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Maybe it’s the whiskey. Maybe it’s a mid-life crisis, but I surprise myself and go in search of my paints. Almost against my will, I find myself walking up the two flights of stairs and even though it’s been years, I know exactly where to find them. I keep the paints and art supplies in a spare room upstairs. I’ve never unpacked them, even though I’ve lived in this house since I moved to Castle Eden, around ten years ago. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. Until now. Now, I feel a compulsion, an itch I have to scratch, and I drag everything out of the wardrobe. I find the boxes I’m looking for and grab what I need, including my easel.
My mind drifts as I glance around the room—if I had to paint, I wouldn’t paint up here. It’s cosy but it’s too quiet, too lonesome. The light is weird. If I had to paint, I’d do it in the kitchen.
So that’s what I do. I carry everything down two flights of stairs and set it all up in the kitchen, where the wood fire has caught nicely and burns with a low, muted glow.
Piano keys tinkle in the background as the music I’d put on earlier continues to play. I take the paints out and arrange them around me. I squeeze the paints onto a palette. Grey, blue, white, and black. I take a deep breath and place the first few strokes on the canvas. I haven’t done this in a long time but I’m desperate to take my mind off of everything. Work. Leyna. Gorgeous, sexy Leyna I shouldn’t even be thinking about.
I let the painting carry me away. I have no idea what I’m about to paint but I fixate on the rocking chair in the corner of the kitchen which sits beside the wood fire and I paint without reservedness, the whiskey helping, I suspect.
It doesn’t last long because the loneliness creeps in again. It’s times like these I wish I had someone to talk to. My mind latches onto something. A muse. I smile sardonically. How many writers and artists of the past had muses? What does that even mean?
I contemplate our modern use of the termmuseand decide it is a euphemism used among artists and literary types, not unlike myself, to mean a person I stare at until my creative juices are so ripe I can stand it no longer. I paint. And then we fuck.
It doesn’t sound like a bad arrangement. I smile to myself and Leyna’s face pops into my head again. I shake my head. Absolutely not. I do not need what will turn out to be a short-term relationship as an added complication in my life, even if the thought of Leyna’s curves causes a fiery heat to spread across my skin.
Chapter 7
Jack
Iain and I are standingat the bar waiting for our pints when my mobile phone rings. I recognise the number and it sends a jolt of anxiety through me. I see the name flashing on the screen.Fucksake.It’s the phone call I’ve been dreading. I’ve let it go too long, wishing, hoping that if I ignored it that it would go away. But I know I have to deal with this before it gets even more out of control.
‘Iain,’ I say, catching him as he’s gathering up the last of the drinks, ‘I have to take this.’
‘It’s your round, you bugger,’ he says smiling at me. ‘You’re always dodging paying,’ he jokes.
‘You’re a bestselling author. You can afford to get the drinks in. I’ll get the next round.’
‘Internationally renownedbestselling author!’ Iain corrects me. ‘But you’re not short of a few quid mate, you’ve got the—’ He stops short when he sees me shake my head. Understanding immediately, Iain says nothing more, instead he shouts, ‘Scrounger!’ at me as I head out of the pub.
I smile to myself as I step outside to take the call. The smile, however, is quickly wiped off my face when I hear the voice and realise who’s calling.
‘Daryl.’
‘Mr Stanhope, yes hello.’
I haven’t been Mr Stanhope for a very long time. Dr Stanhope or Professor Stanhope would do, but I don’t bother correcting him. He wouldn’t care if I did. ‘I’ve been hearing things. Things I don’t want to hear.’
