Evie flexed her feet, stretching her legs out to ease the cramp as the door to Killian’s workshop opened. Evie didn’t say anything, just looked at the floor, pulling down the sleeves of her oversized man’s jumper, curling her arms around her legs to hide the fact that she was wearing Ninja Turtle pyjama bottoms. I know I’m a coward, I know I need to say sorry. I can’t. I can’t. She looked up, briefly, regretting it instantly, feeling her stomach dip.
He looked at her from the darkness, the barest light coming from his workspace. It was the same uniform as always – jeans covered in something, seemingly gloss or varnish, and a worn t-shirt. His dark hair was standing up on end, like he’d been running his hands through it. He was surprised to see her there, but she supposed it was her posture, the way she was curled in on herself defensively, that stopped him saying anything. He cleared his throat, nodded at her, and walked through to the kitchen. So things were polite, but cold. That was okay. Anything but the hateful barrage of spiteful comments and angry looks. Anything but seeing right through her and telling her so.
Evie heard the click of the kettle and the rattle of cutlery drawers and china mugs. She closed her eyes, listening to the clearer sounds of the music through the door, smiling to herself as she mouthed the words, shocked by how well she still knew them. She felt the words rather than recalled them, simply expelling from her before she realised. Jeff Buckley – being sixteen and sad and happy and confused. Every time she heard it, that was how she felt again.
There was a sudden dull thud beside her and Evie jumped, eyes opening. She looked down to see a mug of strong tea on the table next to her, and watched as Killian marched through his door, leaving it open just a crack, so the music drifted through.
***
‘Urgh, why Nick? Why couldn’t it be someone else?’ Evie rolled her eyes at Ruby, who looked suitably chastened. ‘You know how Chelsea feels about him!’
‘Yeah, and he’s a prick who jumped at the first chance of a kiss round the back of the wheelie bins. He’s a waste!’
‘And she should get to make that choice!’ Evie was exasperated, just imagining what was going to happen when Chelsea found out. ‘You know, you’re going to get a reputation if you keep doing this shit. I know you think you’re protecting your friends but it’s controlling.’
‘Someone worthy of Chelsea would have said “no”.’ Ruby stood up, her red hair quivering as she clenched her fists. ‘When I asked if they were together he said “not really. Nuffin serious”. I mean, come on! And I didn’t actually kiss him!’
Evie felt like her eyes were going to fall out of her head, ‘yes I KNOW. I KNOW he’s a bad guy, and she deserves better and blah blah blah. But how many times have you done this now? Me and Colin, and Luke, and that boy who delivers the paper that I hadn’t even talked to yet. And then with Mollie,’ she ticked them off her fingers, ‘David, and Brian, and then you tried it with Jamie–’
‘Jamie passed though! Jamie proved himself!’
‘It’s not up to you if people prove themselves! It was up to Mollie!’ Evie could feel herself shaking, ‘And you’ve done it to us, but you haven’t tried it on Chelsea. You know what she’s like.’
Ruby slumped again, like a puppy who’d been told off, ‘It’s because I love you guys and you deserve decent people. Not stupid boys who are going to treat you like shit.’
‘Well… that’s nice. But it’s kind of expecting a lot. Not everyone’s a Jamie,’ Evie shrugged. ‘People are always going to screw each other over. We know these boys are idiots. And about ninety percent of the girls in this school are gonna stay here and marry them and never know anything else.’
‘But you’re better than that.’ Ruby was grumbling now, arms folded as she swung her feet, sitting back on the table.
‘And we’re gonna have better than that. We’re gonna go to London and be screwed over by the men there. But for now,’ she paused waiting for Ruby to make eye contact, ‘for now… Chelsea needs you to be the friend with a shoulder to cry on when those boys are dickheads. Not the friend on a vendetta to prove that no one’s good enough for her.’
Ruby pursed her lips, ‘I didn’t even kiss him. It was a test.’
‘I know. Just… do this for her, will you?’ Evie sighed.
‘Fine,’ Ruby huffed, ‘but when we get to London, I’m putting a system in place so you guys stop dating idiots. There might even be a lie detector in the hallway so they can’t get in the house.’
Evie rolled her eyes and shrugged, satisfied that disaster had been averted, at least for now.
‘May as well do blood and STD tests whilst you’re at it,’ she shrugged, and nudged Ruby’s shoulder.
Chapter Eight
Chelsea called that morning, managing to be simultaneously mysterious and bossy, insisting she would be visiting the space at two p.m. with some important guests, and to make sure everything was looking perfect. And that they’d decided on a name.
‘It can’t look perfect yet, we haven’t done anything yet!’ Evie argued, feeling herself get spiky. Partly because Chelsea could just rock up when she felt like it, and partly because she felt like nothing had been done. She’d been too busy losing her goddaughter, alienating her friend and feeling spiky every time a grumpy carpenter looked at her.
‘It’s you Eves – throws some glitter at it and call it art.’ Chelsea hung up, and Evie wasn’t sure whether that was a compliment or not. She doubted it somehow, but there was no time to worry about it, there were more than enough other things to worry about. If worst came to worst, Evie decided she’d just offer them brandy in vintage teacups and call the whole space ‘an authentic experience’. It had worked for some shitholes in East London. Besides, whoever Chelsea was bringing had already agreed to come with her to see the space, so they were clearly already goners in whatever Chelsea wanted from them.
Chelsea strode in at two p.m. on the dot, her blonde bob in place and wearing a pair of harsh, dark rimmed glasses that made her look halfway between a terrifying CEO of a company and a dominatrix. Either way, a woman of power.
‘Evie!’ Chelsea exclaimed, kissing her on both cheeks in a way that made Evie bristle a little, until she whispered ‘Follow my lead on this.’ Like anyone had any other choice when Chelsea was in charge.
‘This is Evie Rodriguez,’ she said to the man and woman standing behind her, ‘she’s the creative director of The Ruby Rooms, renting the space from Evelyn Glass.’
The woman nodded, her greyish blonde hair falling over her shoulder in long waves down to her waist. She was ethereal, all pastel colours and huge grey eyes that seemed to scan you. She could have been anywhere from forty-five to sixty-five, it was impossible to tell.
The man was in his fifties, a clear ‘beer and pie’ paunch causing his checked t-shirt to stretch. He wore a black fedora and reached out to shake her hand, winking as he introduced himself with an East End twang.
‘Jack Ryson, photographer. This is Petunia Black, she’s a ceramicist. Great to meet you.’
Chelsea nodded, and turned back to Evie, ‘I’m doing some of the promo work for a community art project that Petunia and Jack are involved in, and when I mentioned I knew someone with studio space in the building Evelyn Glass owned, well, they were eager to see it.’
‘The history of the building itself is a big pull,’ Petunia said softly, and Evie narrowed her eyes, not wanting to seem ignorant of her new home, but also unsure if this was one of Chelsea’s hard sells. Like the time she convinced local businesses to donate to their school fair, implying it was helping impoverished children to buy pencils. When actually, it was helping teenagers afford enough booze and snacks at their sixth form prom. She’d justified that they were both necessary moments in the ‘journey through secondary education’. Basically, she could convince anyone of her bullshit, even herself.
‘We were just starting our careers when all that happened.’ Jack said, looking at her intensely, ‘It was a great story. The Mayweather studio g
ifted to Evelyn Glass? It was in all the papers at the time.’
‘She was a beautiful, glamourous model, and he was the photographer who gave her her big break. Nothing more, they’re friends and he’s married, but there were always whispers,’ Jack grinned at her, and seeing no response, continued. ‘Then years later, he dies and who does he leave his million-pound studio to? His “friend” Evelyn of course.’
Jack’s fuzzy eyebrows wiggled, but Petunia shook her head.
‘There was a lot of drama,’ she said, her voice wispy and soft. ‘His wife tried to drag it through the courts, Evelyn tried to give it back, but the paperwork was ironclad. Eventually it all blew over, but I always thought it was such a shame. Devin Mayweather was a wonderful photographer, and they used to have these big parties here – big showy arty events. Glass, as well, she was a brilliant artist in her own right. But it all got lost in the drama.’
Evie decided immediately that she liked Petunia, although she still had no idea why they were there.
‘I’ve assured Jack and Petunia that this is not the sort of place where we’d trade on rumours and silly stories anyway. We’re all about the art,’ Chelsea said proudly.
‘Of course not, it would be ridiculous, considering how this whole project came about,’ Evie said seamlessly, and Chelsea beamed, so she knew she’d said the right thing.
‘How what came about?’ Jack asked, and she knew he was desperate for a good story.
‘Using the studio, opening it as a gallery space. Our friend Ruby, she left it to us. And we certainly know the importance of protecting a legacy.’
Evie smiled openly, and watched as both of them warmed a little. Chelsea had picked artists who wanted to benefit from the location and the history of the space.
‘So you’ll be doing exhibitions, then?’ Jack asked, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
‘Yes, and obviously anyone renting the space would be invited to be involved in the exhibitions,’ Chelsea smiled widely, ‘that goes without saying, really.’
The two artists looked at each other significantly, and Chelsea continued, ‘Why don’t you have a look around, there’s a lovely conservatory through the kitchen. Then we’ll have a look at the studio spaces.’
The odd pair nodded, and shuffled off, whispering intently, eyes wide as they tried to take in everything around them.
Evie smiled serenely until they entered the kitchen, then clutched Chelsea’s arm, yanking hard. ‘Chelsea, what the fuck?!’ she hissed, ‘We don’t have studio space! And how do you know about the conservatory? And the history of this place?’
Chelsea prised her fingers off her arm, and frowned, ‘Yes you do have studio space. The building briefly went on the market about ten years ago. It’s listed as having two studio rooms with a rather sordid history. Plus, I confirmed it on the blueprints.’
‘How the bloody hell did you get hold of the blueprints?’
Chelsea gave her a look like she knew better than to bother to ask, and to be fair, she did.
‘So where are these mystical studio spaces then?’
‘Mayweather liked hidden rooms, gave an air of mystery,’ Chelsea shrugged, ‘he loved magic and theatricality. Used to appear suddenly at exhibitions and parties through secret doors. So I’m guessing that’s a clue.’
‘You didn’t think to maybe give us a heads-up before you bullshitted these people? What if we can’t find them?’ Evie tried to stop herself from screeching, but Chelsea’s way of doing things always seemed to make her anxiety come to a head.
Chelsea shrugged, ‘We will.’ She walked across to the wall that backed onto the staircase up to their flat and simply frowned at the old bookcase, filled with moulding copies of Dickens, the gold leaf faded long before.
‘I tried moving the bookcase, it’s bolted to the wall,’ Evie crossed her arms, thinking of the wardrobe upstairs. When they’d discovered that they pushed on a lot of other bits of furniture to see if something else exciting was hidden – nothing.
‘You’re not meant to move it,’ Chelsea said, a grin appearing on her face, as she went to pull out a book, The Magic Circle: Dreams, Decay and Debauchery. She pulled back on the book, and the bookcase slid – albeit creakily and stiffly – to the side, revealing a doorway.
‘How the fuck did you know to pick that book?’ Evie squeaked, walking over and peering through into the room.
‘It was the name of a series of photographs Mayweather did! His most famous ones. A lot of them featured your landlady as a magician’s assistant, being sawn in half. They’re actually really good.’ Chelsea nudged her, ‘You really need to do your research.’
‘How was I meant to know it was a historical space? I just thought it was some old building!’
‘There’s no such thing as “some old building” in London. Plus, Ruby chose it, you knew it wasn’t just going to be anywhere. You’re living in history. And we’re going to make some more, pretty shortly. Come on.’
They stepped delicately into the blue-tinged rooms, empty except for a few massive tables. There were two rooms, interconnected, both huge with massive windows that almost reached floor to ceiling. A little damp in the window frames, perhaps, and in need of a bit of a clean, but pretty spectacular spaces, nonetheless. Through the second room, a small cupboard revealed a set-up for what was clearly once a working darkroom. The lights were a little too dim, but nothing a quick spruce-up couldn’t fix.
‘See, if we’d had some more time, we could have made it prettier, had people see it when it was looking at its best,’ Evie said pointedly, but Chelsea smirked.
‘They’re Mayweather buffs, Eves, they’re going to freak out. This is exactly why I sprung it on you. He was the last person to use this place! It looks… authentic.’ She looked at her friend knowingly and grinned. ‘This is going to be fabulous.’
And it was. Chelsea lead the two artists through, their jaws dropping as they ‘revealed’ the secret room through the bookcase, Jack clapping his hands together when he saw the darkroom.
‘How much?’ he said simply, adjusting his fedora.
‘I’m sure we can come to an arrangement,’ Chelsea said smoothly, leading them back to the conservatory, where Evie already had tea, coffee, wine and whisky waiting, along with some of Mollie’s banana bread, warmed in the oven.
As Evie shook her new tenants’ hands, and Chelsea said she’d get a contract out to them in the next few days, she realised this was why they needed to do this together. They were a team, each offering something different, something special. They waved goodbye, standing by the front door, grinning in unison. Chelsea nudged her with her hip.
‘That’s almost two grand a month coming in to supplement your stuff,’ Chelsea grinned, walking back into the space, allowing herself time to properly look around.
‘That’s awesome, but we didn’t really need it.’
Chelsea raised an eyebrow, ‘Oh really? This takes the burden off your shoulders a bit, especially before this opening exhibition. Plus, I thought you said collaboration was an important part of creating?’
‘When did I say that?’
‘Just before going off to art school and becoming a hipster cliché,’ Chelsea stuck out her tongue, suddenly the same girl with the huge hoop earrings and alarming eyeliner from years before.
‘Sounds like something I’d say.’
‘Stuck-up and obtuse?’
‘True,’ she replied, looking at the space as well. They stood in silence for a moment, taking in the silence. ‘Plus, they seem pretty prominent as artists, if they can afford that much a month.’
‘Oh boy, yes. They are the big time, having them in an exhibition will really boost the promo value of the events here. I’ll get my assistant to write up a press release if you want, when you’ve decided to do an opening?’
‘We’ve already decided – just under six weeks from now. Sounds about right, doesn’t it?’
Chelsea nodded, ‘I think we can snowball the publicity pr
etty well in that time. Besides, with all the contacts and artists, and the story about the building, I don’t really think we can fail.’
Evie looked at her sideways, a smile pulling up at the corners of her mouth, ‘We?’
Chelsea took off her glasses, and ruffled her hair a bit, ‘Look, still me, remember?’
‘I think I can see a hint of you underneath all that polish.’
‘Evie, you used to be a goth.’
‘Punk.’ Evie corrected.
‘Whatever. The point is, people change their hairstyle, their lives…’
‘…their surnames…’
Chelsea sighed deeply, ‘Frank went back to prison. Breaking and entering, petty theft, something. I didn’t pay too much attention. But some of these companies do intensive background checks when they hire you, and I didn’t particularly want them to know I was the daughter of a thief.’
Evie nodded, ‘That’s actually really smart.’
‘I did it my first year at Oxford. New start, emerging with a degree, a new name and a chance at a new life.’ She paused, picking at her French manicured nails, ‘But that doesn’t mean I should have ignored you. Or Ruby.’
Goodbye Ruby Tuesday Page 11