“This is flash, mate.” Murray leaned into Liam, taking in the ski props and the reindeer. “Back home, Christmas means sausages and an esky. Only thing white is the ice.”
Mum and Murray reached for a glass each and sat at the end near Liam and me. Eliza plonked herself down opposite.
“Have a sloe gin, my dear,” said Monish, sliding one across to her. He nodded at the henna tattoo on her hands. “Does that mean something profound, or were you just bored near a beach bar?”
“The temporary nature of all constructed selves,” she said. Then quietly, “The woman who did it didn’t speak English, so I can’t be entirely sure, but I feel like that’s what her gestures meant.”
Monish nodded like he understood.
“Actually, Mum, Eliza, can I… borrow you for a minute?” We stepped away from the table and stood near the fireplace.
“Here,” I said to Mum, passing her a parcel. “Merry Christmas.”
“Oh, Andy, you didn’t have to.”
“I know. But… I wanted to give it to you while Eliza was here.”
Mum tore off the wrapping paper, then her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, Andy.” She pressed a hand to her mouth.
It was Eliza, but not at eighteen. Her shoulders were looser now, the frame wider, and there was space around her. Air.
“Is this a print?” Eliza asked.
“Limited edition,” I said. “There are only ten. I’m keeping the original.”
It felt like keeping my sister closer somehow—but without keeping her in acage.
“This isn’t the painting that sold,” Mum said. “She looks… different.”
“She is,” I said.
Eliza held it carefully. “Wow, Andy. But… I didn’t even pose for this one.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t need you in front of me this time.”
Eliza was quiet for a few moments. “I look older, don’t I? Like I’ve slept or something.”
Mum laughed.
“And there’s more of a twinkle in my eye,” she added. “Like I don’t really care if you approve.”
“You look happier,” I said.
She turned the frame over.
“Exhale,” she read softly. “I appreciate your subtle symbolism.”
Trust Eliza to chuck in a barb of mockery.
“Thanks,” I said, laughing.
“At least I don’t look fat in this one,” she added, with a snort.
“Artistic license,” I said. “Plus, I knew you’d kill me if I did it again.”
The tempo of the music picked up as we walked back to the table and sat.
