Chapter 6 Stephanie
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, he was 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.
Outside I could hear shouts and laughter as a group of loud drinkers went past. I put the pillow over my head.
What kind of weirdos stayed out so late in the pissing rain?
I thought. Clearly they were up to no good.
Probably they were heading to Tall Trees to write rude slogans on the wall I’d painted over earlier.
With my head still under the pillow, I gasped.
The wall at Tall Trees! I pulled my head free then sat up, hugging the pillow to my chest, and feeling my heart beating a little bit faster.
The bloody wall. It was easily seen from the road, so it was definitely public.
And it was like a blank canvas, just waiting to be painted over – as the local graffiti “artists” kept proving.
Could I use that for a community art project?
Paint a huge mural perhaps? I loved working on a big scale, though my usual style was more abstract.
I thought for a moment, frowning in concentration and thinking about the phrase “Presents from the Past”.
It was like one of those advertising slogans that didn’t mean anything, but perhaps I could design something based on the history of Tall Trees?
I’d never been very interested in historical stuff but hadn’t Mr Yin said Tall Trees was a hospital during the war?
That was something. I could paint some poppies on the wall or a few soldiers.
I leaned back against my headboard and closed my eyes.
It would have to be more inventive than that, I knew; a ￡10,000 grant wasn’t just going to be handed out to the first person who applied for it.
And there was no guarantee Tall Trees would let someone like me scribble all over their property anyway.
But perhaps I had the very beginning of an idea.
Despite the sound of the rain and the shouts that were now fading into the distance, I felt sleep creeping up on me. I wasn’t working at Tall Trees tomorrow, but I thought I might go round anyway. I could see Nan, and have a look at the wall. Maybe once I was there, inspiration would strike.
*
And so, the next morning, I got on my bike and cycled through the quiet streets to Tall Trees.
I didn’t go inside at first. Instead, I stopped on the pavement outside.
The home was behind a low wall, just a bit higher than my waist. It was easily jumped over, which was why the tempting white gable end got daubed in graffiti so often.
Now I leaned my bike against the wall, put my hands on the top, and with a bit of effort, clumsily pulled myself up so I was sitting on it.
Then I stood up and studied the gable end.
It was the perfect place for a mural, I thought.
It really was a blank canvas. It was visible from the street, and from every bus and car that went along the busy road.
I stood on top of the wall with my hands on my hips and took it in.
It was perfect. And also absolutely impossible.
It was such a big space to fill – way bigger than the canvases I used to paint – and I had no ideas. Not one.
‘Are you breaking in?’
I gasped at the interruption, wobbling on my perch, and luckily managed to keep my balance. Annoyed, I turned and looked down to see the floppy-haired man I’d seen in reception, grinning up at me. ‘Are you casing the joint?’
‘Busted,’ I said. ‘I’m planning on nicking a load of bed pans and flogging them down the Queen’s Head.’
The floppy-haired man laughed loudly. ‘You work here, don’t you? I saw you the other day.’
‘I do,’ I admitted.
‘But you’re not working now?’
‘I’m not.’
Fed up with balancing. I sat down with my legs dangling into the grounds of Tall Trees. To my surprise, the man clambered up on to the wall next to me and sat with his legs astride the wall.
‘So what are you doing?’
In the face of such enthusiastic questioning, I could only tell the truth. ‘I’m thinking about painting a mural,’ I said.
‘Brilliant,’ He took his bike helmet off and ran his fingers through his hair, studying the gable end. ‘It’s the perfect place for a mural.’
‘I know.’ I was pleased by his approval.