13

 

Bel waited for the sun to peep through her kitchen windows before phoning Rochelle.

Liam was still tucked under a blanket on her couch downstairs, the door at the top of the stairs locked to satisfy her insides.

The first thing she had to do was quit her job with Rochelle.

If Liam’s instincts were right, Mia wouldn’t be safe at a playschool, and taking her to class didn’t work.

She braced herself and dialled.

“You’d better have a good reason for phoning so early.”

“Rochelle, I do. I need to come see you.”

“Well, that’s good because I need to see you, too. Meet me at the studio in half an hour.”

Isobel’s heart sank. Tiny blue handprints flashed in her mind. She had scrubbed off every last trace, but Rochelle must have found out. Well, I won’t be going back anyway, so getting fired doesn’t really matter. Knowing that, though, didn’t stop the stab of regret.

She woke Liam with coffee. He was a sleepy mess—dark-ringed eyes, hair a flaming muddle in every direction. She shoved away the impulse to hug him. They’d agreed that he would watch Mia so that she could meet with Rochelle.

“Here is her banana. If you get that in, everything else should be fine. I’ll be back as soon as I’m done.”

He peered at her through one half-opened eye, stretched with a yawn.

She couldn’t help laughing. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

He took the fruit and fell back on the couch, banana clutched on his chest like a bouquet in the hand of a corpse. He mumbled something unintelligible and waved her off.

“OK then. Have fun.”

More mumbles.

She shook her head and left.

Rochelle was waiting for her as the lift opened.

Isobel felt like a school girl who’d been caught cheating on a test.

“You’re here. Good.”

“I want to apo—”

Rochelle’s hand went up. “No, no. Allow me. I know what has been going on here.”

“I can expl—”

A single arched eyebrow evaporated Isobel’s words. She closed her mouth and braced herself for the tongue lashing.

“You, young lady, have single-handedly taken a bunch of woman whose collective talent didn’t amount to much, and brought some true art out of them.” Her fingers traced Kez-Lyn’s once-beheaded fairy and she nodded with approval. “You are doing good work, Isobel. I want you to join my evening class.”

What? Isobel stared as if Rochelle were speaking Russian. “So this isn’t about blue paint?”

“Dear girl, sometimes you make no sense at all. Tonight’s group has been together for a while, but I think it’s where you need to be. Seven PM. Just bring yourself and a mirror.”

Isobel thought her chest might pop. This was nothing short of a dream landing in her lap.

“I’ll be taking today’s classes. Rest today and I’ll see you at seven.”

Isobel walked right past the de-blued bit of room and felt the heat in her face. The quicker she left, the better. The lift button glowed as she pushed it. It seemed to be the only real thing in the room as everything else turned fuzzy, dreamlike.

There was no doubt in her mind that Rochelle’s class would shatter the awful blank canvas drought. Isobel’s dream was alive and it was coming for her. After years of chasing, beating life into something so dead it refused to quiver… it had sought her out. It had come to find her.

The lift was halfway to the ground floor when reality crashed in, rolling on the floor, laughing at her. She was halfway to her car when she realized she hadn’t resigned. With a groan, she thumped her forehead into her fist. There was no way she could go back now.

Besides, Liam surely needed her.

Mia would be up and yelling by now.

What a mess.

 

****

 

Isobel turned her key in the front door expecting to hear chaos. Instead, the sounds of giggling filtered through the fresh morning air. She followed the laughter to the lounge. There she found Liam, still on the couch.

Mia had joined him.

He had one arm around her and was walking teddy bear fingers on her palm with his free hand. Each step his finger-teddy took brought another delighted chuckle from the little blonde girl.

They looked up as she walked in.

Liam flipped the corner of the duvet back. “Come join us. There’s plenty room.”

Mia poked a finger in his chest and announced, “Mine.” Her face dimpled into a grin at Liam.

It was too much for Bel.

She fled upstairs, locked herself in the bathroom. Jealousy and anger played a murky game of tag inside. None of what she felt made sense, but that just made it all seem worse. She sank to the floor with her head between her knees.

A few minutes later, Liam knocked on the door. “Bel, let me in.”

“Go away.” She hugged her knees and buried her face in her arms.

He slid down next to her.

She was too shocked to keep crying. “How on earth?”

He had the decency to look sheepish as he held up a mauled wire coat hanger, a thin plastic cutting board from the kitchen and the bathroom key.

“You are incorrigible!”

“If I knew what that meant, I might agree with you.”

“Impossible. Awkward. Persistent. Actually—you’re a bully. A plain, straight bully. Where is Mia?”

“Downstairs. She’s fine. I gave her some things to play with. So what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. My life is perfect.”

“Bel, you are too old to sulk. Seriously.”

Bel shuffled closer to toilet, determined to expand the space between them. She bumped her head on the loo and he laughed. Laughed! “What is wrong with you? You are the most irritating person I have ever met. Ever.”

He shrugged. “Probably. But I’m not here to talk about me. What’s going on?” His voice soothed her. He’d be great around skittish race horses.

“I’m not a horse, do you hear me? So don’t think you can mesmerize me with all that charm.”

“What? What are you talking about?” His nose wrinkled as if he’d stepped in dog-doo. “You’ve lost me.” He actually looked apologetic.

And you are messing with my sanity. “Never mind. None of it matters.”

“Talk to me, Bel.”

There was a tone to his voice that picked the lock on her heart as easily as he had the bathroom door. Her words rushed out before she could stop them. “Rochelle has invited me to art class.” She closed her eyes to stop the tears, but they squeezed out anyway.

“That’s great, right?” He was still floundering.

She gave him ten out of ten for not giving up. “It would be if I could go.”

“Why can’t you?”

Do you actually have a brain? “Uh, Mia? Remember? Little blonde girl downstairs?”

He held up his hands. “OK, listen. I’ve been thinking. First, when is your class?”

“Tonight at seven.”

“That’s good. This is what we’re going to do. You are going to your class tonight. I am going to take a few days off. I’ll watch Mia for you. When you come home, we can make some plans. How’s that?” He was grinning as if he’d just solved the epic problem of world hunger.

 

****

 

A wave of nausea washed through her as she stared at the blank canvas in front of her. She was next to the window on the right of the class, second from the back.

Noise from the street below filtered up through the window. A fruit seller called out—peddling off her last few naartjies, a minibus taxi driver yelling over the thump-thump music playing from his van, recruiting passengers in the hopes of a full load. Real lives, tough lives.

She let it all wash over her, bringing her to the reality of the moment. Pencil on canvas? Not a real problem. Surely.

The sun was setting, washing her stark canvas in soft orange light. She couldn’t help feeling intimidated as she glanced around the room at the other twenty artists. There was none of the playful banter that marked her morning class, none of the camaraderie that she’d come to look forward to.

Each one was centred, focused, ready to create.

Isobel felt like a polar bear at a beach party.

Rochelle stepped out of the lift and did a quick headcount. There was no special attention or welcome for Isobel. She moved right ahead with the business of the night. “Right everyone. Set up your mirrors next to your canvas. This evening we will be producing two canvasses. You’ll have an hour for each one. Yes?”

A quiet murmur of agreement hummed through the room.

“Your first piece will be a simple self-portrait, a pencil sketch. Your one hour starts now.”

There was no time to think, no time to fret. Isobel picked up her pencil, breathed deeply, and turned to her pale face in the mirror.

What seemed like twenty minutes later, Rochelle stopped them. “Your hour is up. Pencils down. Fifteen minute tea break and we’ll start part two.”

Her voice filtered through to Isobel like an alarm clock penetrating a bizarre dream in which her muse had returned.

Isobel shook herself back to reality, stepped back to see what she’d done. The hour had flown. Strangely, having a short time seemed to work for Bel—her self-portrait was complete. And it was good. Her proportions needed some work, but the lines, the shading—it was all there. It was clearly her face.

She made her way to the tea table in a daze. I actually drew something.

A short man with a grey beard grabbed her hand and shook it with gusto. The top of his bald head was perfectly in line with her shoulder. “The name’s Harry Reid. Your first time?”

Isobel retrieved her hand from his clench and nodded. She reached for a cup and busied herself making tea. I drew! She wanted to laugh and hug someone.

Harry was standing so close that she bumped into him as she turned for the milk. His coffee slopped down the front of his shirt.

The hugging urge evaporated. “I’m so sorry!”

“No worries, this shirt is my paint shirt. You’d know that if you were a regular. What is your name, love?”

I would rather fall out of this window than tell you that. She was saved from answering by a lanky redhead who introduced herself as Sybil.

More handshakes followed: Bethany with her close cropped raven hair, Padu—a tall Indian with a love for ink sketching. All the artists were more relaxed and clustered together, chatting. It was as if the entire room had breathed out a collective sigh of relief at achieving the halfway mark.

Isobel felt the knot in her belly loosen.

Rochelle was beckoning the artists back to their places.

Isobel put down her sipped tea and tried hard to stroll back to her place. This was exciting.

The briefest hint of a smile touched Rochelle’s lips. “I’ve had a quick tour around the room during the break, and I am very happy with what I saw. I must mention our newcomer tonight. She has produced an excellent piece of work. Isobel, good girl.”

Across the room, Coffee-slop-Harry’s face twisted in a smirk and he shoved both his thumbs in the air.

Isobel thought how nice it would be to throw a cream-pie at that face. She wasn’t about to let some troll ruin her breakthrough night, so she slam-dunked him out of her mind and focussed on the instructions Rochelle was giving.

“The second part is simple. Come and fetch a rock from this pile. Smash your mirror.” She held up a stern finger. “No whining about bad luck. It doesn’t exist. Repeat your self-portrait. Any questions?” She gave a split second before retracting the question and waving them to work.

Isobel fetched her rock. It was smooth and fitted in her palm as if it was part of her. Her first tap was too light; the mirror remained unbroken. The knot was back in her belly. She hit with more force a second time, sending cracks skittering through the glass. A piece fell out as she set it up next to her canvas.

She set to work more reluctantly this time. Each stroke of her pencil brought more of her shattered face to life on the canvas. Each jagged piece, a silent scream…

You’re broken. You’re broken.

She felt a tear and ignored it. Jagged slivers radiated from the centre point of impact. Hot tears ran freely. She kept drawing. At times, barely able to see, Isobel persisted. Cold resolution cracked the whip over emotion. Her left eye was in three shards, she drew it—exactly as she saw it. Her right eye was gone, fallen with the missing piece. I can’t do this.

Her mutilated face stared back at her from the canvas.

The cracks formed another image. Superimposed on her likeness was a baby. Not Mia, a newborn.

She dropped her pencil and fled.