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Squeezing her eyes tight, Elda pushed at the doubt flooding her thoughts. Why was she so blinded by the thought of someone being attracted to her? The sadness weighed heavy. She’d been so eager to be with someone that she hadn’t really thought about whether she even liked Rebecca.
She opened her eyes and took comfort in the empty space that was hers. She’d drawn blood sanding the floorboards and cried tears over making the rent. She’d poured herself into this flat, transforming a tired wreck into her hideaway. It was lonely, yes, but it was all hers.
She dragged herself out of the warm bed and headed to the kitchen, adjusting her sling around her arm. She flicked on the kettle and set a mug down in the round coffee stain which branded the work surface. It was the only mark that Elda couldn’t shift when she’d scrubbed the place till her hands were cracked. She left it, eventually, as a reminder that she couldn’t scrub everything clean; she had to live with imperfection.
She steadied herself at the fridge, wrinkling her nose in pain. Maybe she should go back to bed. The doctors had told her to rest. She tried to ignore the chatter in her mind. The burden of finishing her work at the studio had been whirring through her thoughts before she fell asleep last night, and she’d woken up under the same pressure.
Letting her fresh coffee cool, Elda walked towards her small bathroom. She closed the door and tipped her head back against the panelling.Why do I get myself into these situations?Showering in her cast was too much hard work, so she settled for brushing her teeth, splashing her face, and pulling on last night’s jeans and jumper. She tipped her coffee into a flask and set out.
As the pink sun bathed the waking city, the fresh air did her good. She managed to shrug the thought of Rebecca and her weird family from her mind. But someone else filled her daydream—the girl from the ditch. Well, hardly a girl. She was older than Elda, but there was something curious about her. The way she held herself. The confidence with which she’d scooped Elda to safety, and how she commanded attention at the hospital. Everyone had listened to her. Her voice had been like steel wrapped in velvet. Elda had memorised her side profile at the hospital, studied the angle of her cheekbones and the razor edge of her hair against the bar in her ear. She was gorgeous, with blond, barber-cut hair standing high, and Scandinavian features. She was perfect. Totally out of Elda’s league.
Her fantasy kept her company all the way to the mill and once there, she became absorbed in the silence, moving to the beat of her breath. The canvases each spoke to her, willing her to come to them. She stood back, considering her next steps. It wasn’t easy, bringing together three pieces simultaneously, knitting the threads of her narrative together across the three acts.
An hour had passed without her looking up from the canvas when she was disturbed from her trance by the creaking of the studio door. She looked across at the man standing in the doorway. He was older than her, with thick, brown hair falling across his forehead and a few days of stubble. A jumper hugged his taut stomach, and Elda admired his vintage jeans before she bristled at the interruption.
“Sorry, I didn’t want to disturb you.” He looked hesitant. “I’m Francis Paul.”
Elda couldn’t place his soft accent. “Elda.” She set down her brushes. “Can I help you?”
“I’m working on the launch of the new exhibition. The private viewing. I wanted to introduce myself to some of the artists here.” He smiled widely.
“Wow, okay. Good to meet you.” Elda moved too quickly, and pain jolted through her arm. The annual show was a flashy event, and she wanted to make a good impression. This year was a big deal. If she could get on with it, she might have three pieces to submit and wanted a decent space. “Sorry, I’m just finishing up. Can we have a coffee and chat through your plans?”
“I’d like that. Do you know somewhere? I’m new here, and I’m lost just getting around this building. So please, take me under your wing.”
“Well, I only have one good wing at the moment. But it’s all yours.” She held up her cast. Elda liked this new guy. She wasn’t a fan of surprises, but he seemed genuine, and with any luck, he’d be a good contact.
Ten minutes later, Elda strolled alongside him to the waterfront café. She took her usual corner table, with her back to a brick wall. She’d skipped breakfast, so she added toast to her order and fiddled with a cushion.
“So, where are you from? I’ve been trying to work it out all the way here.”
“I’m from Turin in Italy. But I lived in France just before I came here. I have family in the south and spend a little time in Paris, working in galleries.”
“Wow, Parisian galleries. That sounds amazing.” Elda tried not to let her nerves show, but the more she heard from her new pan-European friend, the further she fell into the depths of her own inadequacy. “I’ve just spent a weekend in Paris. Any places that I’d have heard of?”
“Maybe. They were small, independent spaces, off the tourist trail. My best work has been in London. I studied there.” Francis settled opposite. “Elda, tell me, what do you plan to show this year? Your threesome?”
She chuckled at his turn of phrase, but he held her eye contact and looked serious. “I’m flattered that you think I’m able to exhibit. Isn’t there a selection process?”
“Yes, of course. But I’ve pre-selected you.”
“Really? How do you know my work?” Confusion raced through her mind. How was it possible this guy knew anything about her?
“I do my homework before I start a new job.” He straightened his cutlery. “Tell me about the paintings.”
Elda wasn’t sure what to make of this development. She was expecting to chat through the plans for the exhibition and make the right noises about being part of it. Stuff like this didn’t happen to her. She was bottom of the pack, average at best. She always had to fight for a win. It didn’t land in her plate.
“Are you surprised?I was given access to the artists’ work before I came to England. I already know who I want to feature. Now, tell me what you’re working on.”
“Well, thetriois important to me. I started them a few years ago to explore emotional states. They’re almost finished.” She couldn’t remember a time when the three paintings weren’t part of her work in progress.
“They’re not finished?” Francis smiled, his eyes hinting at something he left unsaid. “What’s your vision for them?”
“I don’t like talking about work in progress, and I wasn’t expecting to meet the actual curator tonight, so I don’t have my pitch ready.” She tried to laugh it off but hoped he would still take her seriously.
“You don’t need to be worried, Elda. I’ve seen your previous pieces. I want you in the exhibition, so there’s no need to sell yourself to me.” He edged closer. “You’re going to get them finished though, right?”
She examined the contours of his face. He seemed genuine. He didn’t look like he was mocking her or trying to provoke a reaction.
