Stella felt Vincent’s hold release from her shoulder and she nodded gently. ‘Gotcha.’
‘I’m going to answer this.’ He held up his phone, which was ringing on silent. ‘Have a walk around. Take some time by yourself. I hope this will help you realise your potential. And the potential ofthatwall.’
Stella moved to the next image and inhaled deeply, which helped to restore her focus. The photo was of a naked woman with little consideration for her modesty. Across the middle of her torso and her groin, a lithograph which featured outreaching tentacles spread to the edges of the image. It was striking, and despite the clash of mediums, it worked harmoniously.
‘Your friend told me I should introduce myself.’ His accent was strong, but his English was flawless.
Stella turned and found herself face-to-face with Alejandro Ortega himself. Over his shoulder, she saw Vincent, who gave her a coaxing head nod.
‘Did he now?’ Stella smiled, placing her hand into the one Alejandro proffered.
‘I will tell youeverythingthat you need to know.’ He steered Stella in front of the next image, which featured the photo of a large masculine looking hand behind a coarsely lined print. ‘Our handsknowwhat to do. Believe me, it’s true. It’s our head – our mind, our confidence – which tries to convince us otherwise.’ With Stella’s hand still in his, he turned it over, revealing Stella’s paint-stained fingers. ‘Yours will know what to do. In fact, they already do.’ He smiled sagely. ‘Mine did.’ He held up his hands for Stella to see. His palms were blackened by decades of lithograph work. ‘Non-toxic. I hope.’ He smiled then passed her a small white envelope. ‘Fromhim,’ Alejandro said, gesturing in Vincent’s direction, giving her a final wink. He turned and was quickly intercepted by another patron.
Stella smiled and opened the envelope. Vincent’s familiar cursive read,Now do you believe me?
Her heart swelled, and she slipped it into her jacket pocket for safekeeping.
Even after only a few days, Vincent had already shown more genuine interest and support in Stella’s art and abilities than Andrew ever had. It was so incredibly liberating. And despite the damage of years of torturous gaslighting and belittling mind patterns which tried to convince her otherwise, Stellawantedto believe Vincent. This was a new kind of support and care she hadn’t known, and she felt bolstered by it, even in its infancy.
Stella turned to face the hand on the wall and closed her eyes.
Yours will know what to do . . .
The outline of the hand remained in the dark space of her concealed vision. She tried to clear it and push it away and focus on the black. The blank canvas. There it was, finally.
Emptiness.
Dropping her shoulders, she allowed herself another sip of wine; the tannins and taste were heightened by her lack of vision. The way the wine spread across her tongue, and the smell which found her nostrils, ignited her sense-memory. Piazze filled to the brim at midnight in the stubborn long-lasting summer heat. Early morning strolls in the cobbled backstreets. Lines and queues of tourists, some a kilometre in length, snaking around corners, past the monuments . . .
Her eyes flicked open.
The pace of her heartbeat quickened, as if keeping time with the images and ideas flitting across her imagination.
The sight of Vincent’s approach in her peripheral vision caused her to turn.
Slipping his phone back into his pocket, he said, ‘By the look of those wide eyes of yours, I’d say you’ve struck some kind of inspiration.’
Exhaling a sigh, which caused her torso to shorten with its release, she said, ‘I’ve finally got it. Thank you.’ And without conscious thought, she slipped her free hand into his.
And then she no longer felt alone.
A mess of cotton sheets and legs, Stella tilted her head back and locked eyes with Vincent. ‘Thank you again.’
‘You’re welcome again.’ He pressed another kiss to her forehead.
‘That was one of the kindest things . . .’
‘Enough. Now, you need to go and action the plan.’
Stella flopped back on the minimal amount of mattress she had. ‘I’m going to give it my all.’ With her eyes fixed on the ceiling, she said, ‘Can I tell you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘It’s nice to be able to . . . uhm . . .shareart with you.’
‘It was just an exhibit.’
‘No. There’s more to it.’ Stella turned on her side to face him front-on, wrapping the sheet across the top of her chest. ‘My ex . . .’ Her throat felt as if it were closing in that familiar asphyxiating way, but she pressed on. ‘He . . . he used art against me.’
