around the doorframe, ‘Is he gone?’
‘Yes,’ Evie said weakly.
‘Can you look at my plan now?’
‘No, hun. I’m sorry. Not right now.’
‘But… you promised.’
‘I promised later,’ Evie felt herself getting irritated, ‘I didn’t say right now. I’ve got lots to do!’
‘Then let me help!
‘You can’t help!’ Evie yelled, ‘You just can’t right now! We have no time! None!’
Esme’s lip curled and she crossed her arms as she said ‘Fine!’ and flounced off, Evie hearing the slam of her door a few seconds later.
Evie slowly dragged herself from the kitchen and plodded wearily into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. And then she fell onto her bed, muffling the noise of her tears with the pillow. Everything was just too much, she thought, her hot breath surrounding her as she didn’t even try to choke back the sobs. She was going to let them all down, she was fighting a pointless battle. The numbers didn’t add up
–
this was not going to work. Being positive and happy-go-lucky was not her natural state, and she’d worked hard to believe this was her big break, her chance to save her friends and build a life, but the truth was, Ruby had probably felt the same way, and she’d still left them.
Exhausted from the tears, the sleepless night and the constant worrying in her gut, Evie grabbed her easel and a blank canvas, looking at the plans and desperately trying to make something real. Whenever she’d felt like she was about to be swallowed up, she’d been told to channel it, to make something, to put every feeling into the paint, imbue it with sadness, destruction, guilt and loss. She felt her hands steady as she lost herself to the rhythm of the pastels on paper, the itch of graphite on canvas. She turned on the tinny radio, feeling herself bounce in the rhythms of her own creation, finally feeling that she was doing
something
, something worthy. And if worst came to worst, she could always sell it. That might keep them going a little longer. A month and a half. She couldn’t think about it, she could only make.
***
‘I’m so proud of you darling, it’s wonderful!’ Her mother placed the painting up against the wall, ‘I’m going to put it right here and everyone will ask me who made it, and I’ll say my talented daughter!’
Evie squeezed her mum’s shoulders, looking at the large canvas resting against the wall. She thought she’d have sold it by now, and she did have offers, but Evie was proud of it, she wasn’t ready to let it go just yet. She’d only just finished her second year and was home for the summer. Her work had been exhibited with some of the third years’ this time round. The university counsellor had encouraged her to put her feelings into her work, use it as a tool, and had spent a lot of time coaching her through it. She’d felt something unlock within her after that, as if she could breathe a bit easier, she wasn’t constantly waiting for the ceiling to cave in, she didn’t need to go and pick a fight with someone just to let those frazzled nerves exit through her fingertips.
It was dark, the painting, barely pretty – and she knew her mother was being polite, more proud of her for doing something than because she necessarily knew anything about art. A woman’s face sat in the middle of darkness, looming out from the centre of the canvas and looking out haughtily. It was surrounded by jagged shapes and strange lights, her body long and angular as she stood in the spotlight, not daring to look away. Evie had been offered £600 for it, and she knew she should have taken it, not been precious about it, but she wanted to hold on just a little longer.
‘I’m sure your dad will be so proud too,’ her mother smiled widely, cradling her cheek. Evie shook her hand away.
‘Is he here?’
‘He came back last night.’
‘Run out of money again?’
‘Evie!’
She squarely faced her mother, the feelings of pride and jubilation fizzing
‘Yes,’ Evie said weakly.
‘Can you look at my plan now?’
‘No, hun. I’m sorry. Not right now.’
‘But… you promised.’
‘I promised later,’ Evie felt herself getting irritated, ‘I didn’t say right now. I’ve got lots to do!’
‘Then let me help!
‘You can’t help!’ Evie yelled, ‘You just can’t right now! We have no time! None!’
Esme’s lip curled and she crossed her arms as she said ‘Fine!’ and flounced off, Evie hearing the slam of her door a few seconds later.
Evie slowly dragged herself from the kitchen and plodded wearily into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. And then she fell onto her bed, muffling the noise of her tears with the pillow. Everything was just too much, she thought, her hot breath surrounding her as she didn’t even try to choke back the sobs. She was going to let them all down, she was fighting a pointless battle. The numbers didn’t add up
–
this was not going to work. Being positive and happy-go-lucky was not her natural state, and she’d worked hard to believe this was her big break, her chance to save her friends and build a life, but the truth was, Ruby had probably felt the same way, and she’d still left them.
Exhausted from the tears, the sleepless night and the constant worrying in her gut, Evie grabbed her easel and a blank canvas, looking at the plans and desperately trying to make something real. Whenever she’d felt like she was about to be swallowed up, she’d been told to channel it, to make something, to put every feeling into the paint, imbue it with sadness, destruction, guilt and loss. She felt her hands steady as she lost herself to the rhythm of the pastels on paper, the itch of graphite on canvas. She turned on the tinny radio, feeling herself bounce in the rhythms of her own creation, finally feeling that she was doing
something
, something worthy. And if worst came to worst, she could always sell it. That might keep them going a little longer. A month and a half. She couldn’t think about it, she could only make.
***
‘I’m so proud of you darling, it’s wonderful!’ Her mother placed the painting up against the wall, ‘I’m going to put it right here and everyone will ask me who made it, and I’ll say my talented daughter!’
Evie squeezed her mum’s shoulders, looking at the large canvas resting against the wall. She thought she’d have sold it by now, and she did have offers, but Evie was proud of it, she wasn’t ready to let it go just yet. She’d only just finished her second year and was home for the summer. Her work had been exhibited with some of the third years’ this time round. The university counsellor had encouraged her to put her feelings into her work, use it as a tool, and had spent a lot of time coaching her through it. She’d felt something unlock within her after that, as if she could breathe a bit easier, she wasn’t constantly waiting for the ceiling to cave in, she didn’t need to go and pick a fight with someone just to let those frazzled nerves exit through her fingertips.
It was dark, the painting, barely pretty – and she knew her mother was being polite, more proud of her for doing something than because she necessarily knew anything about art. A woman’s face sat in the middle of darkness, looming out from the centre of the canvas and looking out haughtily. It was surrounded by jagged shapes and strange lights, her body long and angular as she stood in the spotlight, not daring to look away. Evie had been offered £600 for it, and she knew she should have taken it, not been precious about it, but she wanted to hold on just a little longer.
‘I’m sure your dad will be so proud too,’ her mother smiled widely, cradling her cheek. Evie shook her hand away.
‘Is he here?’
‘He came back last night.’
‘Run out of money again?’
‘Evie!’
She squarely faced her mother, the feelings of pride and jubilation fizzing
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