I nodded. ‘I’m so very sad.’
‘Maybe writing these messages for your men would help you feel less sad?’
I gave her a tiny smile. ‘They’re not my men.’
‘It might help.’
‘It might.’
She reached up and patted my leg. ‘But for now, you have to sleep. Go on. Up to bed with you.’ She sounded so much like my mum that for a second I was dizzy with sadness and loss, but then I heaved myself to my feet and smiled.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
Chapter 6
Stephanie
Present day
I couldn’t stop thinking about the ten grand. I didn’t have any trouble sleeping usually, but that night it took me ages to drop off, because I kept doing sums in my head, and working out what I could do with the money. Or at least the bit of the money that was meant to be for my living expenses. The luxury of not having to count every penny was very tempting indeed.
I had been so distracted that I hadn’t even minded that Micah was still in my flat when I got home, not long before midnight, and the whole place smelled of pepperoni pizza.
‘Can I leave it all plugged in?’ he asked, turning off his console. ‘I’m playing again in the morning.’
‘Here?’ I leaned over him and took a piece of cold pizza from the box next to him on the sofa. ‘You’re playing in my flat on my day off?’
He shrugged. ‘Didn’t think you’d mind.’
I tried to mind but I was too tired. I shoved some more pizza into my mouth. ‘Go home, Micah,’ I mumbled.
As soon as I got into bed, though, I couldn’t sleep. It was raining again, hammering down on the flat roof above my head. ‘Ten thousand pounds,’ I heard in the rhythm of the drips from the blocked gutter. ‘Ten thousand pounds.’
If I had the grant money to live on, I could use my salary from Tall Trees and The Vine to pay off Max’s debts. My debts, actually, seeing as he’d taken out the credit cards in my name. I could even reduce my hours at Tall Trees a bit to concentrate on the community art project and maybe if I was forced to paint again, then I would eventually start doing my own work. The thought made me feel scared but also a little bit excited.
I’d not painted since Max stole all my stuff. It was like as soon as he landed in my life again, all my creativity just drained out of me. Back then I’d been working – I had a proper job, teaching art classes at a local adult education centre. Because I got free classes as a perk of my job, I’d been taking counselling lessons and I’d been thinking about training in art therapy. Which now seemed completely ironic as if anyone was in need of therapy, it was me.
Then though, I had studio space at the education centre, which was a huge Victorian school building with high ceilings and amazing light. I’d done one small exhibition, where I’d sold a satisfactory amount of paintings, and then landed the bigger one in the centre of London. Things were going well.
And then Max landed on my doorstep and I was furious with him. Because he always did that. He always arrived at my door when he needed me to bail him out or to lend him money or to give him somewhere to sleep for a week before he sodded off again. But this time, I felt in control – like a proper grown-up with a job and a plan and I didn’t want him to mess it all up for me.
I let him stay but I made sure he knew I wasn’t happy about it. I said some awful things to him about his selfishness and the way he used me. So when I rang the police about my burglary, hewas convinced I’d done it on purpose – that I’d got him banged up to get him out of my life.
And the awful thing was, I thought he might be right.
But after that my life gradually fell apart anyway. Not all at once. It just happened slowly and because I was worrying about Max and feeling guilty, I found I didn’t have the energy to stop it. I knew it sounded pathetic, but it was like I didn’t have the strength to hold everything together.
First of all, I didn’t follow up on my exhibition because I couldn’t bear to go back to the gallery. I kept thinking about the police officers showing up and the lurch of fear that Max was dead and the last thing I’d have said to him was that I wanted him out of my life.
And then there was the guilt of knowing he wasn’t dead but he was in prison because of me. The weight of it all meant I didn’t show up to the many press evenings, launches, parties and viewings. I missed all the chances to make contacts and spread the word about my art.
I found that I couldn’t quite bring myself to apply for my teaching post for the next academic year. We always had to sign up before the holidays to say we were available next term. It was a formality rather than anything arduous. We said what courses we could teach, and the hours were shared out. But it was just after Max had stolen all my stuff, and the anxiety that had always fluttered around inside me since I was a little girl grew stronger and made me weaker and I didn’t do it. So I didn’t get a course to teach, and I couldn’t carry on with my therapy lessons, and suddenly I didn’t have enough money coming in to pay my rent.
When I swallowed my pride and rang my dad and told him I was going to be evicted and could he lend me some cash to tide me over, he said no. He had a bit of a cash-flow problem himself, he said, because he’d been helping Max and solicitors didn’t come cheap, you know.
But thankfully, he sorted out my room over Bernie’s garage,which meant when I found out about Max’s credit card debt, I didn’t have to move again. Instead, when I was visiting my nan, I spotted an ad for a carer’s position at Tall Trees and I got the job. So with that and my shifts at The Vine, I kept my head above water. Just. But my creative spark, my ideas, my love of art, had all vanished.
I shifted in bed, listening to the rain pattering down on the roof. Perhaps this grant was just what I needed to give me a kick up the bum. Get me going again. The only problem was the application form asked for a lot of details and I didn’t have any ideas. Not one. I wasn’t even sure what “Presents from the Past” really meant.
