Chapter 11
M illie stepped back and took a sip of warm tea. Her neck and shoulders ached, and her vision was starting to blur. Her right hand was tender with cramp and there were smudges all over her. She was pretty sure she even had some paint on her cheek, judging by the weird texture. And yet, despite these discomforts, she felt more alive than she had done for a very long time. Probably ever since she’d moved to Sandyhaven. Even well before that. She’d spent the whole day just creating. She’d woken up at 7am without the aid of an alarm clock and felt motivated and driven. A trip to the craft store the previous day had been glorious – it was over an hour by car to get to Truro, where she could find a shop that would supply what she’d need, but she’d enjoyed the drive. First on the narrow, winding B roads and then opening out onto wider, faster dual carriageway that allowed her to put her foot down and enjoy the feeling of zipping through unspoilt countryside. She also felt this tremendous sense of privilege, swanning around on a weekday with no miserable job or demeaning boss to answer to. She knew this couldn’t last forever but for now she was determined to enjoy it.
The store had been quiet, as expected for a rainy Thursday at the end of October. Being an independent shop as well meant completely individual products, which was a plus. Upon walking in, she had been struck with familiar and comforting sights and smells: reams of paper of all different thicknesses and textures were ordered satisfyingly on one wall, some loose and some bound into thick sketchpads with faux leather covers. The smell of thick wax crayons and powdery chalks hung in the air as she moved around the shop, her boots making the scuffed wooden floor creak underneath her. Acrylic paints every colour of the spectrum had been sorted into individual cubbyholes and delicately wrapped paintbrushes adorned shelves beside them. Further back in the shop was the haberdashery section, something which she had never really toyed in, but which intrigued her all the same with the large balls of chunky wool and various sized knitting needles amongst other treasures.
“Hi, can I help you?” A female voice came from behind her and when Millie turned around, she was face to face with a dark-haired woman. Older than her, about 45 to her 50, she guessed, wearing a long skirt and bright coloured pashmina over a vest top. She had stunning amber coloured eyes and wore a chunk of amber around her neck to match.
“Yes, I’m looking to get some art equipment,” Millie replied, instantly feeling a little silly because what else would she be doing in a specialist art shop?
“Well, you’ve come to the right place!” the lady replied, indicating around the shop with a warm smile. “What sort of things are you after?”
“Well, I want to get back into painting. It’s something I used to do a lot of but since moving I just haven’t had the drive, bar a couple of dabbles.”
“Ah, the dreaded ‘painter’s block’. Much less known about than the popular ‘writer’s block’,” she smiled, knowingly.
“Indeed. So, I know what I’d usually go for but anything you can recommend would be great!”
“I can certainly do that,” the lady replied. “What would you say your level of experience is?” Millie’s mind strayed back to ‘white-cliffs-of-Dover-gate’.
“I’ve been doing it a while…” she stuttered out, not really sure what else to say. The lady smiled knowingly.
“Ah, so that means you’ve got some talent, clearly,” she said warmly. “Only a true artist would be so humble.” Millie gave a shy smile. She wasn’t so sure about that.
“What medium do you use, may I ask?”
“I’m an oil painter mainly but I’m starting to branch out into other styles. I’ve been experimenting a lot with gouache paints, so think I may purchase some of both,” she explained. Lauren nodded thoughtfully.
“Well, I can pull a few pieces together and give you a bundle price, if that’s ok?”
“Absolutely,” Millie smiled, grateful for the decision making to be taken out her hands. It had been so long since she’d purchased art materials, she almost didn’t trust herself to make such decisions.
The lady started busying herself around the shop, returning to the counter every now and again to place items down. Millie felt uncomfortable just watching her so instead turned her attention to the framed artwork on the wall. The pastel, nautical colours and cartoon-sequence style looked familiar and when she stepped closer and saw the scribbled signature she realised why.
“Ah, these are Lauren Shilton’s paintings! I adore her work,” she spoke out loud, mostly to herself.
“Well, thank you very much. It’s always nice to feel appreciated,” the lady replied with a chuckle, still fussing about extracting an easel from its selected spot in the store. Millie turned around to face her. Had she just said what she thought she had?
“I’m sorry. Did you say you are Lauren Shilton?” She turned and smiled.
“I am indeed!” she replied, and Millie felt a little flutter of butterflies. She couldn’t believe this was the artist whose work she had admired for a long time, not just for the pure talent but because she had stepped outside the box and created things which obviously she liked, not just what sold for big money in galleries.
“Wow. It’s so great to meet you. I absolutely adore your work!” Millie said, aware she was gushing but not feeling in the slightest bit embarrassed for it.
“Well, that’s so lovely to hear! It’s always nice to hear lovely things about your own creations.” She finished collecting bits and pieces together and came back behind the counter, taking out thick paper bags to contain it all. “Where do you know my work from?”
“Back in London where I used to live there was a café I used to stop at on my way to work in the morning. I first saw one of your paintings in there and I remember looking at it every day and thinking how amazing it was. It was the one with all of the cats and dogs sat around in a café,” she recalled. Lauren burst out laughing.
“Oh yes, I know the one. I think that’s the most stress a painting has ever cost me. The original version ended up with muddy prints all over it when my delightful cat Margot decided to tread on it. After a good cry, I pulled myself together and ended up creating something twice as good, so I guess it wasn’t all lost.” Millie listened with amusement and almost pure disbelief that she was hearing this story straight from the artist’s mouth, as Lauren added the last few bits into the bag and pushed them gently towards her, as an invitation to take them. “Here you go. That should be everything you need to get you back into the swing of things.”
“Thank you. I do hope so,” Millie replied, fumbling in her bag for some cash.
“And do keep in touch and let me know what you create,” Lauren said, popping a business card into the bags with everything else. “I have social media and I love being tagged in pieces, especially when it’s my shop’s products that have helped to create them!”
“Oh, I definitely will,” she replied. This little rendezvous may have seemed completely coincidental to others but to Millie, it definitely felt like fate that she had met one of her favourite artists, pretty much on her doorstep, right at the beginning of her revived creative journey.
* * *
Gazing at her new work of art in the fading light the following day, she contemplated sending it to Lauren, but nerves got the better of her. Besides, it wasn’t completely finished yet. She always liked to leave a piece for a couple of days before going back to it to add and change bits. Sam had referred to it as the “faffing period.” She’d never been quite sure what to make of that.
Her mobile buzzed and her heart gave its automatic expectant flip. Luckily, the screen flashed up as an incoming call from Amy and relief washed over her.
“Hey,” Millie answered, walking over to the fire and prodding it. With the fading light came the chillier temperatures.
“Hey girl. I hope you’re getting ready?” Her eyes flickered immediately to the clock on the wall, and she did a little gasp. Where had the day gone?
“I take it from that exhalation that you’re most certainly not getting ready,” she replied drily. Millie caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and began to rub furiously at the cracked paint stain on her cheek.
“Uh, got a bit side-tracked, to be honest. It’s OK, I’ve got ages,” she protested, taking the stairs two at a time and rushing into her bedroom. God, it was cold in here.
“Ages? We’re meeting at Alfie’s in just over an hour!”
“Yeah well, how long does it take to make yourself look like a zombie anyway?” Millie replied. It was the night of the Halloween party at the pub and the whole village was abuzz. She would be meeting Amy and the gang at Alfie’s at eight for some drinks, before heading to the pub where there would be food, more drinks, dancing and “scares” (as promised on the chalkboard outside the pub). There had been family events during the day: a little Halloween disco for the kiddies, pumpkin carving and apple bobbing. But this evening’s celebrations looked to be a little more raucous for the adults. Millie wasn’t entirely looking forward to it in all honesty– both dressing up in costume and Halloween weren’t really her favourite things. Back in London, Sam had complained about trick or treaters, calling them “little mercenaries” and declaring that “when we have kids, I shan’t be facilitating such thievery.” That comment made her stomach drop now, knowing what she knew.
“Well, just don’t be late. I’m knocking on your door at five to eight, zombie-fied or not.” And with that she hung the phone up.