by K. L. Jessop
A vision of Dexter standing in the gallery barefoot and in ripped jeans clouds my vision as I recap every single detail about him and the way he made me feel. “Think grizzly bear crossed with Tarzan.”
“Wow. That’s some combination.”
“But it’s one that fits together perfctly.”
A loud cheer comes from the bar, and it has Malcolm's head turning. A guy catches his attention and he does a little wave. Turning back, he takes another sip of his drink, this time finishing the whole thing. Next, he’ll make an excuse to go to the bar. He thinks after all these years we’ve been friends that I haven’t worked out his excuses to dance around the other guys to get a little attention.
“So, you’re definitely sticking at it?”
I shrug. “I need the work. At the very least, I will stick it out while I look for something else. But yes.”
“Well, once you get your inner bitch flowing, Tarzan won’t know what’s hit him.” He stands, pointing to my glass. “Same again?”
I nod.
Swinging his hips, he walks over to the bar before the group of guys notice him and cheer at his presence. Malcolm's hand automatically flies to his chest as he pretends to be embarrassed by their greeting, and he grins wickedly. I, on the other hand, can’t help but laugh. He’s always been one for liking the attention.
Regardless of how my day started and finished, my new fascination with this area of art has me looking at the city in a totally different way. After Emmet had taken me for an early lunch and I’d informed him that I need to get to grips with the work Dexter does if he needs me to help him out, he’d produced a computer chip from God knows where, ensuring me that I will find everything I need to know of his work on it. Once lunch was done, I’d placed the chip into the computer and waited for it to fire up before streams of colour filled the screen.
My eyes hadn’t known where to look first.
The images that I’ve now studied so closely are a combination of words I’m unable to read, fruit and animals. I’d recognised some from when I’ve been walking the streets of London, seeing them on billboards or on abandoned buildings; others I can recall seeing when heading for the tube.
But the two that’d had my eyes locked on them longer than the others had brought an uneasy tingle across my skin. One is of a white brick wall where a black, shadowed silhouette of a man sits on the ground. A grey cup is placed in front of him as he holds a white piece of paper with the words Keep your coins, I want change in red writing across the middle. The other is a pencil drawing, completely different from the street art I’d been flicking through. I hadn’t been able to work out if the person was male or female because the face is hidden, but the long hair has me wondering if it resembles Dexter himself. Whoever it is, the person in the picture has a pillow pressed hard against their face, clearly distressed.
The image had taken my breath away for reasons I can’t even begin to rationalise. They were both emotional and awakening, making me realise that I have a lot more to learn when it comes to street art and that graffiti clearly goes far deeper than the tagging you would usually find on battered out buildings or railway stations. The depth and lengths that these artists go to—anonymous or well-known—these pieces of art that generate our city are so much more than colours on a wall. But more importantly, it seems I have a lot more to learn about the man behind the Art.
My phone lights up on the table with a message, and before I even read it, I’m smiling when I see it’s from Emmet.
Emmet: How was the rest of your day? Did Dex come down at all?
Me: My day was very quiet. No, he didn’t.
Emmet: I’m sorry.
I’m about to reply and say he has nothing to apologise for when I see that he’s typing again. Those little three dots move up and down for what seems like a lifetime and I wonder what reply I’m going to get.
Emmet: He’s not a bad guy, Pepper. Please trust me on this.
I read his message more than once, wondering why I sense there is so much more hidden within his words—why this man frequently appears to defend his friend’s actions. He’d been the same when we were at lunch.
But those images.
And those damn eyes of his.
I don’t understand why they are affecting me like they are. There are questions surrounding this situation that are not my place to ask and have answers that are none of my business. If Persie were here, she’d tell me that it’s my anxious mind working overtime. Maybe she’d be right, but I can’t help the feeling there’s something more.
So, I reply with the only response I can.
Me: See you soon.
Chapter Six
Dexter
I’ve slept, eaten and feel somewhat better than I have but not as good as I know I can be. That being said, I’m still not overly pleased with what I find when I reach the bottom of the stairs to the gallery.
I watch her for a moment, getting my head around the fact I have another person I never wanted now invading my space. It’s been seven day’s and she’s now walking around my empty gallery like she’s some designer, holding a clipboard and pen that I know damn well I haven’t provided, looking at the walls and writing stuff down. The more she does it, the more irritation prickles across my skin because not only can I not take my eyes from her, she’s no doubt making plans when it’s not her damn place to make them. The term ‘personal assistant’ may mean she’s here to help me in her world, but in mine, no one helps me but me.
Her outfit is not something you’d usually see on a woman in business: there are no high heels or tight-fitting clothing. Today, she’s in a short, black and white polka dot jumpsuit, the material stopping at her mid-thigh. Her legs are cocooned in berry-colour tights that sit in bright, silver glitter Doc martins, and a bottle green beaded bracelet around her wrist sparkles every now and again when she moves.
She’s quirky… and I like it.
The way her hair is up in a messy bun shows off her face more than it does under those big fucking hat’s she wears and reveals the creamy skin of her neck that I find myself wanting to run my nose along. And sweet Jesus, her scent fills this place like no tomorrow. It’s the nicest damn thing I’ve smelt in a long time. She’s an angel of beauty.
“Oh, Dexter. You are here… finally.”
Her voice is like sugar: sweet, satisfying but damaging to my insides. However, it’s her eyes that do the most damage, and like before, those damn baby blues hold me prisoner.
“I was—”
A prickle of irritation continues to radiate over my skin with her presence the closer she moves towards me. “Trespassing.” I blurt.
Her brows rise but not in shock: she’s clearly unimpressed with my response. “No, if you remember rightly, Emmet let me in.”
“Well, now you can let yourself out.”
“I'm here to do a job. Which has been quite difficult—”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, I’ve spent the last however long waiting for you. In the meantime, I’ve been going around and making notes on where your designs can go.”
I stand up straight in the doorway, folding my arms, intrigued to know her ideas when she knows fuck all because I’m yet to give her any information. “And why have you been doing that when you don’t know what I have or what the sizes of my work are?”
She mirrors my position and the fire in her crystal blue eyes is evident. “Because, like I’ve said since the first day I arrived, I’m here to work, and I’d rather find a use for my time than sit and do nothing for hours on end.”
“Well, you’ve wasted your time.”
Her jaw tightens and her nostrils flare, and I’m waiting—maybe even wanting—for her to bite back because I can already tell in the time I’ve been around her that she is a firecracker. But all she does is step back, turn away from me and walk back to her desk.
Feeling satisfied I’ve hit her where it hurts, I finally enter the next room. I need some more paints for the p
iece I am working on, and my spare watercolours are down here in the draws.
First, I need to pop out and get some JD.
I’m not an alcoholic: I hardly touch a drop when my mood has changed. I only drink when the bad days hit, slowly pushing it aside when I feel my mood lighten. It’s like a medicine. However, I like to keep a bottle close by for days like today when I’m painting a picture that is close to my heart. I need the strength to not break once the art is finished and to stand tall when I look back at the work I’ve achieved as I watch it dry into the paper—as I look into the eyes of my sister. That’s when the JD helps: it numbs the pain.
“Where are you going now?” she asks as I head out of the gallery.
“Out.”
I head across the bridge to the corner shop. The air is cold on the skin of my bare arms and the morning sun is low, making me squint as I pass commuters heading to their destination.
People smile and bid me good morning, but I carry on walking not giving them the time of day. I’ve had many years of being left, ignored and forgotten by the residents of London, I don’t see why I should be pleasant back. Being homeless brands you with many names and each and every one of these passers by have either thought it, said it or joked about it with their friends. I don’t owe these people anything.
Grabbing my JD and earning a look of disgust from the woman behind the counter, I head back to the gallery only to find little Miss Blue Eyes leaning against the desk, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles.
Jesus.
She looks down at the bottle in my hands before her eyes flash to mine. “You're drinking?”
“Not right this second.” I head past her, going into the other room where I keep my paints to find what I’m after.
“But it's not even midday.”
“And it's none of your damn business either,” I bark back, not looking at her. “You're paid to personally assist my work not me as a person.”
“Right now, I’m being paid to personally assist watching you throw a tantrum every five minutes,” she says quietly, and the silence that follows tells me she’s now shitting herself in anticipation of my comeback.
Thankfully, I have my back to her and I’m glad she can’t see the grin that has unexpectedly ripped across my face. In any other situation—or be it anyone else—I would have spun around and screamed at her, but for some reason, I haven’t.
Finding what I need, I turn to head back upstairs when she catches me off guard with how close she is. Her fresh, perfume fills the space between us, pinning me to the spot as she stands once again folding her arms.
She’s silent for a moment, but her damn eyes hold mine.
My jaw locks and my hands grip around the paints and the bottle, fighting the sudden rush that chases my body with her proximity.
I need to get out of here. I can’t be around this woman, and more importantly, she can’t be around me. I may be feeling a little clearer today, but that doesn’t mean I’m not likely to turn on her.
“Can I get you anything?” she asks softly.
“Yes. Some silence.” I move past her and head for the stairs that will take me back to my apartment, but like a magnet, she’s right behind me.
“Are you not painting down here today?”
“No.”
“But—”
I turn, making her step back quickly. “What’s the matter. You want me to sit and keep you company, talking about fairy tales or whatever it is you little girls talk about?”
“Fairy tales are nothing but bullshit and lies.” Her response is curt. “And I’m no little girl.”
She sure isn’t.
“Whatever. I’m working upstairs. Now if you don’t mind.”
“We need to sit down and discuss things. I can’t help you if you don’t give me some time to get started, Dexter.”
Dexter.
Only Emmet calls me that when I’ve pissed him off, but my name on her lips… My God.
“I don’t want your help.”
“That’s not what Emmet says.”
“So then talk to him about it. I’m not interested.”
I walk away from her, and the woman fucking follows me up the stairs, turning my irritation to anger with each step she takes behind me. This is my space.
“Also, I notice I’ve no contact number for you.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
“So how do people contact you?”
“They don’t.”
I open my door and quickly enter, not giving her the chance to look inside as I block her view. She’s on the top step, inches away from the carnage that is my life, and I hate every second that she stands there. She’s not looking over my shoulder to see what’s inside. She doesn’t want to know about my surroundings. She doesn’t appear to be interested in anything behind me. She’s focused on me—me—and I can’t work out why.
“Well, don’t you think it’s about time you got one? It’s the twenty-first century.”
“Thanks for the tip. Goodbye.”
I go to close the door and notice the anger wash over her face.
“Don’t you dare close this door on me, Dexter. I need you to give me five minutes. I need to know what you want me to do. I’m your PA.”
“Then use your initiative.” I close the door in her face, but she still carries on, her voice raised as she bangs on the wood.
“Open this door and stop being a child. Are you always this rude! Dexter. Dexter!”
“Fuck sake,” I sigh, needing it to stop. The longer she’s here, the more this pull towards her troubles me.
Moving over to the other side of the room, I twist open the lid of my JD and take a drink, letting the burn wake up my insides with its harshness as Pepper carries on banging. I flick the switch of my stereo on and turn up the volume so that Linkin Park drowns out her voice and fills this empty space.
Jesus this is going to be hard.
I watch the paint glide across the paper from the tip of the brush and relive every moment of the day that’s currently at the forefront of my mind: Tessa’s birthday.
She’d turned six and her little face had lit up when I’d given her a tiny bunch of daisies that I picked from the garden. It’s all she’d been given that day: no presents, no birthday greeting from our mother, no cards... Nothing. Just six little white and yellow flowers. Her smile had been a mile wide, though, her eyes glassed with love, and the way her little arms had linked around my neck from her hug had been everything.
I’d let her have the last slice of bread and made her some toast—no butter and no jam: there had only been milk and cheese in the fridge, the cupboards bare as they most times were, and any food that was left, I’d made sure Tessa ate first. She’d been my priority and we’d clearly not been our mother’s. Hers had come in the form of substances and men.
We’d had nothing, but I’d made damn sure that my sister had a smile on her face at all times. It was hard, and I’d hidden my feelings until she’d fall asleep next to me; only then had I let my tears fall into the stained pillow we both shared, trying to think of a way out while my mother would be downstairs entertaining whoever had walked through the door that evening.
Most times they’d been men providing her with sex and money; other times it had been men after her money. I don't remember much because I’d always been trying to safeguard Tessa and I, but the name Clyro had been mentioned far too often.
I’d never seen him, never knew him, but hadn’t been too young to know that the men that came to our home were working for him.
The times our mother had remembered she had kids were the best, but they’d been few and far between, and those times faded faster as the years went on and she’d been able to see I was capable of taking care of myself and Tessa.
All I’d wanted was for her to look after me, but it had never happened.
I take a long gulp of JD and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand as Tessa’s infant ones stare back at me from the canvass befor
e me. It is one of many that fill the secret room, each and every portrait mounted on the walls and the easels only of my sister. They are paintings of memories. Memories of her smile—like our mother’s—of her cute, heart-shaped little birthmark above her armpit, the purest of skin and the blondest of hair…
And then there’s the ones I paint once a year—one painting for each of the years she’s been gone, each one depicting how I’ve thought she might look on each of the birthdays I’ve missed.
I’ve envisioned her growing, year by year, into a beautiful woman, and each painting forms my very own photo album of her.
So I continue to paint, filling my days with her and hoping that she looks like I’ve imagined; wondering where she could be; praying that she is still out there; and hating myself for not doing the job I’d always promised I would.
Protecting her.
I’d failed, and deep blood-curdling regret rips me apart every day I open my damn eyes.
I’d looked for her from the very moment I’d woken up, slumped in a heap on the riverbank. I’d searched high and low, walked miles and screamed her name amongst the walking city of London. No one had stopped to ask me what was wrong; no one had stopped to see if I was okay as the tears had travelled down my dirty skin.
Not one person.
The worst part of it all had been when I’d gone back home, hoping she’d be there and expecting our mother to be frantic with worry since we’d left weeks earlier. Only Tessa wasn’t there, and my mother was almost as I’d left her.
I’d tried not to puke from the stench that filled the room. The response I’d got from her when I’d tried to rouse her had been nothing more than a grunt before she’d pushed me away like every other time before.
A needle had been thrust into her arm, her eyes rolled back and her body limp. She’d been high. And she’d had no idea who was standing in front of her.