Take A Look At Me Now

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘Have you thought about what you’ll do when you get home?’ he asked. ‘I mean, how does one go about starting a thing like that?’

  It was a question I had been considering increasingly during the past couple of weeks, aware of the time passing. ‘I’m starting to make a list of the things I need to research. Business courses, funding, advice – there’s a lot to consider.’

  ‘And that doesn’t scare you?’

  ‘It terrifies me! But I know it’s what I want to do. I will look for another job as well. I don’t want to be dependent on my parents for too long and it would be good to get some money behind me. But I feel like my goal is set now.’

  He gave me a soft kiss. ‘I believe you’ll do it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes really. You’re a go-getter, Nell. You’re the kind of person who makes things happen. And I like that about you.’

  I smiled. Hearing this description of the way Max saw me made me wonder what he would have thought if we’d met before I lost my job. I liked that he knew me now – and could see the changes I knew were happening.

  ‘And how about you? What’s your dream?’ I asked him.

  ‘Sorry – I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘If you could be doing anything what would it be?’

  His smile was steady. ‘I would be with you,’ he said, pulling me closer until his lips were on my neck. ‘Only with less people around. Preferably for a long time …’

  I giggled and pushed him back. ‘It’s a serious question. Would you like to have your own studio some day? An exhibition in New York or London?’

  He laughed and shook his head. ‘I don’t think about things like that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because – I don’t believe in planning. Everything good in my life has happened because I was open to anything. There’s no point me setting goals. I like the spontaneity.’

  I stared at him over the rim of my teacup as I considered this. ‘But you’re the one telling me to go for my dream.’

  ‘That’s because it hasn’t happened for you yet. But you’re open to it. Which means the universe will know you’re positioned for good things.’

  ‘The universe?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Life, destiny, fate – whatever. I wanted to be an artist, and now I’m an artist. Anything else that happens from this point on is a bonus.’

  I knew he could see my confusion. It didn’t make sense to me: how could someone as talented as Max not want to achieve all he could? ‘OK.’

  ‘Nell, just trust me on this. We’re in different places. But that’s good.’ He stroked my hair as he kissed me. ‘Now, about that great idea of mine to lose this crowd …’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Tall tales and revelations

  ‘Tell us the story, Nell!’

  One thing I quickly learned about Eva was her tenacity. When she wanted something, nothing was going to dissuade her from it. She wasn’t a demanding child, but the cheekiness of her expression made me give in to more or less any request she made. Especially when it came to stories.

  Over the weeks I’d been volunteering at S-O-S Club, Eva, Maya and JJ had delighted in the stories I told them about England. Maya always begged me to describe the jewels in Queen Elizabeth’s crown in the Tower of London. JJ wanted to know about castles and was convinced that we had dragons living beneath them. And Eva believed most English people lived in palaces and were cared for by butlers and nannies. Their vision of my country amused me – frozen in a Hollywood-style time somewhere between the Middle Ages and the Victorian era. Maya didn’t believe me when I told her we had roads and cars and malls just like her home city. Eva loved to hear about kings and queens, not minding that most of the stories I told her were completely made up to match her vision of England.

  The story she loved the most – and the one to which she was referring today – was the story of the lady on the steps of St Paul’s Cathedral who fed the pigeons. Of course, this was a verbal retelling of her favourite scene from Mary Poppins, but it didn’t matter. Eva liked hearing it and I liked telling it.

  She curled up on a cushion in the Story Zone as I told her and the other children about the woman – who I’d named Ethel – who loved the pigeons and was worried that they wouldn’t have enough to eat. I described her poor little house and the sacks of bird food that she kept in her coal cellar, and how she rose early each morning to fill small paper bags with the seed to sell at St Paul’s so that the people of London could feed her beloved birds.

  ‘You’re such a storyteller,’ Lizzie grinned as Miguel and Poppy gathered the children in the centre of the hall to play the Rollercoaster Game – which consisted of the kids running themselves ragged in a long line, pretending to climb the hills and race around the curves of a rollercoaster track. ‘Although you realise they’ll all be thoroughly disappointed if they ever visit London when they grow up.’ She laughed as Eva’s excited voice drifted over the other children’s, singing ‘Feed the Birds’ as loud as her lungs would allow. ‘It’s sweet that Eva loves that film so much. I couldn’t stand it when I was a kid.’

  I couldn’t contain my shock at this revelation. ‘Lizzie, I never knew that! I thought everybody loved Mary Poppins.’

  Lizzie was unrepentant in her near-blasphemous stance. ‘Not me. Julie Andrews irritated me. And I was scared of the chimney sweeps.’

  ‘Wow. I thought I knew everything about your life, Lizzie Sullivan. But now it turns out you’re an enigma!’

  ‘Hardly,’ she laughed. ‘Actually Nell, I’ve been meaning to ask, how would you feel about putting some recipes together for S-O-S Bake Zone that I can use when you go home? I know you still have a couple of weeks here but I thought I’d ask now to give you time to put something together. The Bake Zone has been such a success since you’ve taken it on. What do you think?’

  The mention of the end of my time at S-O-S Club gave me a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I loved the idea of my recipes remaining long after I’d gone. ‘I’d love to.’

  Next day I rose early, making a strong pot of Saturday morning coffee and settling myself at Lizzie’s Mac to begin researching recipes for the club. As I found ideas I made notes, and it occurred to me that I could do this when I got home to begin researching menu items for my diner. I had collected over twenty possible recipes when the door intercom buzzed, making me jump. Rushing through to the kitchen to answer it before it disturbed Lizzie, I was surprised to hear Rosita’s panicked voice.

  ‘Chica, I need to see you.’

  ‘Rosita, what is it?’

  ‘The sidewalk artist guy – he’s down there now!’

  ‘Down where?’

  ‘By the Stanyan Street entrance to Golden Gate Park. My cousin Seve saw him. If you hurry you may catch him!’

  I got dressed at high speed, grabbed my front door key and ran down Haight Street as fast as I could. Reaching the end of the street the road crossing turned to red just as I got there, but between the speeding cars and trucks I could just make out a figure hunched over the pavement, working colour into the concrete with wide, flamboyant strokes. He was wearing layers of clothes and an old orange puffer jacket, parts of the stuffing exposed where the fabric had ripped around the sleeves.

  It seemed to take forever for the lights to change and I kept my eyes on him, praying I could get there before he left. Finally the red hand disappeared, replaced by the walk sign and I sprinted across the road just in time to see the man stand, pick up his chalks and begin to walk away.

  ‘Wait!’ I shouted.

  He half-turned and I could see his woollen beanie hat pulled low over the sunglasses shading his eyes and a Paisley print scarf tied around his face to mask his features. His steps quickened and I had to sprint to catch up.

  ‘Please, stop for a minute?’

  ‘I can’t.’ His deep voice was muffled by the scarf around his mouth.

  As I neared him I reached out, my fingers brushi
ng the shiny orange fabric of his jacket sleeve.

  ‘I don’t want to know who you are,’ I gulped between gasps for air. ‘I just want to say thank you.’

  He stopped and slowly faced me, his breathing pronounced beneath the layers of clothes. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yes. I’m here on holiday and your paintings introduced me to this city when I first arrived. I would never have visited as much of it as I have if it weren’t for them. So – um – thanks …’

  He said nothing, but didn’t turn to leave either. In all the time I’d spent searching for the artist, I hadn’t considered what I would actually say to him if I happened to find him. Now I had, my self-conscious Britishness took over and all other words deserted me. With nothing else to say, I smiled dumbly, feeling a complete idiot. Just as I was concocting a plausible exit strategy, he grabbed my hand with chalk-stained fingers.

  Now this was unexpected. Considering I knew nothing about this person save for the artwork he decorated San Franciscan streets with, the new development set my nerves on edge. What if he was a crazed mass-murderer who liked to paint sidewalks in his spare time? What if he was in the habit of mugging unsuspecting admirers when they eventually tracked him down? What if …?

  As the progressively more hysterical eventualities raced around my brain, the street artist holding my hand looked cautiously around and began to pull me towards the gates at the entrance of Golden Gate Park. Now I was really panicking, clamping my hand over his in an attempt to prise his fingers away.

  ‘Let go of me!’

  ‘Calm down,’ he urged, but I wasn’t listening. What was I thinking, stalking someone I didn’t know? What did I really expect to happen? There was obviously a reason he wished to remain anonymous – how was I to know what that was?

  ‘I’ll give you money – if that’s what you want? But please don’t hurt me.’ I was still cursing my naivety when he spoke again, stopping me in my tracks.

  ‘Please calm down, Nell.’

  Eh?

  He was still pulling my arm but this time I let him lead me away from the road, the mention of my name knocking me off-guard. When we rounded the gate, he took a step towards me and removed his sunglasses and scarf.

  My chin virtually hit the floor. ‘Max?’

  ‘You have to promise to keep my secret,’ he said, anxiety in his eyes. ‘Swear it, Nell!’

  Max Rossi was San Francisco’s answer to Banksy? I could hardly take it in. Why hadn’t he said anything before? Especially after all the personal things we had talked about – and all of ourselves I thought we’d openly shared. But this new development intrigued rather than annoyed me. His paintings were beautiful: and knowing a little of the beautiful character Max Rossi clearly was, it now all made sense. ‘You did all those amazing paintings?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you said you were a sculptor.’

  ‘I did and I am. But I’m an artist first and foremost and this – it’s just something I do.’

  ‘They’re wonderful. You should tell everyone.’

  ‘I’m serious. You have to promise to keep this secret.’

  ‘Of course I won’t say anything. But I don’t understand why you want to remain anonymous. Your work is … inspirational.’

  ‘I like people not knowing who I am. It makes the work speak for itself. If they knew it was me they’d compare my street art to the regular work I do and devalue it. Nobody knows, Nell. Not my family, not my friends.’

  ‘So why tell me?’

  He flushed the merest hint of pink. ‘Because it’s you. And because you sought me out.’ He stroked my cheek. ‘I kinda like that you did that.’

  ‘A man in demand, eh?’

  ‘Sure. Who doesn’t want to be tracked down by a beautiful British woman?’

  I folded my arms, pretending I wasn’t loving the situation I’d unwittingly uncovered. ‘Except of course, that I didn’t know it was you.’

  ‘Hey, it’s the thought that counts.’

  ‘I only loved the street artist for his work, you know.’

  ‘Loved? Interesting choice of words …’

  Now it was my turn to blush. ‘I was talking about the work.’

  ‘I know.’

  We shared equally self-satisfied smiles.

  ‘So now you’ve unmasked me, how about coffee?’

  ‘Coffee to buy my silence?’

  He laughed. ‘No. Coffee to buy me some time with you.’

  I took his hand when he offered it, my heart pulsing in time with the traffic thundering along Stanyan Street beside us. ‘Well in that case, how can I refuse?’

  The more time I spent with Max, the more I began to realise how hard it was going to be to leave him when it was time to go home. I hadn’t anticipated meeting anyone when I arrived in San Francisco and when I agreed to date Max I never thought it would be anything other than a holiday fling. But gazing into his lovely grey eyes as we sat in a Java’s Crypt booth I knew this had the potential to be so much more. Truth was, he fascinated me: his unconventional logic, the way he saw the world, his relentless positivity. His personality was as colourful as the painted buildings gracing The Haight’s streets, his regard for me as warm as the Californian sun. When I was with Max, it was as if the world opened up a little and the tiniest possibilities stretched into being, just out of reach. Whenever I told him about my dream of running my own diner, Max was the one encouraging me to dream wilder, to hope for more. When he spoke about the way he saw the world, I wanted to wander in it. This was so much more than a holiday romance. This had the potential to be life-changing … but how could I tell him that without scaring him away?

  Lizzie picked up on my quandary immediately, thank goodness. We were enjoying spicy dim sum in Chinatown when she pushed away her bowl and fixed me with a stare.

  ‘Right, Sullivan. What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  This was never going to dissuade my cousin, whose perception was so sharp it required a health and safety directive. ‘Rubbish. You’ve been wearing that strange half-frown of yours all week. Tyler even noticed it last night when he came over for dinner and that kind of thing normally passes him by. Spill.’

  ‘I think I might be falling for Max.’

  Entirely nonplussed, Lizzie shrugged. ‘No newsflash there. So?’

  ‘No, I mean really falling for him, Liz.’

  ‘Again, why is that a problem, exactly?’

  ‘It’s absolutely a problem! I didn’t come here to get involved in another complicated relationship scenario. I’ve had more than my fair share of that with Aidan. I came to San Francisco to get away from all of that. I came to …’

  Lizzie groaned. ‘You came here because you wanted to have some fun. Much-deserved fun, in my opinion. And have you or have you not been having fun with Max?’

  ‘Of course I’ve been having fun, but …’

  ‘But nothing, Nell! You are spending time with an incredibly good-looking bloke who is clearly besotted with you. Don’t throw that away just because you’re scared.’

  I stared into my steaming bowl of shrimp dumplings, sticky rice and spicy baozi bun. ‘I’m not scared. I’m just …’

  ‘You feel out of control because you didn’t pencil this into your list of things to do in San Francisco. Just relax. Leave the agonising for next week when you guys have to work out the next step.’

  ‘What if there is no next step for us?’

  My cousin smiled that quietly confident smile of hers and infuriatingly I felt better. How dare she successfully placate me at a time like this?

  ‘Deal with that when you get there. At least then you won’t have wasted the rest of your time here worrying.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Three little words

  During the next two weeks I spent more time with Max, trying to take Lizzie’s advice and enjoy every moment without worrying what came next. We visited his favourite places in San Francisco – small art galleries, hidden restaurants, kitsch t
ourist attractions and streets where he had been inspired. Snuggled up on the futon at Lizzie’s we spoke long into the night about his passion for art and the many anonymous chalk artworks he had left around the city. I loved to hear him talk about his work. His eyes came alive and his words tumbled over themselves in his eagerness to explain why art was the lifeblood of who he was.

  My feelings for Max were deepening with every day we spent together. And other people were noticing it, too.

  ‘Max Rossi tells me you two have been spending a lot of time together,’ Mrs Alfaro said, beaming brightly as we ate lox and cream cheese blinis around their dining table.

  Lizzie hid her smile as I did my best to appear nonchalant. ‘We have. He’s lovely and I like him very much.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about the “like”. I think it’s obvious you love the boy.’

  Taken aback, I fought to reply. ‘Well, I—’

  Mrs Alfaro reached across and patted my hand. ‘Now, don’t you get embarrassed. Being in love is a beautiful thing.’

  ‘Like you say that to me every day,’ Mr Alfaro muttered into his forkful of stuffed blini.

  His wife’s head snapped round. ‘I’m not talking about you. Was I talking about you? Since when was this conversation about you?’ She looked back at me. ‘Love is a beautiful thing, Nell. Look at your cousin and that handsome school principal of hers – both so young and caught up in love for each other …’

  Now it was Lizzie’s turn to blush.

  Unaware of this, Mrs Alfaro carried on. ‘… And when you fall in love, you know. It might take you months to say it,’ she shot an accusatory look at her husband, ‘but when you do, it’s beautiful.’

  ‘I don’t have months to say anything,’ I replied, instantly regretting it when I saw the Alfaros’ eyes lighting up. They could clearly see how I was feeling – but it couldn’t be love yet, could it? ‘I’m only here for just over another week.’

  Mrs Alfaro winked at me. ‘That’s more than enough time to fall in love.’

  Mr Alfaro shook his head. ‘What my wife is referring to is that it took me almost a year to pluck up courage to say those three little words. She knew, of course, but she never let on.’