I set it aside on a rack to dry and prepare another canvas for painting, stapling the thick fabric to the wooden struts, letting my mind run free while my hands become absorbed in the physical labour.
It’s too late today to start another but I feel good about what I have accomplished.
Back inside the house, I stare into the fridge without enthusiasm, then get the shock of my life when my father walks through the door.
“My plans got cancelled,” he says with a shrug. “Thought I might spend an evening at home for a change.”
He seems ill-at-ease after he changes from his business attire into a t-shirt and jeans, as though casual clothing is the exception rather than the norm. Which might be right. He’s not at home often enough for me to know, not any longer.
Instead of raiding the cupboards, we order takeout for dinner and move into the lounge while waiting for it to arrive. It’s like sitting opposite a stranger and I try to remember the last time we shared a meal at home… and can’t. Before the monitor, certainly. Since then, I’ve seen our housekeeper more often than I’ve seen him.
Might as well take advantage. “Can I ask you for a favour?”
Dad glances over. “Sure.” His eyebrow arches as he waits for me to elaborate.
“There’s a student at school, a talented student, and they’re applying for the Matthewson Art College scholarship.”
I consider telling him about the teacher and my concerns about what he expects in return for his support, but Dad barely glances at me, no interest at all in his expression. We don’t talk about art, not since Mum died, and continuing with my request seems like it will be torturous.
But it’s for Avon, not for me. That gives me the impetus to continue in the face of his indifference. “To stand a chance of winning, she really needs an endorsement. I thought perhaps you could—”
“I’ve lost touch with the art world and my recommendation was never worth much. Not like your mother’s.” He pulls out his phone, scrolling through the feed rather than continuing to engage.
It’s been a long time since I felt the sting of rejection. After years of him pushing me away, it settled into the status quo, barely noticeable. But now there’s a piercing sensation beneath my rib cage. My cheeks are hot.
“You know that’s not true. If you hadn’t spotted her talent, Mum would never have made it to the level she did.” A billionaire shopping for just the right type of artwork for his mansions, my father had a keen eye for talent and a nose for success. Like it was a pheromone that only the right sort of people exuded. “Your endorsement could legitimately be worth more.”
“I’ve fallen out of step with the community.”
He waves his hand like that’s the end, then I hear the doorbell and go to fetch the food. I split it between our plates, adding a beer for him and a soda for me.
It’s hard to compete for attention with a multi-billion dollar suite of companies. Mum was the only attraction that ever got him to quit working, to sit and smell the roses. As his son, I’m painfully aware I don’t hold the same allure.
But this is too important to accept a refusal.
Mr Simmons could legitimately be a predator, and I won’t let Avon be his prey. Take away the temptation of his endorsement and he’ll cease to have undue power over her.
I wait for him to fetch another beer, halfway through the meal, then try again. “The girl is talented. I wouldn’t expect you to back her unless you thought the same.”
He rubs a hand over his face, taking two long pulls at the bottle and draining half of it. “I already said no.”
“And I’m asking again,” I snap, temper fraying. “Perhaps this time you might take more than two seconds over the decision.”
“Right. Perhaps I’d be more amenable if you ever bothered to talk to me apart from when you want something.”
The nerves across my scalp sizzle at the rebuke. “Says the man who hasn’t stayed here for more than a night or two in months. You make me live in this mausoleum of a house while you jet off anywhere you like. It’s hard to talk to you when you’re never fucking home.”
My soda spills over the edge of the glass as my hand trembles. I slurp at the liquid until the level drops, not wanting him to see how close I am to losing control.
“I don’t come home because you don’t want me here.”
The excuse makes me laugh, the sound brittle. “I’m the one who doesn’t want to be here, watching you erase every piece of Mum from the place like you’re killing her all over again.”
He flinches, face contorting with real pain. “Don’t. I loved your mother.”
“But not me, right?”
“I—” Dad stares at me, shocked. “Of course, I love you.”
