I let myself back into Savannah’s luxury villa, with a too-short waitress outfit tucked under one arm and Tootsie under the other, wondering if I’ve lost my mind completely, or if it’s just being ruled by my nether regions and their devastating attraction to Nate Jackson.
I’ve barely left the villa for fear of being seen and ridiculed, and now, somehow, I’ve signed up to be in a movie. At least I’m getting paid to be in this one.
And I get to keep my boobs safely stowed beneath a blouse.
With all my social media apps deleted from my phone, I have no clue what’s going on in the real world, and it’s oddly refreshing.
Except for the regular sympathetic voice notes from my brother and Clarissa, I haven’t heard from a single soul other than Savannah and Ashley.
My mother has gone oddly quiet. I know I’ve disappointed her, even though it wasn’t my fault. Until I can somehow make it up to her, I’m going to give her a wide berth. I can only imagine my dad’s mortification is equal to my own.
These few days alone have forced me to just be me. Not the version of me I’m expected to be. Clearly, I fucked that up for evermore. If I felt like the black sheep before, now I’m a purple iguana. But surprisingly, this time and space may be the best thing that’s ever happened. Because without the pressure of all the things I should be doing, like holding down a respectable job and finding a suitable husband, I actually have time to think about whatIwant to do.
Which is paint.
Not teach others how to do it.
The urge to express myself claws to the surface of my soul, demanding me to bleed out onto a blank canvas.
I bought enough supplies at that charmingly well-stocked warehouse to last until the New Year. I snagged every colour of richly tinted acrylic paint I could get my greedy hands on, as well as easels, paint linens, and various sized canvases. Thankfully, they deliver. The Mini is cute and fun to drive but not exactly practical.
I peel off my clothes, throw on the linen overalls and take my brush in hand. It feels so right. Like the bristles are an extension of me. The rest of the world, and all its crazy weirdness, fades away.
The gentle hiss of the tide dragging over the rocks provides the perfect soundtrack to my own personal therapy session. The bright, airy space overlooking the ocean makes the perfect studio space.
When the sun sets, my brain commands my fingers to start washing brushes, but they don’t get the memo, refusing to halt their sweeping strokes over the image forming in front of me. I won’t have nearly as much free time from tomorrow, given my new job, something I’m determined not to think about.
In the past, I favoured watercolours. The time to be watery has passed. Painting vibrant, rich strokes is helping me to work through all the things I need to make sense of in my life. Whatever else is happening in the world, art is my oyster. The four-foot-wide canvas I’m working on proof to myself that I’m enjoying re-exploring it.
The beach scene I’m capturing is striking, layered with glistening graphite grey rocks and burnt orange sand. White-tipped sapphire waves crash against the jagged surfaces and explode in every direction.
The painting might be for Savannah. But it’s all me.
I am the wave cut and torn on the jagged edge of life, fizzing back out to where I came from, ready to start again.
I have enough savings to keep me going for a few months, even without my unlikely new job, but most artists take years to build up a portfolio big enough to exhibit, let alone sell for anything significant.
I inhale a deep breath and blow it out slowly, silently repeating my new favourite mantra.One day at a time. Just keep swimming.
My phone rings with an incoming video call.
It’s Savannah. Who else?
Wiping my paint-streaked hand over my overalls, I swipe to answer. The sight of my two best friends sitting in Savannah’s humongous rustic kitchen fills the screen.
‘Well? Any sign of a certain hot movie star today?’ Ashley called me the second Savannah mentioned I had a famous visitor help transform the worst day of my life into the best night of my life.
I trust these girls with my life, and my dirty little (or big, as the case may be) secrets.
A small smile teases my lips. ‘Actually, you won’t believe it, but yes.’
I relay this afternoon’s events, pausing to let them squeal intermittently. Ashley’s auburn hair bounces as she hops from foot to foot with excitement behind Savannah, whose cobalt eyes are glued to the screen.
‘I always wanted to be in a movie,’ Savannah croons, clutching her chest.
Why doesn’t that surprise me? The woman was born for the limelight.
‘Careful what you wish for. Look what happened to me.’ I shudder, gathering the courage to ask how things are on that front.
