer towards me.

  My phone vibrates and I see a text from Josh: Sorry, can’t Skype, busy x

  Drops of purple rain fall so softly; they feel like silk as they touch my face. I feel their journey as one by one they glide over my cheeks. I gaze down and they’ve gone. The sun has fallen from grace today, and now candyfloss clouds float by in a deep-purple sky. All alone, I sit hidden away in a vast field of long arid grasses. I turn abruptly.

  “Who calls my name?” I shout out, but no one answers because no one’s there.

  Does my childhood nightmare taunt me? Has he finally left the confines of my wardrobe where he sat night after night and watched? Has he somehow discovered where I am? No. I breathe easy. It’s only the sweetest breeze that talks to me in a whisper, not the monster I feared; he was only ever in my mind. My eyes widen to my surroundings. How could something as beautiful as this be so bad?

  I lie back and stretch out. No longer surrounded by grasses but ensconced between vivid petals, summer flowers swaying as they watch over me. Lifting my hands to my face, I rub my eyes and blink. Am I Alice? Am I in Wonderland?

  I reach out my fingers. It’s rich and vibrant red, so pretty I almost feel guilty as I pluck it from its stem. Holding this beautiful rose, I pull it closer to me and breathe in, but there’s no scent. I hold it away from me and frown. There are no longer petals, just paper.

  I jump to my feet. The ground beneath me trembles and I glance up into an explosion of confetti dancing on the breeze. I look down at my side and gasp. The flower has gone, and the palm of my hand is now stained blood-red.

  “Natasha, Natasha.”

  Again my name is called and I run, but there’s no ground beneath me. With confetti all around me, I free fall into nothing, and then that nothing evaporates into darkness.

  “For God’s sake, Natasha, wake up!”

  My eyes snap open. I snatch the headphones out of my ears and the song I’m listening to comes to an end.

  I refocus, looking up into his tinted glasses.

  “Gabriel!”

  He grins. “You were asleep.”

  I cross my arms over my chest.

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Well, I’ve never heard anyone snore while they’re awake before,” he says, taking a step back towards his easel.

  I watch his fingers as he waves a small brush, its long bristles daubed in red paint. Fidgeting on my chair, I cup my hands in my lap. Hmm, well that explains my red palms. I rub them down the front of my jeans.

  Half-concealed by his easel, Gabriel begins to paint. Neither of us utters a word. I sit in silence, staring at Mr Pooch lying outstretched in her usual place. I am tempted to put my earphones back in, but decide against it. So instead, to pass the time I flick through the playlist on my iPod. I glance over the titles of the last couple of songs I listened to—‘Purple Rain’ by Prince, and ‘Imaginary’ by Evanescence. The lyrics of the song begin to play over in my head.

  ‘In my field of paper flowers

  And candy clouds of lullaby

  I lie inside myself for hours

  And watch my purple sky fly over me.’

  All of a sudden I can see my dream. Maybe he was right; maybe I had fallen asleep. Even as a child my imagination had always been two steps ahead of me. It really is amazing what one can do sitting under a dining table, with a few pegs and an old blanket; Adrianna and I visited all kinds of enchanted places and wondrous lands. These times were magical, because it was only the odd weekend that I wasn’t dragged off to a pageant somewhere in the country; these weekends were mine, to do with what I wanted, when I was allowed to be a child. My imagination always wrestled with reality and usually won. I loved to dream then and I love to dream now, and though with age I’ve had to rein it in, I can’t control my dreams when I’m asleep. I’m sure my mind taking me away from reality is some kind of coping mechanism.

  I look up at Gabriel.

  His head tilts. “Something I’ve noticed.”

  Two hours I’ve sat here, and this is the first time he’s addressed me or tried to strike up any kind of conversation.

  “What?” I prompt with little interest.

  “You have very few lines on your face, especially around your mouth; you know, laughter lines.”

  I rub my fingers around the outline of my lips.

  “Okay, Da Vinci,” I joke, “what does that mean?”

  “What it means is, you’re a miserable bitch.”

  I sit for a moment without speaking. Did he actually just say that? I give a loud huff and raise my eyebrows.

  “Are you serious?”

  For a couple of seconds the silence is overbearing. I bite my lip but can’t hold my tongue any longer.

  “You’ve got some nerve,” I snap. “You call me a miserable bitch when you can’t even be arsed to speak! If I’m a miserable bitch, what does that make you? Well, I’ll tell you, it makes you a miserable prick, and I don’t even have to touch your face to tell you that.”

  He’s standing grinning at me.

  “Were you joking?”

  “Yes, Natasha.” His grin widens. “Of course I was. When you get to know me a little better, you’ll find I do come with a sense of humour.”

  I roll my eyes; he could have fooled me.

  “You’re not funny,” I retort, but he simply shrugs off my displeasure.

  I’m not accustomed to his so-called humour; it’s so dry, so not me. Fidgeting in my seat, I run my fingers down the length of my hair. I really don’t know how to take this man. The earphones of my iPod dangle between my fingers; I have no intention of using them again and so push them into my pocket, tucking in the ends.

  I glance at the floor, noticing the way his shoe taps against the tiles. My mind turns over. What do I say?

  “Oh, by the way, it’s an old piercing,” I blurt out. Where the hell did that come from?

  “What?” he mutters, without raising his head.

  “My nose.” I run my finger across my nose, feeling for the small indentation. “It was a long time ago, when my sister took me to a fair in Nottingham.”

  “Copying your mates?”

  I shake my head, then smile to myself, remembering that he can’t see too well.

  “No, I was just trying to piss my mum off.”

  “And did you succeed?”

  “You could say that.” I smirk.

  It was a double whammy for mum. I’ll never forget that look of disillusionment in her eyes when I turned up with a gold stud piercing in my nose. I had a photoshoot booked in the following weekend and my face was meant to be on the front cover of a teen magazine, supposedly the beginning of my career. But the piercing got infected and my face was a mess; I ended up on antibiotics, and in a matter of days I lost both my shoot and my agent. Although it left a tiny scar, it was the day I got my life back. I met Josh, a new boy in the area, and from that day on we were inseparable; he was my best friend throughout high school.

  Angela renamed me the daughter she never had, and each summer from then on I practically moved in with Josh’s parents. We spent the majority of our time in Staffordshire, in their stately home passed down the family to Angela. They hired it out for private viewings, weddings and many other functions, making them enough money to keep it privately owned rather than being taken over by the national trust. I can picture it now, acres of land, undisturbed greenery and our own special place within it
, the adventure playground where we’d spend hours. I can almost feel my heart warm at the memory of the large oak where we had our tree house.

  It took the best part of a year, but mum eventually gave up on the modelling career she had wanted me to have, and instead focused all her time and energy on Adrianna and her county hockey matches. Their mother-daughter bonding lasted all of six weeks, and one summer, for whatever reason, she quit. The following year she’d moved on and was playing football for the local team.

  When I hit sixteen, it was as if mum had lost all purpose in life. We’d grown up and had our own lives to live. As for Dad, he was always outside pottering in the garden. For a short time I actually thought Mum was getting her life back on track; she joined the gym, and made some friends of her own. But her weekly exercise regime soon became her weekly drinking session.

  “Natasha.”

  I glance up.

  “Remind me, what colour are your eyes?”

  “Brown, light brown… Number three or four on that colour chart you gave me.” I still don’t get how can a blind man paint. “Tell me, Gabriel,” I blurt out, “what can you see?”

  His face appears, and those awful dark lenses stare over at me.

  “Do you really need those glasses?”

  He puts his hand up to stop me. “I’ll talk about anything, ask me anything you want, just not about my sight.”

  I can’t see his eyes, yet somehow his face looks set. I’m waiting for the joke, the punch line, but there’s only silence.

  I reach down and grab my half-empty glass; it chinks against the chair leg.

  “Fancy a hot drink for a change? Tea, coffee?” he asks.

  I turn my wrist and look at the time on my watch. I’ve got another hour of this.