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“Richard has hardly any family at all. Other than a few friends and work colleagues, there is no family on his side.”
“Really?” I hope I sounded shocked enough.
“It’s really sad.” Cora pouts and flashes her puppy-dog eyes. “He’s an only child, and his parents died when he was in his early twenties. He has no living grandparents, uncles, or aunts. He has no one.” Cora’s eyes drop as if she is filming a reality television show where she needs to convince the audience how hard her husband’s life was. “I think it’s the reason why I love him so much. He’s carried on trying to live and be happy when he has been alone for so long. He’s such a trooper.”
“I suppose you don’t know what you’ll do until you’re in that situation,” I muse out loud.
“I guess not. But one thing is for sure, he’s not alone now.” Cora beams.
I watch her slide past me, knowing his name isn’t the only lie he’s told.
I pick up the pace, hoping I can run from my past, but my only fear is what I’m running toward.
Returning to work after my frivolous day off, I walk into the coffee shop and am greeted with the familiar smell of coffee mixed with disinfectant, a clear sign I’m on the early shift. The quiet of the space unnerves me as I walk across the empty floor. Louise, the cleaner, is nowhere to be seen. When my senses heighten, I freeze in the center of the shop, disorientated by whatever suddenly made me stop.
Something is different.
I scan the counter. Everything seems the same. I assess the tables, wondering if they have been rearranged, but this isn’t the case. I grasp the handle of my bag as my eyes are drawn to the once-bare walls. My heart flips, a treble beat fluttering in my chest as I realize why the shop has changed.
The once empty, lifeless walls are now singing with color and rhythm that flows through the entire shop, lifting it from the drab space it had previously been. And all this newfound energy is flowing from the artwork hanging graciously on the walls. My artwork.
Four of my largest paintings sit against the plaster, their bold colors contrasting the starkness of the rest of the shop. The pieces were part of a project I’d completed at university. Our brief had been to portray symmetry in nature. After many woodland walks, where I scavenged for the most unusual textures and colors, I produced six oil paintings that depicted the beauty of the natural world in a colorful and surreal way. I’d spent hours toiling over each piece, every detail scrutinized, every brushstroke placed with the utmost care. I’d lost myself in them for several months.
Sometimes I hated them, never happy with what I’d produced, but my art tutor had done nothing but praise them. They’d been the central focus of my final display, and my father had fallen in love with them. So much so, he had taken them to be framed. He’d wanted them displayed in the house, but I couldn’t live with my work on the walls. I was too involved in them. Each time I saw them, I’d see the mistakes, the flaws, the parts I’d never got quite right.
Mathew Skinner, the local framer, convinced my father to leave them in his shop with a hefty price tag attached to each piece. I didn’t really want to part with them, but I didn’t want to look at them every day. I never thought they would sell. Who would pay such a price for an unknown artist? But here they are in my place of work, where I’ll see them every day.
I swallow hard. I feel a little violated, like my insides are on display for all to see. I lick my lips and blink rapidly, trying to place my thoughts but unable to rationalize anything beyond the abstract paintings before me. The fact they are here on these walls makes them appear different.
“Ah, Chloe, I’m glad you’re here.” I turn to see Piero emerging from the office with a smile that must have been there since he’d opened his eyes first thing this morning. He stands next to me, his gaze following mine as I look back to the wall. “I wanted to speak to you… are you okay?” he asks when I don’t respond.
“Yes, I just…” I pull my eyes from the walls. “I’m a little stunned.”
“Stunned?” Piero’s smile is momentarily lost.
“Confused, I suppose, at how these paintings ended up here.” I gesture toward one of the paintings in case Piero is as confused as I am.
“The paintings are new. Gianni has been looking for something for weeks. He’s driven me mad with it if I’m honest. I was happy to have some prints of coffee cups, but he insisted the shop needed something with a little more class.” Piero makes a face, signaling his disagreement.
“But how did they get here?”
Piero doesn’t see the significance, his face faltering slightly as he regards the wall. “Gianni must have brought them here when the shop was closed. He will have put them up. He will not pay anyone to do a job he can do himself. Anyway, I think he got them from some art shop. I wasn’t paying attention. But he seems happy with them, which is the main thing. He’s not easily pleased. You may have noticed.” He smiles at his joke. “Do you not like them?”
I laugh, unable to hold in whatever is brewing within me. “I love them.” I sigh, placing my hand over my mouth, not knowing why I’ve blurted that out. These paintings had taken so much of me that, in the end, I hated them. They never looked the way I wanted them to and would never be what I aspired for them to be. Yet here they are in a small coffee shop, and even I must admit they look amazing. Maybe this is why I’d never liked them because I’d never seen them where they were supposed to be. Piero shrugs, his eyebrows knitting as his eyes return to my paintings.
“Hmm, that’s what Gianni said.” He scratches his chin as these words drift into my consciousness.Gianni loves my artwork.I’m a little woozy as Piero continues. “I’m indifferent myself. I’m not really into art. I don’t get it.” We stand for a second. “As I was saying before…” he tries to pull me from my daze, unaware we’re talking aboutmyartwork, “… I need to talk to you about something.”
I turn slowly, not quite ready to return to the present while the revelation that Gianni loves my artwork—enough to have purchased four pieces—is still cantering through my brain like a horse at full speed. But the hurdle of whatever Piero wants to talk to me about awaits me.
“Yes?” I ask lightly. Piero purses his lips.
“I spoke to Gianni about the issue with the stock.”
“The stock. Right.” My body deflates.
“Look, I’m not entirely sure what happened, but Gianni is convinced something is amiss with the stock.”
“I know Lewis seems to think I made a mistake when checking the order, but I’m quite capable of counting.” I don’t want to delve too much into it, on the off chance Gianni hasn’t mentioned that I am dyslexic to Piero.
