Authors: Sam Hayes
Patricia shook her head and smiled, dismissing my silly fears. ‘You have to brush your teeth now. It’s bedtime.’ She pulled me off the mattress by my hands and I trotted after her to the cold tiled bathroom where the other girls were drying their faces. They glared at me as I walked in with Patricia.
‘Scoot,’ she said, and they disappeared like wisps of ghosts in their nylon nightdresses and bare feet. ‘Don’t be long,’ she said to me before leaving the room.
I shook my head vigorously. The vibrations dropped down my body to my freezing feet. I couldn’t stop shaking.
I don’t believe . . . I don’t believe . . . I don’t believe
. . . I thought, flicking a brush over my chattering teeth.
As I pressed the towel against my mouth, as the shadow swept across the doorway, as the odd scent blew in on an unlikely breeze, it dawned on me that to not believe in something meant it must have been there in the first place.
Nina walked between the vans and trailers, avoiding the mud and puddles, squinting through the summer drizzle that hadn’t let up for days, looking for number nineteen. Part of her wanted to run away, yet part of her was still intrigued by what had happened back at the harbour with the enigmatic man and his painting.
Some vans were not much more than old metal boxes with curiously decorated exteriors – horseshoes, bright paintwork, indoor furniture sitting tiredly beside them in the wet. Did they belong to gypsies or travellers? Nina wondered. Some cabins were clearly derelict, or so she thought until a door opened and a man with a bare chest and filthy jeans staggered out. He sauntered over to a bush and urinated. Nina looked away, shocked.
Eventually she found number nineteen. She hesitated before knocking on the corrugated green door. Her heart thumped. What was she doing here, all alone in this remote place? Then that other part of her made her pull her mac over her head so she didn’t look a complete washout when he greeted her. As she waited, she wondered who would live in such a depressing place, and she wasn’t sure she wanted
to meet someone who did. But then she thought of her own situation – as a junior make-up artist, she scraped together the rent for a poky studio flat above a chip shop in a rundown suburb of the city – and suddenly it didn’t seem much better.
When the door remained closed, Nina shrugged and turned to go, deciding any further meeting with the man from the harbour wasn’t meant to be. Half of her was relieved. But two breezeblock steps back down into the mud, and she walked directly into him as if he’d been standing there all along, watching her get drenched, watching the air leave her lungs with disappointment when she thought he wasn’t home.
‘Oh,’ she said, smiling. ‘You’re here.’
‘Here I am,’ he confirmed. His voice resonated through the rain. He was wearing a black shirt and jeans and was even more soaked than Nina. The curling hair she’d been thinking about since they’d met at the harbour was heavy and dripping, trickling in straight dark chunks down his forehead. His irises were blue-black ink syringed on to a brilliant white canvas. Even in a mess like this, he caused tremors deep inside Nina’s chest.
‘My trousers,’ she said proudly, holding up a plastic bag. She felt ridiculous.
‘Really?’ He was delighted. ‘I will have them framed.’ The smile alone was invitation enough as he unlocked the door to his trailer. ‘It’s not much,’ he warned as they stepped inside.
Nina breathed in the scent of darkness, masculinity and
paint. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light in the small rectangular space, she saw that every surface was covered with paint tubes, brushes, half-finished canvases or sketches. Jars of murky liquid adorned sills and ledges, and what could be a bed was blanketed in magazine cuttings and dramatic photographs of skies, seascapes, and close-up portraits. He made quick work of gathering up a particular stack of photographs – Nina thought she saw a nude – and stuffed them into a folder. He patted the clear space for her to sit, but she stood, staring around her.
‘Gosh,’ Nina said, virtually speechless. ‘It’s . . . it’s . . .’ She didn’t know how to describe it. ‘I’m Nina, by the way.’
If his surroundings indicated what was going on in his mind, then Nina was already fascinated by him. She guessed him to be dark yet creative, moody but not inaccessible. She wondered if days would go by when he never spoke to anyone, when he just immersed himself in his work, producing genius quality sketches, oil paintings and watercolours.
‘Mick,’ he said, holding out his hand.
‘I know.’ Nina offered her fingers in return. Mick drew them into his palm. He held on to them as if he were gauging her life story. ‘You wrote it down, remember?’
Inside, Nina sighed. This was the point where things got tricky – post-introductions, the place where she usually exited faster than she’d entered. Making friends wasn’t easy, had never been easy.
‘I thought you were going to mail me the trousers.’ Mick’s face was deadpan. Did he want her to confess to being curious, admit to wanting to see him again?
‘I was just passing and—’
‘No one passes here. Ingleston Park isn’t even on the map.’ Mick again indicated that Nina should sit.
‘OK. I admit. I thought I’d come to see you in person. I like art. I wanted to see what else you painted besides my leg.’ Nina wasn’t lying exactly. Neither was she telling the entire truth. But after she’d left the wind-lashed harbour the week before, she’d taken away a seed of intrigue about the man and his paints. He could obviously see things that other men couldn’t. She liked that. If she was honest with herself, she couldn’t believe that she was actually here, that she’d allowed that seed to germinate.
‘Anyway, here you go.’ She handed over the bag. Mick immediately took out the garment.
‘Just as I remember,’ he said. ‘Although not quite so striking now that they’ve dried.’ It was true. The vibrant seagreens and moody greys that had bled and blended so stunningly on the black cloth had faded to a powdery ghostlike stain. ‘Thank you.’
Nina shrugged. Away from the wind, out of the torrential rain, Mick appeared older than she recalled – eight, maybe ten years older than her. In fact, she didn’t recall noting his age at all when they’d first met, just that he was an unusual man with wild hair, who had been desperate for her trousers.
‘Coffee?’ he asked, his mouth curling through the fine grazes of lines on his weathered face. His eyes sparkled yet hung heavy with something – perhaps sadness – as she admitted to herself that she found him incredibly attractive.
‘Thanks, but I’d better be going. I’m on the news set at five tomorrow morning.’ Nina was unable to take the first step towards the door.
‘So, what, do you go to bed at two in the afternoon?’ Mick glanced at his watch and laughed.
‘I have things to take care of.’ She couldn’t help but be wary of strangers. Even offering her hand for a shake and giving up a first name made her spine stiffen. It was what she’d been taught and the way things were.
But she was becoming tired of living her life as if she were see-through; fed up of being on the periphery of commitment. Would it be such a disaster, she wondered, to move a little closer to someone?
‘You know what? Perhaps I will have that coffee.’ She perched on the edge of the messy seat, her hands clasped expectantly in her lap, and watched as Mick swilled out a couple of mugs. I wish, she thought as she glanced at each of his paintings – ghostly nudes, washed-out landscapes, unidentifiable slashes of colour – that I could apply a layer of paint to myself; colour in the paint-by-numbers that has become my life.
Tess, Nina’s assistant, phoned almost hourly to check details for the Charterhouse job. She fussed over tiny things when there were more pressing problems to deal with, such as the contract itself. Nina was already late for a meeting with her solicitor to discuss the terms of the new commitment.
‘Did you contact the staff agency, Tess?’ Nina glanced at
her watch. ‘Can you call them, please, unless you fancy learning how to make zombie children and fake wounds yourself?’ She was unnecessarily snappy. ‘It’s more important than anything right now. I need to hire someone reliable, someone who’s got experience in the industry.’ She hung up.
Grabbing her bag, she glanced in the hall mirror before leaving the house. She looked awful. Lack of sleep had engraved dark circles beneath her eyes, and too much coffee made her hands shake as she tried to touch up the damage. She bowed her head and gripped the hall table. ‘Stop overreacting,’ she told herself.
Nina drove quickly to the solicitor’s office. ‘There’s nothing to worry about in the contract. All seems straightforward to me.’ He was charging her several hundred pounds to tell her the fifteen-page document was watertight.
She nodded, grateful that Charterhouse Productions was offering fair terms. It was one less thing to worry about. ‘So there’s nothing that could get me into hot water later?’ Nina wanted her money’s worth. Sitting in the dark office for six minutes hardly justified his fee. He’d not even offered tea.
‘Not unless you go and die,’ he said flippantly. ‘There’s no provision for your company’s release from duties if . . . if anything untoward should happen to you. Not a bad driver, are you? No terminal illness, I assume?’ The small man chuckled and leaned back in his squeaky office chair. ‘Because you pretty much
are
Chameleon FX. Quality of work depends largely on your skill. I understand that you’re
not the only company Charterhouse has contracted for their productions, but if you were unable to fulfil your obligations for any reason . . . well, I assume you have insurance for those circumstances anyway.’
‘Yes, yes of course.’ Nina was thinking.
If anything untoward should happen to you.
‘What would it take to add in a clause to cover me? You know, in case that bus did come from nowhere?’ She tried to laugh but only a warped sigh left her lips.
‘Nothing too tricky. I can draft a clause and put it to your client, if you wish.’
‘Yes, please do that. Make it state that if anything happens to me, then Chameleon FX is released from any liability whatsoever to Charterhouse. Something like that.’ Mick was a director of her company. If the worst happened, she didn’t want to bequeath business liabilities as well as a legacy of lies.
‘I’m not so sure they wouldn’t want some kind of indemnity—’
‘Mr Wenlock, I assume you’ll be charging me for this short clause?’ Nina stood. The floor dropped away from her and her head spun.
‘Of course I will have to make a small fee but—’
‘Then please, just do as I say and insert the clause. If Charterhouse takes issue with it, then I’ll have to rethink the entire contract with them.’ Nina thanked her solicitor and asked him to be quick with the revision.
She walked out into the bright sunshine, her head now fizzing with the start of a migraine, and headed back to the
car park. She approached her car, about to unlock it, but froze. The door was already open.
What the hell . . . I know I locked it. She thought back to when she arrived at the car park. She’d definitely beeped the car locked. Hadn’t she? She peered inside the car. Nothing was taken. Her jacket still lay on the back seat. CDs were still strewn on the passenger seat. Even her satnav was on the dashboard. Surely a thief would have taken that.
She tried to solidify her melting thoughts. Am I going crazy?
Nina pulled her phone from her bag. She would call home to make sure Josie was OK, ask her what she wanted for dinner, ground herself. Her hands trembled and she hit the wrong buttons. Perhaps she had disturbed someone trying to steal her car. She dialled again, stalking around the car park for a better signal, glancing around, wondering if anyone was watching her. The phone rang, eventually answered by the machine. ‘Josie, are you there? Pick up if you can hear me. Josie? Call me as soon as you get this.’
Then she dialled Josie’s mobile number. Voicemail.
Feeling stupid for even worrying about Josie, she dashed back to the car, jammed the seat belt into its slot and drove out of the car park. Should she notify the police? But what would she tell them? My car door was open but nothing was taken. Maybe she’d just forgotten to lock the door.
The drive across town was slow. She called home a few more times, but there was still no reply. She didn’t care if she got caught using a phone while driving. Oh Josie,
Josie.
Just answer. Irrational thoughts started flashing through
Nina’s mind, even though she knew her daughter would, in all probability, be absolutely fine. It wasn’t the first time she hadn’t bothered to pick up the phone.
Jabbing the brake, she stopped the car abruptly on the drive. She ran up to the house. She forced the key into the lock and burst inside. ‘Josie, are you home?’
The living room and kitchen were empty. As she went through the hall, she could see that no one was in the dining room. ‘Josie, where are you?’ Each step was a mountain as Nina ran up the stairs. She smelled shower gel, body lotion, hairspray as she passed the bathroom door. Steam hung in the air, indicating Josie had recently showered. She probably hadn’t heard the phone.
‘Josie?’ Nina burst into her daughter’s bedroom without knocking. The curtains were still closed and the blue glow of her computer lit one corner of the room. As Nina’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, all she could make out was the usual disarray of a teenage girl’s bedroom. Josie wasn’t there.
Nina dashed out. It was when she was in the kitchen, redialling Josie’s mobile number that she saw something that made her heartbeat race then stall. ‘Oh, thank heavens,’ she cried, and ran out through the back door, on to the deck, down the steps, and straight into Josie’s arms.
‘Whoa, Mum. What’s wrong?’ Josie was suddenly the adult as Nina trembled against her daughter’s shoulder. She buried her face in the soft fabric of her dressing gown. Josie hadn’t even dressed yet.
‘Don’t mind me. I’m just being a stupid paranoid
mother.’ She laughed and hiccupped and sniffed. Josie was safe. Josie was at home where she was meant to be. No harm had come to her. And nothing, Nina tried to convince herself, was going to happen. ‘I just had this stupid feeling, that’s all. I’m OK now I know you’re safe. Why didn’t you answer the phone?’