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Sketch’s eyes narrow.
‘Maybe I could take a look sometime?’ I nudge, cautiously.
‘Okay,’ he says after a brief silence. ‘There.’ He points to just above my knees. ‘Open it.’
There’s a brown leather folder on the shelf below the dash. It’s tattered and bound with some off-white twine. Its haggard appearance seems out of place against Sketch, against his car, and against his shiny good looks. It looks more like something I might own.
‘It’s okay. You can open it,’ he says. ‘Watch out for the ones on top. They’re chalk. You don’t want to spoil your pretty dress.’
I smile, committing his kind compliment of my dress to memory and reach forward with forged confidence to fetch the folder.
‘I hope you like them,’ Sketch says, watching me.
My fingers shake as I untie the stubborn twine. Finally, the leather peels back like the petals on a blooming lily to reveal beautiful artwork in all the colours of the rainbow.
I gasp. ‘These are fabulous. Absolutely beautiful. I can see why your friends want you to sell them. You could make a comfortable living. You’re a very talented artist.’
‘Thank you.’
Sketch’s cheeks are glowing. I’m embarrassing him. I should close the folder, but I just can’t help peeking at a couple more drawings first.
‘Oh, wow, this one is stunning,’ I say. My eyes widen as I take in the beauty of a watercolour portrait of a woman by some tall trees. ‘Who is this lady? Do you know her?’
‘She’s my mother,’ Sketch explains.
‘She’s very beautiful.’ I remember her now from when we were children. She’d meet him at the school gate every afternoon and they’d walk home hand in hand.
Sketch coughs dryly, and his grip on the steering wheel suddenly tightens. I notice his jaw stiffen and lock. I swallow hard, and a familiar panic pinches my heart. I must have said something to anger him, but I don’t know what. I scurry to close the leather folder.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘I’ve been careful. I’ve put them back in order.’
My damn fingers make things worse; the leather slips and slides in my hands, and I almost drop the folder more than once. I can’t seem to get a grip on the twine, and beads of perspiration gather on my palms, making it almost impossible to keep hold of anything.
Sketch turns the steering wheel abruptly, and the car veers to the left. The front wheel mounts the grass verge, and my teeth chatter. He allows the car to roll on slowly until we’re off the road completely, and we finally come to a lazy stop.
I can barely draw my breath. Each inhale is burning my lungs, and my heart is beating so fiercely, if it wasn’t for the running engine I think Sketch might hear it.
Sketch sits still for a moment and stares out the windscreen. His hands are still in position on the steering wheel. I wish he’d say something. Anything. The longer he goes without words, the more his fury builds. I know how this goes. My father is growing old, and the years of alcohol abuse have worn inches off his frame. I can just about take his temper these days. But Sketch is tall and broad. Young and strong. I don’t stand a chance against his rage. I never should have got into his car. I should have known better.
My hand reaches for the door handle, but I don’t grab it. I wouldn’t make it far before Sketch catches me, and running away would only make him angrier.
‘Sketch. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been snooping. I didn’t mean to upset you. I swear.’
Sketch lets go of the wheel and turns to face me. There are tears in the corner of his eyes. My father usually has tears too, but only after he’s hit me or my mother. Never before. I don’t understand.
‘You weren’t snooping, Annie. I gave you permission to look. I wanted you to.’
I swallow some warm, dry air. It catches in the back of my throat, and I struggle not to cough and splutter. ‘I shouldn’t have asked who the lady in the picture is. It’s none of my business. I’m so very sorry. Please don’t be angry.’
Sketch wipes under his eyes with his fingertips, and when he takes his hands down, the hint of tears is gone, and he seems more composed.
‘Annie. I’m not angry. Why would you think that?’
I scan his face for a clue of what to say, a clue of what he wants to hear. If I say the right thing, maybe he’ll start driving again and take his temper out on the road instead of my skull.
‘I don’t know.’ I press my back into the leather of the seat behind me. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Please stop saying that.’ Sketch sighs. ‘You have nothing to apologise for. You didn’t do anything wrong.’
