by Sarah Lawton
I follow her down the paved path and into the house, where it is much cooler and breathing is distinctly easier. After I’ve had a quick shower and got changed into my skinny-jean shorts and a vest top I run downstairs and sit at the scruffy old kitchen table and watch Mum getting out bowls and chopping boards. I hurry her up mentally because if I say it out loud, she will be annoying and even slower on purpose.
‘I thought a salad might be nice tonight.’ She leans into the fridge. ‘I can use this chicken up.’
I briefly think of Tristan fondling chickens and bite my lip. I hope it’s not one of his. I don’t think I’d like to eat a chicken that he had been fingering. She gets some jars out of the cupboard and whisks up a dressing with oil and mustard and vinegar, which has a sharp smell that I can feel in my nose.
‘Sounds good. It’s too hot for cooking.’
I eat quickly and I deliberately have an extra piece of bread because I want to line my stomach. Tilly spent all last Friday night with her head down the toilet after drinking on an empty stomach and I don’t want that to be me. I can’t not be in control of myself, but I don’t want to be the weird non-drinker when everyone else does it.
‘Abigail called me,’ Mum says. ‘I want you and Molly back here for twelve, please, and make sure you lock up properly. You aren’t having a party, are you?’
‘No, of course not,’ I lie. ‘Molly’s garden is just the best because it’s got all the furniture and stuff.’
‘Mm. Well, best you don’t – I doubt Abi and Gavin would be very pleased to get back to a trashed house.’
‘As if we would.’
‘Are there any boys going?’
‘Mum!’
‘Vivian, I mean it. You know we have to talk about these things, don’t you? You know we agreed, when we moved here? You have to tell me what’s going on with you.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ I sigh. ‘And no, no stupid boys. Just us.’ She’s so easy to lie to. Six years she’s been banging on about this; you’d think she’d have got bored of it but, alas, no. ‘Right, better be off – see you in the morning, don’t wait up!’ I tell her this, even though I know that she will. I steel myself to drop her a quick kiss on the cheek and then I’m out of the door and running across the field, free.
Rachel
Vivian bolted down her dinner and I wondered where she put it all. She looked like a little bird fluttering around, but her appetite was healthy enough. As soon as she finished she ran out of the door to Molly’s; I remembered doing the exact same thing when I was her age. I only hoped she wasn’t making the same mistakes that I had, or worse, of her own. When she left I made a mug of tea and went out into the garden to finish some work.
Although I fell in love with the cottage the moment I saw it, I knew it would never do for drawing. The low ceilings were cosy, and suited mine and Vi’s hobbit stature, but there was not enough light. I can’t work with any sort of light but natural, so I had a small studio built at the end of the garden which was glass on two sides and had two sky lights – nothing but light everywhere to suit my snobby eye. It was my happy place, to use a trite phrase. My only one.
The author of the book I was working on wanted ten images, one every other chapter, at my discretion. The only problem with illustrating for books was that I had to read a cumbersome proof print of the damned things first to get a true sense of character. Sometimes – most times, actually – I did like the books that I read. Young adult fiction is generally pretty easy going, if a bit predictable. It’s either a dystopia where some people have magical powers, or it’s sexy vampires or, currently, they all seem to be mad keen on faery worlds that sit alongside ours in parallel dimensions of magic and mayhem. I’m not sure why they all insist on writing it ‘faery’, but there you are. Some of those ones were quite dark and delicious, and it’s a guilty pleasure to stay up and read all night, tucked up on the sofa.
I picked up the latest, which was tentatively titled Prince of Dark Wings, and flicked through to the end. I had rough-sketched eight of the ten plates already, so only had two to go.
His cold lips crush down upon hers, cruel fingers grip her waist, pulling her against his hard, angular body. Arabella can feel how much he wants her, this Dark Prince, this would-be king. She pushes him away, though it tears something vital inside her to do so.
‘I am not for you,’ she whispers, the words choking her.
I managed to not grimace at the purple prose as I pulled my sketchbook toward me. The usual thrill rose in me as I began to draw, pen scratching across the paper in a pleasing skitter as I quickly traced out the figures, standing waist pressed to waist, her pushing back from him, thick hair twined with small flowers and bells and braids flying wildly, looking up into his face with over-large eyes. His own slanted cats-eyes were brooding down at her, his black, feathered wings swept up high, wanting to fold and protectively curl around them both. Winter trees surrounded them, barren branches split the paper as I slashed black ink against the page. It felt strange drawing a cold landscape when my own was so warm.
I put down the pen – this would do for the bare bones the publishers wanted, they knew my final work would be more detailed – and I stepped out of the studio, into my garden.
A casual observer might have thought it a mess, but it was all planned and cultivated carefully. I liked it to look wild. There was buddleia for the butterflies and for the delicate lilac bursts, as well as a patch of red valerian, thriving in the chalky soil. Lavender in the border brought the bees. I love the smell – it reminds me of my grandmother, who made sachets of it for her wardrobes and always smelt faintly purple. I was contemplating a nap of my own in the hammock but I decided to go indoors and shower instead; the evening was so hot that I felt like sweat and dirt had created a film of filth on my skin.
I was also still feeling hungover after the wine the previous night, so I set the shower to cold, stepped under the needling water and took a sharp breath, my skin pulling and goosebumps prickling before taking pity on myself and running it back to warm.
It wasn’t until I stepped out that I realised that Vivian had nicked all the bloody towels. I tried wringing my hair out and hopped a little to scatter some of the water, but I knew I’d have to run downstairs to get a fresh one.
I was halfway down the stairs when there was a knocking at the door. I swore under my breath. I scurried down the rest of the way and along the corridor and grabbed the biggest towel I had from the airing cupboard, wrapping it around myself. I put the chain on the door before I opened it.
‘Hello?’ I said, blinking as the low sun shone brightly into my face through the gap, blinding me briefly. There was no answer but, as my vision cleared, I saw someone standing there silently. Alex. He was dressed for the weather in cut-off blue jeans and a fitted vest top. I noticed how his muscles moved under the skin of his tanned shoulders and across his chest as he fidgeted on the doorstep, moving a heavy art folio from under one arm to the other and sweeping his dark fringe away from his forehead.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a jarringly smooth and modulated voice – I realised I had been expecting the pitched and jerking voice of a teenage boy, and his was not that. He had a man’s voice, rich as cream. ‘I’ve caught you at a bad time.’
‘How do you know where I live?’ I accused him, querulously, like an old woman, full of headache and annoyed that this strange person had accosted me at home when I was practically naked. I took the chain off the door and opened it further, feeling a bit foolish at peering out through the gap.
‘I asked in the pub,’ he replied. ‘It’s not a big place, everyone seems to know everyone. We’ve just moved here…’
‘Yes,’ I said, still feeling cross and discomfited, wondering if Steve had told him, angry that he would tell a stranger where I lived. ‘What do you want – need, I mean? I’m sorry, I’m not at my best at the moment. Can I help you with something?’
His eyes flashed up at me from the ground, where they had previo
usly been fixed, and I got the uncanny sensation of fingers tracing themselves the full length of my spine, a curling feeling that increased my unease further. I couldn’t tell what exact colour they were.
‘I can see,’ he said, with a wolf grin. ‘Do you want to go and put some clothes on? I don’t mind waiting.’ I wasn’t sure what to say to that so I obliged instead, letting him in despite the shivers running up my back as I felt him watch me dash up the stairs to dress. I turned the old lock in my bedroom door as I did.
I rifled through my wardrobe and pulled out a new cotton jumpsuit that I’d bought on a whim last time I’d taken Vivian shopping. She’d been complaining that my ‘look’ was embarrassing. It was a bit tight for my liking, but she had approved, so I kept it on and attempted to run a comb through my mad hair.
‘I was hoping you would give me art lessons,’ he said, as I returned to the hallway where he was waiting for me. ‘I’ve looked up your work online, and I really like it. I want to learn more about illustration.’ I noticed his eyes look me up and down as he spoke and I felt a bit embarrassed about the jumpsuit – maybe it was too young for me.
‘Oh, right. Well, I’m not sure there’s a lot I could teach you, really,’ I replied. ‘I’m not a proper teacher. I got strong-armed into running the life classes at the hall; I’ve never actually had real pupils or any sort of training.’
‘It can’t be hard, can it?’ he replied, with a smirk. ‘I don’t think any of my art teachers have had more than three brain cells.’
Did I like this arrogant boy? I decided to humour him.
‘And how much would you pay for these lessons?’
‘Ten pounds an hour,’ he offered. ‘For two lessons a week, and I’ll keep coming to the life classes, too.’
‘Aren’t there other things you would rather spend your money on?’
‘No. I don’t care about anything else.’
This stumped me slightly. I didn’t really need the money: the sale of our house in Walthamstow six years before had left us financially secure, and I really only worked to keep my mind busy and away from other things. It wasn’t only that bothering me, though; there was still something unnerving me about Alex that I couldn’t put my finger on. But what could I do? It felt cruel to refuse him while he was standing in front of me looking hopeful.
‘Look, Alex, I’m not sure about this, but maybe we can give it a go for a couple of weeks and see if it works. For both of us. Okay?’
He smiled suddenly, properly smiled, and I was dazzled. It transformed his face, utterly, and I decided his eyes were sea coloured, changing by mood, because I had just pinned them as green but then I saw blue too, and gold. They were fathomless. It gave me a pang deep in my chest, because I didn’t think he smiled much; at least, not this smile. I wanted badly to draw it.
‘I’ve brought some of my work,’ he said, hefting his folio under his arm again. ‘Can I show you?’ His enthusiasm infected me.
‘Sure – come through.’ I gestured to the sitting room and he walked in.
As I followed him in I saw he was looking at my bookshelf. I was mildly embarrassed about the eclectic nature of my collection, and for some reason hoped he had only noticed my high-brow classics, which I’d not actually had the chance to read yet, as opposed to some of my holiday trash romances, which were well-thumbed.
He put his folio down on the sofa and reached out and picked one up. He smoothed his hand along its cover and touched the edges before sliding it back into its place, then sitting down on the sofa. He liked books. I liked book people. I thought maybe he wasn’t so bad, and I was determined not to let my past tar every man with the same brush.
‘Let’s have a look at your stuff, then,’ I said, in a falsely cheery voice. ‘I don’t have long, though – I’m meeting friends at the pub in a bit.’ This was a lie, but I didn’t want him hanging around all night.
‘Okay.’ He looked at me with a knowing glint in his eye; I wasn’t fooling him for a second with my escape plan. ‘Here.’
He passed across his folio as I sat down beside him. I pulled off the elastic and opened it up. I leafed through each piece slowly, drinking in his talent. Nearly everything was in black ink or pencil, there was no colour anywhere. They were mostly observational sketches and I wondered if he took pictures of people and worked on the drawings later, because some of the detail was incredible.
‘Alex, I’m really not sure what you think I can teach you,’ I told him as I flicked through some simple drawings he’d done of foxes crouching in long grass. I could almost see their whiskers twitching, the movement in the page was incredible. I touched the lines of the fox’s spine, almost expecting to feel silky fur under my finger. The last page in the folio was a front-on self-portrait. He’d caught the planes and angles of his beautiful face impeccably, but the almond shapes of his eyes had been shaded in an entirely pitiless black, and the effect made the skin on the back of my neck crawl.
‘I’m hoping you can teach me about colour,’ he said, shifting too close to me and looking down at the picture. I felt his breath drift warmly on my shoulder, smelt spearmint.
‘Okay, then,’ I found myself saying, swallowing my doubts. The lure of watching him draw was just too much, I was greedy for it. ‘When would you like these lessons?’
‘Can I just come when I’m free?’ he asked me, putting his pictures back into their folder carefully. I noticed they had been ordered by size. ‘I work shifts and they aren’t always on the same days.’
‘And you have school? College?’ I asked him, but he just shrugged. Maybe he was older than I’d thought or had dropped out early. I’d never had much time for anything but art myself at his age.
‘Well, I am at home most of the day; I work in my studio in the garden. But I need you to let me know at least the day before if you want a lesson, and I don’t want you messing me around and going weeks without and then wanting me every day, okay?’
He smiled a sharp smile and I realised what I had said, and stammered, ‘J-just take my number.’
‘I’ve already got it, Rachel,’ he said, rolling my name around his mouth. ‘It was on the sign-up sheet for the life drawing.’
‘Well, then, you could have just texted me in the first place, Alex, instead of turning up at my house unannounced!’ I was still cross at the intrusion.
‘Where’s the fun in that?’ he replied, the sharp smile back on his face.
With that he turned and walked away, opening the door and leaving me with another burst of hot air from outside.
Feeling a bit jittery, I returned to the kitchen and impulsively grabbed my handbag before heading out myself, locking the door behind me.
The day was still very warm and by the time I reached the pub I was thirsty. I looked around inside for Steve but didn’t see him, and I supposed he might be sitting outside in the garden. I walked to the bar and got myself a lemonade. I couldn’t face hair of the dog.
I carried my drink outside and, sure enough, Steve was there, laughing, in the corner with one of the regulars. I watched them for a moment, their easy camaraderie. I let myself enjoy the small happiness that having friends who can’t judge you because they don’t know your secrets gave me.
‘Hello, trouble!’ Steve shouted, looking up and spotting me lurking. ‘Not brought your new boy toy, then? We just met him!’ His wicked brown eyes shone with humour and he patted the seat that his friend vacated as I approached, dropping me a wink as he went. The jumpsuit was definitely too young for me, and I felt myself blushing.
I sat down and gave him a push. ‘Steve! Shut up, you idiot. Did you tell him where I lived? He just wants some art lessons.’
‘Yeah, with Mrs Robinson!’
I picked an ice cube out of my drink and shoved it down the back of his T-shirt, causing him to scream loudly.
‘Stop it, Rach!’ he said, pulling at the bottom of his top until the ice cube fell out. ‘Sorry, I did tell him where you lived – he came in and asked. I didn’t
think it would be a problem, as he said he was going to ask you for private lessons.’
I could see him trying to keep a straight face but it bothered me that he hadn’t considered my safety, or privacy. ‘He just gives me the creeps a bit.’
‘Maybe you need to get laid,’ said Steve, stretching his arms above his head, oblivious to the damp patches beneath them.
‘That’s your answer to everything.’
‘I know, darling, any excuse for a good shag. I’d do you but I don’t like lady bits. I could give your boobs a quick squeeze if you like, though?’ He made a honking motion at my chest and I slapped his hands away.
‘You are a prize idiot.’
‘Prize everything, my dear. When did you last have a good seeing to, anyway? I haven’t heard any gossip about you getting rodgered, and I get all the rodgering gossip. It’s the only reason I work in the bar.’
‘Steve! It’s not any of your business, thank you very much. I don’t want you gossiping about my love life in the bar to all the smelly old farmers.’
‘It’s obviously all the teenage testosterone he’s emitting,’ he said, elbowing me in the ribs and snorting into his wine glass. ‘You’re not used to it. It’s got you going.’ More laughing.
‘Steve! You emit plenty of testosterone!’ I protested. ‘That’s really not the issue.’
‘That’s true, darling, but my testosterone isn’t wafting your way.’ He sketched a square in the air in front of him. ‘I provide a safe space for ageing-spinster-born-again-virgins.’
I punched him in the arm, protesting that nearly thirty-seven did not make me ageing, and we laughed and I realised I was being stupid about the art lessons. Why wouldn’t I do them? Any income is useful when you’re a freelancer, Steve was always telling me sternly, thinking I was some sort of pauper. He didn’t know how much I’d made on my house sale, and I let him think I was just a poor, single mum who’d wanted a fresh start out of the expensive capital. Why correct him? I didn’t want anyone to know the real reasons we had left London.