The Beach Hut Next Door by Veronica Henry Page A

arts charities that had funded the project and a photographer from the local newspaper – the great and the good of Everdene – Kiki couldn’t quite believe it. As she took the key to the beach hut and put it in the lock, smiling for the camera, she wondered if they really had any idea of how far she had come to get here? Of course, it was a good story, and she was happy for them to use it in their PR, but seeing it in black and white and actually living it were two different things. And, of course, the true story had been glossed over and given plenty of spin so it just read as if she had been unlucky; that getting caught had been a one-off, a momentary aberration because she had fallen under the influence of someone charismatic and evil who had made her do Bad Things.
    ‘So – tell us how you feel about your new role?’ The reporter who’d been sent to cover the story smiled at her winningly. ‘I mean, it’s a dream come true, isn’t it?’
    ‘It is,’ agreed Kiki. ‘I can’t believe how lucky I am to be spending the summer here. And I’m so grateful to all the bodies who made it possible. And I’m really looking forward to giving people the opportunity to paint while they are down here. Anyone can pick up a brush and create something beautiful. You just need confidence. And inspiration. And what could be more inspiring than this?’
    She threw her arm out, taking in the wide expanse of Everdene Sands. The bay was looking particularly stunning, as if it knew it was going to be splashed all over the papers and had made the blue of the sea more blue, and the pink of the sand more pink, and the few clouds in the sky whiter than white.
    Kiki smiled as the photographer got the money shot: Kiki opening the door of the beach hut, where she was going to be artist-in-residence for the whole summer, encouraging visitors to unleash their creativity. At the same time, Kiki was being commissioned to paint a body of work to be exhibited during the winter months, all designed to raise the profile of Everdene as a holiday destination.
    She still couldn’t believe she had been chosen. There had been hundreds of applicants. After all, who wouldn’t want to spend the summer in a beach hut sploshing paint about? So the competition had been fierce. The application process had involved submitting a portfolio of work, supported by an artist’s statement, and then a round of rigorous interviews.
    Kiki had decided that the only way she was going to get through was by being up front and honest; not trying to dress herself up as someone with something deep and meaningful to say. In the end, her story had said it all. Art had, without wishing to sound melodramatic or pretentious, saved her from the gutter. She was quite upfront about that.
    ‘If it wasn’t for the painting classes in prison,’ she told the journalist. ‘I’d still be up to no good. I know I would. But it unlocked something inside me. It gave me hope. And—’ she searched for the right word – ‘passion. Passion for something other than the next high.’
    The journalist nodded solemnly, as if she understood, but Kiki knew she had no real comprehension of what it was like or how far Kiki had really come. People loved to think they were down with the dark side but they didn’t have a clue. Being born to a heroin addict and being taken into care at three days old was not a good start in life. Playing musical foster homes was even more traumatic and unsettling, especially when your spoilt and over-privileged mother was battling to get you back while trying to conquer her addiction. Kiki had been bounced from luxury back into care for the first twelve years of her life, as her mother desperately tried and failed to get straight for the sake of her child. She had eventually lost the battle when Kiki was thirteen, overdosing very quietly and suddenly after five months of being clean. Her devastated parents had washed their hands of the whole messy situation. They