‘You’re late,’ Tara said as I rushed into The Vine that evening. She was sitting at the end of the bar, reading a book. There was one customer, a man who was hunched over a coffee in the corner, looking glum.
‘Are you busy?’ I said, glancing round the empty bar in an overdramatic fashion.
Tara raised a well-groomed eyebrow.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. It’s been a bit of a day.’ I was still wearing my bike helmet and my cagoule, so I began unzipping my jacket as I went towards the tiny back room where we stashed our belongings.
I threw my coat and my rucksack inside, then I took off my helmet and balanced it on top, checked my reflection briefly in the mirror on Tara’s desk, and quickly pulled out my ponytail and brushed my hair with my fingers.
‘Were you at Tall Trees today?’ Tara asked as I emerged from the office, twisting my hair up into a bun because it was tangled and knotty from my helmet and the rain and my fingers couldn’t make it look better. I nodded.
‘How’s your nan?’ The word sounded funny in her drawling Californian accent, but I quite liked it. I shrugged.
‘Same,’ I said.
‘Did she ask about Max?’
I pinched my lips together and nodded again.
‘Don’t you think you should tell her the truth?’
‘No,’ I said feeling very tired suddenly. ‘I don’t want to upset her.’
‘I don’t see why you have to cover for him.’
‘I’m not doing it for him.’
‘Good,’ Tara said. She didn’t think much of my dysfunctional family, which I quite liked. She was protective of me and I appreciated it. ‘What did you say to your nan?’
I held my hands out, showing that I was at a loss. ‘I just said he was away.’
‘It’s not an outright lie,’ she said with a small smile. ‘But that’s tough for you. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine,’ I muttered.
Tara’s expression darkened briefly. ‘What does your dad say?’
‘He just pays the Tall Trees invoices,’ I said with a barb in my voice. ‘He doesn’t get involved in the emotional side of it. Things have always been tricky with him and Nan. Since my mum sodded off anyway. And now he says it’s too risky to come home in case he ends up inside, like Max.’
Tara rolled her eyes. ‘He’s such a drama queen. What exactly has he done wrong?’
I hauled myself up on to a stool next to her and rested my chin in my hands. ‘Not a clue,’ I said. ‘Fiddled a bit of tax, perhaps? He lost his business but a lot of that was because he bailed Max out and paid a fortune for his solicitor and that. I’m not completely sure it was all legit but I think the worst that would happen is that he’d get a big bill. He’s hardly Donald Trump.’
‘It’s an excuse?’ Tara said.
‘Probably.’ I sighed. ‘At least he came back for Max’s trial.’ I closed my eyes briefly, remembering how my parents hadn’t even put their differences aside to support their son in court. Not that it had been the first time he’d been in the dock, but this time we knew he wasn’t going to get off with a slapped wrist.
My mother had shown up wearing drapey white trousers, a floaty shirt and sandals even though it was November. She’d not said a word to anyone – not even me – when she arrived but when Max had come into the court, flanked on either side by the security officers, she’d gasped loudly and theatrically, and stood up, clasping her hands to her chest. My father’s face had grown red and his eyes bulged a bit and he’d started muttering about “what gives her the right” and “she would have walked past him in the street” which wasn’t entirely true, but felt it.
Before Dad exploded and got himself arrested, I had edged over to Mum on the shiny wooden bench where families sat, and gently made her sit down. She’d sat with her eyes closed throughout the whole thing, and I’d fixed my gaze on Max, willing him to glance in my direction. But he didn’t look up. Not even when he was taken away to the cells. Afterwards, when we loitered outside the court building, like awkward strangers, my mother looked at me properly for the first time.
‘Stephanie,’ she said. She gave me a tight hug, her bangles jangling, and said: ‘How did this happen?’
But I thought what she was really saying was: “How could you let this happen?”
Even though she clearly blamed me for Max’s “troubles” as she called them, I was pleased to see her. I clung on to her, desperately, because she was still my mum and I’d not seen her for so long. But she’d carefully backed away from my embrace. ‘I can’t stay here,’ she’d said, looking round at my dad and his partner Chrissy, talking to Max’s – very expensive – solicitor.
‘I need to be alone,’ Mum added. She was like that, my mother. Ethereal. Impossible to pin down. She had never been one to go along with the normal trappings of everyday life or to be bothered by things like parents’ evenings, or graduations, or court cases. ‘This is not where Max would want me to be.’
And I’d nodded, sympathetic even though I thought Max didn’t really care where she was. I wanted to go with her, away from this murky autumn street, and the people in suits spilling down the stairs of the court building. Away from the guilt. But I knew if I asked to go with her, she’d say no, and that would be worse than not asking at all. So I’d watched her leave, wafting down the dingy street like a shaft of sunshine breaking through a cloud. It reminded me of when teenaged Max and I had pressed our noses to the living-room window and watched her dance down our front path with a rucksack and her passport in her hand.
‘I need to be me,’ she’d told Dad at the time. ‘Not a mother, and certainly not a wife.’ She’d not even looked up at us though I was pretty sure she knew we were watching.
Of course Max had thought it was brilliant. ‘Yes, Mum,’ he’d breathed, doing a little air punch. He’d always been far more accepting of her “free spirit” than I was.
I had watched from outside the court, as she reached the end of the street, where she climbed into the passenger seat of a battered camper van parked in a disabled space, and embraced the driver who was wearing a cowboy hat and looked vaguely like our old next-door neighbour Graham. I’d not seen her since.
‘What about your mum?’ Tara asked, reading my mind. ‘Could she help with your nan?’
I snorted. ‘She never liked Nan anyway,’ I said. ‘Which was a bit rich, to be honest, seeing as Nan was the one who looked after us when she went off to find herself.’
Tara looked at me carefully, like she was weighing up what to say. Then she slid off her stool and took a step towards me. I held my hand out to stop her.
‘Don’t,’ I warned. ‘Don’t. You know it’ll make me cry if you’re nice.’
‘I wasn’t going to be nice.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘You were going to hug me.’
‘Was not.’ She reached a hand out towards me and I batted it away.
‘Stop it.’
‘Stevie, Jesus. You’ve got something in your hair. I was just going to pick it out.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. I promise not to be nice to you, okay? God forbid I show you a bit of affection.’
I gave a small laugh. ‘Sorry,’ I said. I leaned my head towards her. ‘Go on, pick it out.’
Tara reached out her hand again and yanked a strand of my hair.
‘Ow!’ I jerked my head away. ‘No need to be so heavy-bloody-handed.’
She grinned. ‘Got it,’ she said holding up her fingers so I could see.
‘And half my hair.’ I clasped my head. ‘What is it?’
Tara rubbed her fingers together. ‘Oh my God, Stephanie Barlow,’ she said in wonder. ‘It’s paint. Have you been painting? This is brilliant.’
‘Don’t get excited,’ I warned her. ‘It’s emulsion. I’ve been painting a wall.’
Tara went round to the other side of the bar and washed her hands in the metal sink. ‘I thought you were a carer, not a handyman.’
The gloomy customer had finished his coffee and was heading to the door, just as a group of women who I recognised as teachers from the local primary school came in. It was Friday so I knew we’d be busy and I was glad we’d had a chance for a break before things got too hectic.
‘I am a carer.’
‘Then why …’
‘Painting over some graffiti,’ I said. I stood up and went to get the empty coffee cup and give the table a wipe while Tara served the teachers who all greeted her like an old friend.
The Vine had once been a run-down backstreet boozer whose only regulars had been a bedraggled stray cat and an elderly lady called Vera, who came in every day for three neat whiskies and then left again showing no signs of being any the worse for the drinks. It had been owned by Tara’s ex-husband and when they divorced, instead of packing her bags and heading back to the Californian sun – which was totally what I’d have done – Tara had negotiated for him to sign over The Vine to her, and stayed put in this rainy corner of South London. She’d transformed the place and made it a quirky bar with good drinks – and enough craft beer to attract a hipster crowd. I’d been working there since I was at college and Vera – who still came in every day but who had taken to drinking artisan gin instead – was the only customer. So I’d been thrilled when Tara took over. She was like my boss, my best friend and my favourite auntie all rolled into one. And it seemed the customers felt the same way I did.
‘Can I have the key?’ Micah was standing at the end of the bar, managing to look awkward and bullish at the same time.
I turned to him. ‘Please?’
‘Please can I have the key, so I don’t have to spend all evening listening to my mum and my sister talking about Love Island?’
‘Shouldn’t you be hanging out in the park and drinking cider?’ I dug my hand into my pocket and found my keyring, then began sliding my bike lock key off it so I could get home later.
‘I’m a teenager, not a tramp,’ said Micah. He held out his hand. ‘Please.’
‘Don’t make a mess.’ I held the keys over his palm. ‘And no booze.’
He gave me a look of total disdain. ‘I’m going to be gaming.’
‘Fine. Unplug your thingy when you’re done. And don’t put your feet on the coffee table.’
‘It’s a PlayStation. And your coffee table is an old trunk you nicked from my dad’s garage.’
‘I like it and I don’t want your feet on it.’
‘Okay,’ he said reluctantly.
I dropped the keys into his hand and to my surprise he gave me a very quick hug, which was mostly elbows. ‘Thanks, Steve,’ he said.
‘Stevie,’ I called to his retreating back. He ignored me.
‘You’re too good to him,’ Tara said disapprovingly, watching on from the other end of the bar.
‘He’s a nice kid.’ I looked out of the front of The Vine where Micah was slouching along the road, hunched down in his hoodie even though it was quite warm now the rain had stopped. ‘I don’t think he’s very happy. He’s kind of tightly wound and he doesn’t seem to have any friends.’
Tara frowned. ‘He’s not Max,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to rescue him.’
‘I know that. That’s not what this is. Don’t make it weird.’
She held my gaze defiantly and I looked away. She was sort of right. Max had a wild side. He was reckless and sometimes self-destructive – very much like our mother – and I’d spent my life trying to fix his mistakes. And now he was someone else’s problem and I wasn’t quite sure what to do about that. I swallowed.
‘It’s getting busy,’ I said, hoping Tara would leave me alone. She glanced at the customers choosing where to sit and turned her attention back to me.
‘Sooo,’ she said. ‘Now you’re painting again …’
‘I’m not painting again; I painted over some rude graffiti at Tall Trees.’
Tara shrugged, as if to say it was all the same thing to her. She looked over to the customers who were still rearranging themselves and moving chairs around, then picked up her iPad from the side.
‘Look at this,’ she said, tapping the screen and turning it round for me to see.
‘Community art grant,’ I read aloud. ‘Tara, this isn’t really …’
‘It’s £10,000,’ she said.
‘What? Give me that.’
I took the tablet and in amazement read the notice. The local council had been given some Lottery money and wanted to spend it on an art project.
‘Presents from the Past,’ I read. ‘Artists from the borough are invited to apply for this grant, intended to cover living expenses for four months.’
I made a “wow” face at Tara who grinned.
‘You could live like a queen,’ she said.
‘I could pay off Max’s credit cards.’
Tara snorted, showing me exactly what she thought of my darling brother who’d taken out not one but two credit cards in my name, and whose debts I’d been paying since he went to jail.
‘What does Presents from the Past mean?’ she said.
I scanned the page. ‘The project has to be based on a story from the local area that is relevant to the past and the present,’ I said. ‘The rules are it has to be in a public space, or somewhere it can be seen by the public without payment.’
‘You could do this,’ Tara said.
‘I don’t know any stories from the local area.’
She shrugged. ‘You’ve literally lived here your whole life. There must be something. Ask your nan.’
‘I suppose …’
‘And think what you could do with that money.’ She looked at me intently. ‘You could cut your hours at Tall Trees and concentrate on your art for a while. Get your mojo back.’
I bit my lip. My creativity had taken a nosedive, what with the trouble with Max, and Nan declining, and Dad moving to Portugal permanently.
I’d done an exhibition, not long before Max was arrested. Not on my own, of course, but with a few other young artists in a great space right in Central London. We’d attracted quite a lot of attention and I’d loved it. It felt like the start of something big. Like all my hard work was paying off.
But then Max had turned up at my tiny flat, begging me to let him stay. And of course I had, even though he was edgy and acting weird. And then one day I’d come home and found my flat trashed and my laptop, my TV, anything of any value, gone. Which wasn’t much, to be fair, but it was everything I had.
And I had a horribly knotty suspicion that Max was behind it. But I’d had to tell the police, because I couldn’t claim on the insurance if I didn’t. And Max had vanished. His phone was unobtainable and I had no idea where he’d gone. I’d actually spent days worrying that he was dead. That he’d finally got on the wrong side of the wrong people and that was it.
But I’d carried on with my exhibition, telling myself Max would show up eventually because he always did. He didn’t though. Not this time.
I’d been standing in the middle of the gallery, looking around with wonder at the walls where my paintings were hanging, and thinking that I’d finally made it, when the police had arrived. And for an awful, horrible, terrifying minute I thought they’d come to tell me Max was dead.
In fact, they’d come to let me know they’d picked Max up in a stolen car, with a fairly hefty amount of cocaine in his bag, and my laptop on the back seat.
He blamed me for it, of course. Told me if I hadn’t reported the burglary to the police then he’d have been home and dry. He could have paid off his debts and started afresh.
‘All you care about is your crappy painting,’ he’d said. ‘You’ve let me down.’
And everything had fallen apart after that. It was like all the years of worrying about Max had finally exploded. I’d always been anxious but now I struggled to get out of bed each day, crippled with fear about the possibility of bad things happening.
I didn’t go back to the exhibition and I’d not had the energy to follow up any of the contacts I’d made. When my canvases – my huge abstract paintings – had come back from the gallery, I’d stacked them in Bernie’s garage and ignored them. That was months ago now, and it didn’t seem like anything was changing any time soon. Ten grand, though …
‘Applications have to be in by the end of the month,’ I said. ‘I can’t do that. That’s not long enough.’
‘It’s June 1,’ Tara said. ‘You’ve got the whole month. Why not just see if you can come up with some ideas? No pressure.’
I felt a bit sick at the thought, but I nodded. To my relief someone approached the bar and I leapt over to serve him.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I said to Tara. ‘What can I get you, sir?’