In the morning, feeling fresh, both physically and mentally, I head straight to my studio and start on a brand new canvas. I try to explore the themes I thought I saw on the arm I had a better look at.
“Oooh, are you moving in a new direction?” Ava asks, bringing me a cup of tea.
“I thought I’d explore basic linear shapes today.”
“It’s fascinating. I can’t wait to see where you go with it.”
“Thanks,” I say and take a sip of the tea, inhaling the peppermint smell.
“I’ll leave you, I don’t want to disturb creative genius at work. I just wanted to bring you something to drink.”
I stand back from the canvas, sipping my tea and examining it. I can’t go down this little self-indulgent path any further; it’d never sell. Not that my other stuff is flying off the shelves, but at least it has potential.
I whitewash over the canvas and put it aside. In my sketchbook, I draw out a few ideas about the woman the man was with, and all the places she would be out of place in. I run with the idea, jotting and sketching everything that comes into my mind.
Soon I’ve come up with a concept for a series of paintings on out-of-place wealth, and how money detaches a person from the rest of the world. An evening gown on the beach. Dangly diamond earrings on a tree in the woods. A tiara on top of a scarecrow’s head.
I immerse myself in the project for four days, spending every waking hour on the paintings. Ava brings me food and drinks, and I break to eat, but otherwise spend every second of my time on them.
Thursday meets me with dread I have to work at Johnny’s tonight.
The three canvases are lined up in a row in my studio, and I fiddle with the green of the trees in the forest, trying to make the leaves appear as natural as possible.
Noticing my hunger for the first time in days, I put down my brush and make my way to the kitchen. As I approach it, I overhear Ava speaking on the phone in the living room.
“I don’t understand why you won’t remortgage my property,” she is saying.
My heart sinks. I pause to listen to her conversation, I can’t help myself.
“Yes, I know I’m over retirement age, but I have a pension that covers the payments.”
My heart is now pounding in my chest, and I’m on the verge of hyperventilating. Not wanting to hear anymore, I rush into the kitchen. I try to unwrap the bread bag, but my hands are shaking so much I give up and grab a banana instead.
It doesn’t matter what Ava says, I’m going to have to take on extra shifts at Johnny’s. And I’m going to start painting more mainstream projects. Enough of the self-indulgent museum pieces, I’m not having a kind woman fritter away her house and pension because of me.
While I finish my banana, I scan the commissions available on a local artists’ website. I send my details off to a handful, then decide fuck it, I need anything I can get, and send my details to all the current postings.
Most are for things like portrait paintings. A few are for things like ‘paint my house’ or ‘paint my dog’. Some people have way too much money on their hands.
With Ava’s comment about remortgaging echoing in my head, I put up a profile of myself with photos of both myself and some of my pieces, as someone looking for work. Until now, I’d always viewed the artist profiles as people who weren’t being true to their art. Now I’m one of them.
Throwing myself back into my paintings, I decide I need to finish this project as quickly as possible, even if the quality suffers. By the late afternoon I’m absorbed in making the diamond earrings shimmer. I lose total track of time and only realize I’m late for work when Ava comes in and tells me.
That night, I make sure to set my alarm to make sure I’m not late for Friday’s and Saturday’s shifts. I’m skating on thin ice after last Saturday, and then being late today. Now, knowing Ava’s situation, I can’t risk the income.
On Saturday, I hide in my waitress station wiping down the menus. Kevin lets me know a party of two has just arrived at table six. I grab two menus and head to it, ready to give my standard welcome spiel.
When I reach the table, the hot guy from last week is sitting in the same spot he was last Saturday. A different woman sits across from him. A thousand butterflies fill my insides.
“Hey, Skye,” he says and winks at me.
“Welcome back to Johnny’s Roadhouse.” My smile is not the fake plastered-on one I normally greet guests with.
My cheeks burn red when the thought crosses my mind that he’s become the star of my nightly fantasies. Shamed, I drop the menus on the table and hightail it back to my wait station.
Leaning against the wall, I try to calm my breathing. I pat my cheeks, willing the red to go away. This is nuts, I have to calm myself down, or how will I be able to go out there and take his order? Let alone carry a plate of food to him without dropping it…