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“Nah, it’s okay.”
“Cole Matheson,” he chastised, raising an eyebrow. “We made a pact in Uni. You and me, remember? The Yank and the Brit. Two Musketeers: one for all and all that.” He leaned in. “Do you need money? Because I—”
“No, no,” I said, quickly waving my hands. “I don’t need money, I need…”
I needed someone to see my work and believe in it. I needed to get out of my own head and justpaintinstead of drowning in the chorus of voices that whispered I was no good, that I’d never make anything of myself. I needed a little glimmer of hope that being a struggling artist was worth the struggle.
I forced a smile. “I needed to have a pint with you. It’s been too long.”
Vaughn’s dark brows furrowed as he leaned over the crowded pub’s table. A football game played on the TV high in the corner—AFC Richmond against Man City. Judging by the lads in red and blue at the bar—cheering and swearing in equal parts—it was a tight game.
“I know I’ve been busy lately with the shows,” Vaughn said. “And Jane wants me in Paris next week, but I haven’t forgotten about you, mate.”
“You don’t owe me anything, Vaughn. I’m just feeling sorry for myself and—”
“Wrong.” He pounded his fist on the table. “We’re in this together. And you, my friend, have talent. Real talent.”
“Thanks, man. Sometimes I wonder.”
“Well, don’t. Things are hard, I get that. But I’m not going to leave you behind, Cole. There’s a little gallery in Chelsea that wants fresh blood. I’ll talk to Jane, see if she can pull some strings with the director. They’re friends.”
“Shit, Vaughn…Really? I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t have to say anything, mate.” Vaughn clinked his glass to mine. “We came up together. Let’s fly together.”
“Okay.”
A tiny umbrella of hope against a deluge of doubt opened over me and lasted for precisely twenty minutes—the time it took me to get to my shabby place in Plaistow I shared with three flatmates.
They were all in the living room, watching Graham Norton in high spirits. Beer bottles lined the coffee table.
“Cole!” Stuart said when he saw me. “Come join us.”
“Looks like a celebration,” I said, taking a seat beside Malcolm on the couch.
“It is. We’re celebrating our liberation,” Caleb said. He tossed me an envelope. Inside was £300 in crisp bills.
“What’s this for?” I asked, hope filling me up and draining out just as fast as Malcolm spoke.
“A payoff from Mr. Porter. He wants to kick us all out and make this a proper flat.”
“Where the tenants sign actual leases,” Caleb said with a grin.
Stuart nodded. “Porter’s fed up with the rotating tenant situation, so he’s paying us to vacate. No rent due for this month, plus three hundred quid to boot.”
He clinked beer bottles with the others, while I sat back against the ratty old couch. My flatmates seemed to think impending eviction was a good thing, while my stomach felt like an iron ball of lead.
“And everyone agreed?” I asked. “Without asking me?”
“It had to be all of us,” Stuart said, frowning at my expression. “Hey, it’s a good thing, right? Moving is a pain in the arse, but this place is a shithole.”
He was right, but it was an affordable shithole. With my savings gone, the £300 in my lap was all the cash I had. And not enough for a deposit on a new flat.
What now? Just what the fuck now?
From inside my cheap jacket, my cell phone rang.
“Call from the States,” I mumbled rising to my feet. “Gotta take this…”
