Glanna remained upbeat. ‘Rita did think it might be fun for us to try and paint one of her goats.’ The artist gave Rita a sly wink. ‘But our oblong-eyed models really weren’t in the mood.’ A slight titter from the audience, who were all sitting in the barn on milkingstools with easels incorporating a paint tray in front of them – Zenya included, as she had told Rita how much she enjoyed learning a new skill.
Glanna had asked Rita, quietly but firmly, if they could keep the session alcohol-free. ‘Just a preference,’ she’d added with a gentle smile. So Zenya had prepared a mocktail punch for the break, which was cooling in the fridge, and had named it a ‘Picasso Punch’: a delicious blend of mango, pink grapefruit and pomegranate juices, brightened with fresh lime and mint, finished with a splash of the sparkling elderflower fizz that Rita still had buckets of.
‘Today, you’ll be painting the noble, tragic, underappreciated muse of my life.’ She gestured grandly to the floor. ‘My Banksy.’
As if on cue, Banksy gave a long-suffering sigh.
Michael squinted at him. ‘He looks like a furry croissant. How am I meant to paintthat?’
‘Have you ever seen a furry black croissant?’ Lola asked, immediately regretting that question as the whole group fell about in peals of laughter.
‘If he plays his cards right,’ Annie added to a response of complete silence.
‘I’ve put his jewel-encrusted collar on today,’ Glanna explained, ‘so you’ll get a bit of contrast against his fur. Now, what you first need to do is draw the outline of our subject in the gridded art card on your easels in pencil, then afterwards rub out the lines with the eraser provided. It’s a bit like painting with numbers really. I want you all to come away with something you can frame and keep, whether it be for your toilet, or someone else’s.’
Rita smiled, pleased with her choice of artist. Jude had heard about Glanna through Isaac Benson, whose paintings he adored. Glanna wasn’t expensive either; she had said as long as her gallery got some promotion, she loved doing events like these. Now a fairly famous artist, she enjoyed keeping things real and giving back by sharing her skills.
Annie tilted her head. ‘Is it wrong that I want legs like those? The dog’s, not the artist. I mean, look at them.’
Paul, chewing the end of his brush, said solemnly, ‘I think he’s embodying the fragility of the modern male.’
Lola screwed up her nose. ‘Fragile? Do women even want fragile men? Perleese. I’d take a furry croissant over a sensitive snowflake any day, and that’s coming from a lesbian who’s already had enough drama to keep a soap opera in plot for at least a year.’
Emily sat quietly at the edge of the group, sketching furiously. When her eyes met Rita’s, she gave a small, grateful smile, one that said she knew this whole mad class had probably been arranged just for her. A lump rose in Rita’s throat. For Emily, this wasn’t just about painting, it was proof that art still had a place in her troubled life. Thatshestill had a place.
And in that one watery look, Rita suddenly understood just how much this retreat meant, not only to her, but to everyone who had crossed its threshold… and everyone to come.
FORTY
Seahaven Bay’s surf beach was bathed in light by the full moon suspended in the ink-black sky. Its glow spilled across the ocean in a glistening ribbon, while waves murmured gently as they curled onto the shore. A warm, salt-laced summer breeze drifted in, carrying the unmistakable scent of the sea.
The fire pit Rita had built crackled softly as the hush of approaching footsteps drifted over the sand. Head torches bobbed like curious fireflies in formation as her moonlit crew arrived.
‘Welcome to moonlight mantras,’ Zenya declared, raising her glass of fizz to the starlit sky. ‘And for our very last one, Earth’s lantern is a full one at its best.’
Annie tilted her head to the sky, her thick blonde curls catching the moonlight. ‘Has anyone ever wondered who the Man in the Moon actually is? Like… was he dumped up there for doing something awful? I’ve never read up on it, you know.’
Zenya smiled. ‘There are a load of legends. Some say he was caught stealing firewood on a holy day and got booted up there as punishment. Others reckon he’s just a lonely soul with a lamp and a long memory.’
Michael grinned. ‘Annie, maybe he’s your type. Aloof, distant, no emotional availability.’
‘And absolutely no chance of texting back,’ Annie sighed. ‘Ideal, actually.’
Laughter bubbled around the fire pit as Michael placed his hand on Annie’s, and they shared a warm smile. ‘Well, whoever he is, he’s shining his face off tonight.’ Zenya took a sip of bubbles from her paper cup. ‘Is that everyone?’ Zenya looked to Rita, who nodded.
‘Yes, just our five lovely guests, you, me and the wonderful Teo.’
‘Yeah,’ Teo piped up. ‘Jude said he’d leave us to it tonight. He’s catching up on his reading, deep in a new rom-com. He loves it. Said romantic comedy is a highly underrated genre and who am I to get in the way of his main passion.’
‘OK, let’s start then,’ Zenya enthused. ‘As usual, no phones, no expectations. Just stars, snacks, a slurp of champagne and hopefully some helpful revelations.’
‘Don’t all pass out.’ Michael puffed out his chest. ‘But I’m sticking to the zero beers tonight.’
Everybody gave a rousing cheer.
The group’s newfound closeness was unmistakable as they lounged across sandy blankets, comfortable with each other in the way that only a month of shared hikes, honesty, mealtimes and the occasional shower queue could create.
‘OK, you lovely lot. Let’s do our check-in. Something silly or true or both. One small thing the moon should know about you tonight.’
