She waits, fidgeting, pulling down her short black dress. A date with the twenty-thousand-dollar man looms ahead ominously. He’s late and she can’t shake the feeling she shouldn’t be doing this. The longer she stands outside the bar, the stronger this feeling becomes. She finishes her cigarette. Time to go. She walks up the street and an arm catches her from behind.
Where are you going, gorgeous?
She can smell the alcohol on his breath. He is jovial and loosely held together in jeans and a creased grey T-shirt. She notices his arms, muscular and tanned, the perfect amount of stubble on his face. ‘Shit, I’m in trouble,’ she thinks, as she finds she can’t look away from his eyes. I was about to leave, she says.
What? You wouldn’t ditch me like that would you? He steps closer and takes her waist. I am unditchable. He kisses her neck and then her cheek.
Don’t you mean irresistible?
I’m that too, but you already knew that. So, what are we doing tonight?
Sahara wriggles out of his clutches and, again, pulls down her dress that now feels inappropriately short and revealing. I thought we were meeting at that bar, but you kept me waiting for forty minutes.
And now you hate me and you’d made up your mind to run away? Sean checks his watch. I’m sorry, I was in a meeting and you can keep running if you want, but don’t you think if we weren’t meant to see each other, I never would have spotted you storming up the road?
So you’re saying fate intervened? She shifts in her uncomfortable heels.
I’m saying, we’re here now and it’d be a shame if I didn’t get to spend at least an hour with someone as breathtaking as you.
You think I’m breathtaking?
Sean smirks. I think you are breathtaking and stunning and sexy and volatile and I want to know more. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.
I’m not the volatile one, she says. You’re already drunk.
Not drunk, just a little loaded. And I’ll make it all up to you if you walk back down and come inside that bar with me.
She knows she shouldn’t, but she does.
As they step into the bar, Sean asks her, Should I pull out all stops or is this a done deal?
Sahara smacks him playfully. Oh, pull out all the stops, you’ll have to sweep me off my feet before you’re back in my good books.
Sean turns and kisses her lips. Okay, back out, change of plan.
She hovers in the doorway, confused. He takes her hand and rushes to the road where he hails a taxi and pulls them both into it.
How’s this? Sean asks from a window table at a glitzy restaurant overlooking the harbour.
I still can’t believe we just walked straight in here on a Friday night, Sahara says. You must have some serious pull.
It helps to have friends in the right places, particularly when you’re trying to seduce a gorgeous woman. Sean touches her knee under the table.
Her skin tingles under his touch. That’s funny, I don’t think anyone’s called me a woman before, I sort of identify more with being a girl. I haven’t thought about it until now, but hearing you say it, it sounds kind of odd.
You really know how to make a guy feel good about himself, don’t you? I feel like I have to work so hard with you.
She opens her menu and looks over it at him. And is that bad?
I think it’s what I like most about you, you don’t sugarcoat things. Sean orders a bottle of wine from their waiter and taps the table. There’s something different about you, but I can’t put my finger on it.
Different from all the other women you’re dating? she asks. When he doesn’t respond, she leans in closer. You must know you have a reputation as a massive player. Did you really think I wouldn’t hear what you get up to?
Sean puts a hand over hers firmly. One thing you learn in this game is to never believe what you read or hear—about yourself or other people. It’s all make-believe.
So you’re not sleeping with half the beautiful women in Sydney? She pulls her hand away.
Women throw themselves at me all the time, that part is true. I’m hot property and in the beginning, I lived it up. I’m not going to sit here and pretend I’ve been an angel my whole life. I’ve had fun, the best of everything life can offer. But you get over it after a while. Sean takes a sip from his glass. I don’t usually open up this quickly, but when you start to realise everyone only wants you for something—money, connections, a way up, a way in—I won’t lie, it’s a pretty lonely feeling.
Sahara is speechless, the bravado of Sean Scott has melted and the man sitting across from her is not who she imagined; he’s fragile and it disarms her.
Sean props his arm up on the table and holds his chin in his hand. I really like you, I know we only just met but you’re like this breath of fresh air. Life can make one pretty cynical, but something about you lifts me up. I honestly don’t feel this way ever, I want to spend more time with you.
Sahara reaches over and presses her fingers to his cheek. You’re not at all what I expected.
He turns his face and kisses her hand. Now, he says, let’s order. The wagyu beef is totally to die for and the lobster bouillabaisse is also supremely impressive.
I don’t eat meat, Sahara says, scanning the menu for something she can eat.
Of course you don’t. Sean sits back, smiling. So Magenta Wild-child’s a vegetarian, is she?
Do you even know what happens to animals in abattoirs? Have you ever actually been to one? And how about living your whole life in a tiny cage, being forcibly impregnated and lying on a concrete floor for months on end with no sunlight or fresh air until you push out your babies that are stolen from you, and then it all happens again? Sahara shuts her menu. No, thank you, I’m not putting the flesh of that abuse in my body.
You’ve gone all red in the face, it’s kind of sexy. He closes his menu and calls over the waiter. Can you get Brad out here please? Tell him it’s Scotty.
Scotty? Is that what your mates call you? Sahara says, still scowling at the thoughts of factory farming running in her mind.
Only the special ones, you can call me that if you like. Sean winks. A hand comes down on his shoulder and the chef is at their table.
How are you, brother? the chef says, throwing a tea towel across his shoulder. Nice of you to join us.
Thanks for the hook-up with the table, Sean says, only problem is, my friend Magenta here is a vegetarian. And I know this place has two chef hats and you are a genius, but can you possibly swing us two plates of anything with no flesh or blood?
No probs, that’s cool, Brad kneels beside their table. Don’t tell anyone, but I went totally vegan and raw this year. Changed my life, man. I’m opening a new place in Darlinghurst, super amped. You should come by when it opens, Magenta, I’ll give Sean the details.
I didn’t know a chef who cooks like you could do that?
That’s why you’re keeping this info on the down-low, a chef that doesn’t eat his own food freaks people out. Anyway, he pats Sahara on the shoulder, nice to meet you, any friend of this guy’s a friend of mine and we’ll have your meals out soon.
Brad leaves the table and walks back to the kitchen, Sahara smiles smugly.
See, all sorted?
Sahara nods. You really do get everything you want.
I want you, right now, he licks his lips. You’re intoxicating.
It’s the wine, she says.
No, it’s you and if we weren’t in such a flash place I’d come over and kiss you.
Sahara feels hot and prickly inside; in just a few hours he has broken down her guard. He’s growing on her and she feels herself sliding in a way she can no longer control.
The harbour is dazzling, filled with lights, twinkling and reflected in the calm water. The ferries have stopped running for the day and the terminal is quiet, but the paved walkway from Circular Quay to the Opera House—awesomely white and shining against the black sky—is swarming with people: tourists, lovers, after- work revelers. The air is taut with expectations for the weekend. They leave the restaurant, Sahara is giddy.
What now? Sean asks, taking her in his arms and holding her against the cold.
I told myself I wouldn’t go back to the hotel with you, she says.
Is that while you were cross and bored waiting for me on the street or is that what you really feel right now? He pulls her even closer to him, slipping his hands under her coat and around to her back where he grips the slinky fabric of her dress.
She feels his lips on her neck. Both.
What if, Sean says, whispering to her, what if I take you somewhere beautiful and we watch the sun rise?
I wish I could say no, but there’s nothing in me to resist, she says. You’ve won me over.
Good. Now, how do you feel about flying?
Sahara, buffeted by the ferocious wind, scurries away from the edge of the roof and over to Sean as the helicopter lands. He pushes her inside and jams a pair of headphones over her ears. She huddles into him, warm and boozy. As they take off, she points out the window to the Museum of Contemporary Art. That’s my dream, she shouts, that they’ll have my work in there one day!
The helicopter flies them over the CBD and along the coast, all the way north and, with each passing minute, the lights and signs of city life disappear. They are dropped on a helipad in the middle of a lawn, and after the helicopter leaves the only sound is the gentle lapping of water. Sahara turns away from the water; Sean is already ahead, walking towards a three-storeyed house set against a sandstone cliff.
Where are we? Her heels get stuck in the grass, so she takes them off and carries them.
Palm Beach. This is where I come to get some down time.
He opens glass sliding doors. The house has the feeling of having been silent and cold for a long time. Sean turns on lights with a remote control and the house whirrs to life: blinds lift, the stereo comes on and the perfection of his beach house is revealed.
This place is beautiful, she says in awe.
You’re beautiful. Sean takes her hand and leads her up two flights of stairs to the third floor where a room opens out and there’s nothing to see but black. There’s nothing but ocean out there, you’ll see when the sun comes up. It’s pretty special.
He takes champagne from a bar fridge and two glasses, and heads out to the balcony where he turns on the spa. It’s next to an infinity pool that ends in a wall of glass.
Uninhibited, she unzips her dress. It falls to the floor and she steps towards Sean. She takes the bottle from his hand and sips straight from it.
See, this is why I like you. I don’t care what you say, there is something volatile about you.
Stars, sea breeze, the shadow of gum trees creeping out of the cliff behind them. She detects the faintest smell of the bush, something from up north that she didn’t know she missed until it found her again. Eucalyptus and earth scented fresh from the rain. I think the word you’re looking for is ‘vulnerable’, Sean.
No, he says, slipping the bra strap off her left shoulder. It’s definitely volatile. There’s something that little bit off-kilter, unstable. Not unstable in a bad way, unstable in a way that you’re deep and not tightly wound-up like most people. I recognise it in you because I’m the same. I get you, Sahara.
He unhooks the clip of her bra in a smooth, deft motion, and watches it fall to the floor. Her breasts are milky white in the glow of the light inside; he kisses them, left then right, teasing her nipples with his tongue. It’s like you could fall or break or jump or dance in any moment—even you don’t know which way it will go. But you’re hungry for the edge, for the experiences most people are afraid of. You can handle anything except an ordinary, mediocre life. You want to know it all. Am I right?
She pulls Sean’s shirt over his head. That’s mostly true, but I think you make me braver than I really am.
Sean gathers her and lifts her up onto the side of the spa. He parts her legs with his and hoists them around him. So what’ll it be? Do I get a second date?
She opens her legs wide so she can feel the throb of his erection through his jeans. She bends down and licks the skin around his navel, darting her tongue along the exposed rim of his grey jocks, kissing skin slowly. A fierce womanness she didn’t know she possessed stirs in her blood. I’ll tell you what, Sean Scott. She looks up at him from his crotch. If you can make me come, I’m in.
***
I like having you here, I hate being alone. Sean feeds Sahara a strawberry. He directs the remote towards the stereo until the glass windows rattle with bass. This technically counts as our twenty-first date.
She leans over and kisses him, pushing her last bite of strawberry into his mouth. I think it’s more like our third date that hasn’t ended. We’ve only spent two nights apart since Palm Beach.
He takes his laptop from the bedside table and nudges her back to her side of the bed. Sahara falls asleep next to Sean while he madly replies to emails.
He shakes her awake. Hello gorgeous, he says, handing her the hotel menu and a glass of wine. That’s for you, it’s a really good bottle and order whatever you want. I’m going to the gym, be back in 40 minutes.
She sips gratefully from the tall glass of red wine as Sean leaves. She scans the menu that’s now familiar to her. Sometimes she orders just to see what a dish looks and tastes like, when she has no appetite at all. The kitchen is open twenty-four hours a day and Sahara has almost eaten her way to the end of the gourmet menu, modified for her dietary requirements. She picks up the phone and dials down, ordering hot chips with vinegar and tomato sauce. When they arrive, she begins to devour them to stave off the hangover that’s been threatening. But the smell and the salt and grease on her fingers reminds her of summer back home eating chips at Suffolk Park Beach with her mother and, as usual, every thought of her mother leads to a thought of Rip. She puts down the bowl and lights a cigarette instead.
Turning the key in the door of Jess’s apartment, Sahara braces herself. In the fish tank of Sean’s penthouse she can hide from fear and doubt, but every time she unlocks the door to this King’s Cross den, a sleazy depression grabs her. She’s living a double life, it’s complicated and she keeps her guard up against her former confidante, fearing Jess’s judgement if she discovered the truth of her relationship with Sean. The distance between them is palpable and it’s taking its toll. When she comes back here, down to earth and back to reality, she hits rock bottom. Back here she pays a bit of rent with the cab money Sean gives her, always feeling hung over, cold and hungry, like a terrible, immoral imposter.
Jess is still at work and Sahara is relieved. She looks around at the mess of the two of them trying to co-habit in the small dingy room, realising there’s no way she can continue on with this duality. She has to make a choice: this life or the hope of one with Sean. She wonders if he will accept her fully into his world, and about the compromises she may have to make to cement her place there. But then anything is preferable to this small place that held her as she broke apart after news of Rip, those early days of shock and grief haunt her when she’s here. She chokes up, trying to find her jeans, black sweater, running shoes, heels—only the essentials she can fit in the old blue duffel bag. She can’t stop to wonder if she’s doing the right thing, she just has to do it and not look back, so she packs, writes a note for Jess and leaves silently and tearfully.
She calls Sean and he tells her to wait, that he’ll come and get her. She stands outside the tattoo parlour across the street from Jess’s building and fiddles with her bottle opener. A long black car pulls up, splashing water from the gutter on her legs. The door opens and she grabs hold of Sean’s hand stretching out to her.
In the car he strokes her face as they speed through the dark city streets. He presses furiously at the lift button in the Hilton lobby, pressing it over and over again, and swearing under his breath. Finally, the upward arrow bursts into a traffic-light red glow and the brass doors open. Sahara steadies herself in the corner to wipe the smudged mascara from under her eyes with the inside of her sleeve. Suddenly he’s on her, pushing, banging her against the glass, one hand around her neck and the other pulling at her hair. Her teeth tap lightly on the mirror, her lips smearing open as he forces his tongue deep into her left ear. Sean has her right up against the wall, the handrail knocking at her hips as he presses his body into her back.
Inside the penthouse, Sean pours red wine—thick, maroon, molasses—into two glasses. He swirls the wine in his glass, holding it by the long thin stem, switching his gaze between her and the small dark whirlpool in his hands. You can stay as long as you like, he says.
She lies in bed, watching Sean dress for a meeting. He’s tanned from the solarium, muscles sleek and taught as he reaches to pull a crisp, black shirt off a hanger. He does the buttons up slowly and she realises that everything in his life is set up just how he likes it: colour-coded wardrobe, steam-pressed jeans, the car downstairs with a driver waiting to take him across town. Sean flings his jacket over his shoulder, kisses her on the forehead and leaves.
This is her new life, living above the city in a surreal glow of sex and room service. She entertains herself, mostly, Sean recedes often into his own private bubble of anxiety and stress—shouting into his phone, pacing the length of the apartment, sometimes forgetting her existence.
She reads the books and magazines on his shelves, watches TV endlessly on the giant wall of plasma screen and orders movies- on-demand. She spends hours in the apartment touching things. Sisal rugs, mohair blankets, leather chairs, chrome appliances, soundproof glass. She plays a game, eyes closed, entirely absorbed with her fingers in the nooks and crannies of the couch, hands exploring the folds of the curtains or lying on the balcony, feeling the sandstone with her toes. She explores the minutiae of her new home like a mouse set down in a new cage: a morning spent sitting on the bath mat reading the labels of Sean’s fancy cosmetics and hair products: Aveda, Aesop, Dermalogica, Lancôme. Three hours opening every single CD case and reading the jackets of musical stats and song lyrics. Half a day spent in the fridge—tasting, dipping fingers in, cutting slices off, sniffing, opening lids and when she can no longer occupy herself she sleeps for hours on end, working through the backlog she’s owed from her days as a bar worker and night owl.
Sean exists at the other extreme. His days are fast and volatile; his lifestyle a noxious mix of money, drugs and egomania. His name is splashed everywhere, in magazines and newspapers and he’s tossed about in the scathing discussions on morning radio; he’s listed in Cleo’s ‘Most Eligible Bachelors of the Year’ Awards, a newspaper columnist calls him a filthy womaniser, reckless playboy, the epitome of everything wrong with Sydney. There are rumours of lawsuits, payouts, car crashes and an ex-employee who’s made an accusation but suddenly gone quiet. Sahara tries to keep up with the play of opposites—the media reports that paint him as both villain and hero. She prefers to block it all out.
This morning, though, she can’t. Sean’s left her to her own devices again and as the cold air pumps from a vent in the ceiling directly over her, she’s consumed with flashbacks of headlines, entertainment stories, interviews with Sean and the numerous Google searches she’s done. She growls with frustration because she still doesn’t know who he is when the whole world seems to know or seems to have an opinionated claim on him. She imagines for a moment that the stories are true, that he is sleeping around with models and actresses. She pictures him in bed with a faceless blonde wafer-thin woman with bulbous breasts. She kicks off the sheets and slaps her hands on the hard mattress at thoughts of Sean’s celebrity and power. She feels nameless and worthless, questioning how she can ever hold onto her place in his life.
She does a few star jumps in the kitchen to shake out the shit that’s threatening to ruin her day and makes herself a strong Bloody Mary. She stirs pepper and tabasco into the thick, red drink and feels better. She stretches out on the couch with a blanket and counts her lucky stars that there’s nothing for her to do all day except lie here. Few people in the world can say that, she thinks, as she flicks on the TV to search for reruns of Friends.
Sahara is bent over a bowl of water with a razor, about to shave her right leg propped up on the coffee table. A man exits the lift and raises his eyebrows at her. He goes straight over to the fridge and pulls out a Heineken. He’s dressed in light pink jeans with a baby blue sweater and a black cap pulled low over his eyes. His sleek blond hair is tied back in a short ponytail. A pop-electronic tune rings from his mobile and he answers, taking his beer to the balcony where he twists the top off his beer and lights a cigarette.
Sahara wipes the shaving foam off her legs roughly and wraps her robe over her knees. Sorry, who are you?
The man ignores her, swings his feet up onto the glass wall of the balcony and laughs histrionically into his phone. Sahara walks out to the balcony with folded arms and scowls at the ash dropping all over the tiles.
Excuse me! Who are you? she says, incredulous.
He offers no answer to her question. So you’re his new one then?
New what?
You tell me, darling, the man says, turning back to his phone.
I’m Sean’s girlfriend and you can’t just barge in here like this.
The man offers Sahara his pack of cigarettes. She takes one and the pink lighter in his hand.
I’m Nick. He blows smoke with enough precision for it to coil over to her face.
Nick who?
Nick the assistant.
Right, well, you could’ve knocked, Sahara says, moving her chair to catch the midday sun on her face.
But there’s no door, darling, Nick says with a laugh.
You should call or something, shouldn’t you?
He holds up his phone. Don’t have your digits.
I’ll give them to you, and next time you can call to make sure it’s okay for you to come up. I mean I could’ve been doing anything.
Nick points his cigarette at her legs. You just about were!
At that moment, Sean comes home and joins them on the balcony, takes a drag on Nick’s cigarette, holding his phone to his ear. Get back to me by the end of today, he says, hanging up the call. He tosses his phone into Nick’s lap. Jesus, those people are giving me a fucking heart attack. You answer when they call back, tell them I’m busy, he says, fishing in his pocket for a small white bottle.
He pours a few pills into his hand then washes them down with a swig on Nick’s beer. So. Nick, this is Sahara. Sahara, this is Nick, Sean says. Come on, we’re late.
Nick waves at Sahara and they leave her alone, smoking in the sun.
Nick waltzes back in an hour later and finds Sahara on the couch flicking through a magazine. He stands with his hands on his hips, head cocked to the left. Do you want to slob around here all day or come shopping with Uncle Nicky?
I have clothes, she says.
Nick takes the magazine out of her hand. I’m pouring us a glass of champers and I’m taking you shopping with Sean’s card, so that you can start to look the part, okay?
Did he ask you to do that?
This is your lucky day, sister, so snap to it. Go and put something else on, I’ll bring you a drink.
Sahara pulls on her old brown riding boots as Nick comes in with champagne.
Oh, very equestrian-chic, he says. Where did you get those fab boots from? They must be vintage, I can tell.
Sahara brushes dirt off the toe of the left boot. I have a horse back home.
Oh, they’re authentic, even better, love, love, love, Nick says, passing Sahara a glass. Right, fag and bubbles first, then we’ll go. I told Sean we need to take the Range Rover, he says, walking towards the balcony. Who do you love, darling?
Sahara scowls and sips guardedly on her champagne.
After five hours of shopping Nick and Sahara are exhausted. They’re standing at the counter of a small boutique in Paddington; Nick is slumped with his elbows on her shoulders. The back of Sean’s Range Rover is piled with enough bags to fill an entire wardrobe—dresses, skirts, shorts, jeans, thongs, high heels, boots, sunglasses, underwear, jumpers, a fuchsia cashmere coat, shirts, T-shirts, singlets, more bras, a sun hat—and now the shop assistant is wrapping a white linen dress in tissue paper.
That’s one-six-four-five, the woman says, placing the wrapped dress carefully in an over-sized lemon-yellow bag.
Nick hands over the credit card and she looks with interest at the name.
Not even worth talking about, they’re related, Nick says, pointing at Sahara.
They line the bags up against the wall in the bedroom and Sahara flops down on the floor. Nick delicately unwraps each tissue parcel, smelling and feeling the treasure inside. He places the garments on the bed; it’s covered with glistening fabrics. Sean walks in whistling and Nick holds up a soft grey jumper for his approval.
What a tough day, Sean. I am exhausted! Nick complains.
Don’t give me that shit, Nick, you get off on shopping more than anyone I know.
Yes, but shopping for me. Me, Sean, Nick says. Where’s my thanks for a hard day’s work?
You are such a child sometimes, Sean says, rolling his eyes. Someone gave me a new Macbook. It’s in the kitchen, still in the box. You can have that if you want.
Nick races out, skidding across the tiles to get to his new laptop.
Sean hovers over Sahara and smiles at her tired face. Looks like he wore you out, he says, stroking her brow with rare tenderness.
She pulls Sean down to the carpet, wraps her legs around his waist and covers his face with big exaggerated kisses.
Show me what you bought, Sean says, and she points at the bed.
Right, so where are we sleeping tonight then?
Sahara squeezes her thighs around Sean’s waist and laughs. Nothing wrong with the floor, she says, kissing him long and hard this time.
Sean sits up, bringing her body up with his. So I’ve been thinking, he says. About this whole art school thing. I know the idea’s all very romantic, but are you sure it’s the best way? I mean the fastest?
Art’s not about being fast, Sahara says, shifting onto the carpet.
I have this idea, and you can say no, but I thought I could commission you to do some paintings for my bars. We could put one in each space, and I have heaps of totally loaded friends we can fob them off to as well, for way more than any little art school show will get you.
Sahara scowls. I don’t want or need my art fobbed off to people, thank you very much.
Babe, that’s not what I mean. I just feel like you’re ready to really make it, you know? What’s the point of waiting around for it to happen when you can make it happen yourself?
Hmmm, Sahara says, arms folded. So what would these paintings be exactly, that you want me to do?
I have a few ideas, but they can be anything really. It’d be a tax break for me and we could have a launch for you and everything. It can be a team project.
My art isn’t really a team project, Sahara says stiffly.
Fine, wrong word. God, I’m not as eloquent as you, I know. It’ll be a collaboration, as a concept, something we design together, but you, as the highly gifted and talented artist, do the actual work. Sean looks at her pleadingly. You’re bored with art school. I can see it. You haven’t been for two weeks.
Yes, but I don’t want to get stuck pumping out tacky, trendy paintings either.
Sean takes her hands. Do you always have to be so fiercely independent? Why won’t you let me help you?
You’re paying for my entire life right now or did you forget that I’m homeless and unemployed?
And you’ve told me you don’t like how that feels.
Sahara stretches out her legs. And this little scheme of yours has nothing to do with you not liking the current arrangement?
Babe, I know business, and I know a shitload of people all over the world. If you want to crack into the industry, I can help you. And you can make big dollars, too.
Since when is art an industry? It’s not about art or money for me, Sahara whines.
Don’t be naive, everything’s an industry and I don’t see what’s so appealing about the whole struggling artist thing. He lets go of her hands.
So now I’m struggling? Wow, good to know how you really feel. Thanks for buying me a whole new wardrobe, seeing as I’m such a battler and can’t even afford new clothes.
Sean gets up. The offer’s there. You can make a studio up here and paint all day and actually get paid for it. It’s win–win, Sahara. Just get over yourself for a second and think about it.
The door is open. Sahara walks quietly across the cement floor.
Hello stranger, Rachel says, looking up from her canvas. Where have you been?
Just busy, Sahara says, keeping her head down.
I’m leaving soon but I can hang around if you’ll be here for a while.
Sahara clutches the calico bag in her hands. Actually I just came to get my stuff. I’m, well, I guess I’m dropping out.
When the going gets tough, the tough get going, Jaimie offers from across the room.
It’s not that. This other opportunity came up and I had to make a choice.
What opportunity? Rachel asks.
Sahara begins to pack her paints into the bag. Just some commission work, it’s a pretty big gig and I can’t do both.
Right, so you’re just quitting then?
Sahara sighs. Why can’t you just be happy for me, Rach? Would that really be so hard?
I’m just concerned. You haven’t been yourself since you shacked up with what’s-his-face. Now you’re giving up your dream and I’m sorry if I’m not thrilled.
Sahara rolls her brushes up in a straw mat. Giving up on my dream or giving up on the dream we had together?
It’s not about that. Sean’s a womaniser and I don’t want to see you get hurt. You’ve changed and I feel like I don’t know who you are these days.
My ex-boyfriend died, remember? Sorry if that interfered with all the fun we were having.
Rachel raises her eyebrows. So we’re allowed to talk about that now, are we?
Fuck. This is … I don’t know. I give up. Sahara slices a palette knife through the unfinished painting on her easel.
It’s not a birthday cake, you don’t get to make a wish at the end.
Sahara holds her breath and pulls the blade down hard, cutting the head of the unicorn. The canvas snags; it’s an unclean cut.
She props the bag next to Rachel’s stool. You can have these, Sean’s taking me to buy new supplies. I hope they’re useful and I hope you can find it in your heart to think of me fondly when you use them. The rose pink is called fairy floss and the really pale orange are my favourites, just so you know.