Chapter 13 Andrea
Andrea
“Yeah,” she said. “Don’t shit a brick. Apparently, they’re tax deductible.”
Hell’s bells.
“I think that’s unlikely,” I said. “Unless she can detach them between shoots and store them in her ‘modeling wardrobe’?”
“Maybe the tax man will treat them like a home office?”
“Allocate partial usage for work and the rest for fun and day-to-day life?” I raised a brow. “What happened to ‘the medical industry is a scam designed to create lifelong customers’?”
“That was before she discovered the tax advantages of low-profile teardrop silicone.”
A sign flashed past on the left: Welcome to Datchet.
“You know, she still hasn’t paid me back for the boiler repairs yet,” I said.
Mum’s carpet was so threadbare on the stairs that it was a miracle she hadn’t broken her neck, and she didn’t have a retirement plan. Yet at the ripe old age of fifty-eight, she was planning to drop thousands into a pair of fake breasts.
Brilliant.
“She won’t, Andy. She never does,” Eliza said. “Anyway, she’s convinced they’ll show a good return over three years. More work, apparently.”
“Probably won’t hurt her Tinder profile either.”
“Oh no, she’s off that. Still seeing the semi-famous Aussie cricketer. Apparently, he insisted.”
Gravel crunched as I pulled into the driveway. The front door flew open, and Mum stood there, arms wide, an oversized white shirt knotted at the waist. She was tanned and glowing, champagne flute in hand, feet bare on the stone step.
“Andy, Lizzy, come in!”
She hugged us hard and pulled us into the cool hallway of the old brick house. The same family photos lined the walls. Same frames. Same faded faces. There we were. Me, Eliza, Mum, and Dad. It hurt a little bit to look at them now.
Garlic and seafood drifted from the kitchen, tangled with Chanel No. 5 and Fleetwood Mac’s “The Chain.”
“Murray, the girls are here.”
The cricketer waved from the dilapidated conservatory like a man unsure if he was meant to stand.
“You both look gorgeous,” Mum said, pushing a charcuterie board toward us and handing out flutes. “Prosecco? Kombucha? What’s going on with you two? Are you still doing the medical thing, Andy?”
“Novexia,” I said. “Pharma, remember, Mum?”
Murray shuffled in and gave us both a kiss on the cheek. “Lovely to see you, girls. If you want tickets to Lord’s next year, give me a shout. Celeste … I mean … your mum and I are going.”
Mum beamed. “The Pavilion. Very fancy.”
“Oh, thanks, Murray,” said Eliza, turning to me with a shrug. None of us were big cricket fans.
Murray poured himself a red and went back to his crossword.
“So what about you, Mum?” I asked. “Been working much?”
“Oh yes.” She spread her arms in mock flourish. “I got the nationwide campaign for Defenda.”
“Holy shit,” Eliza said. “Land Rover?”
“Close.” Mum flicked the ends of her hair with her hands. “I’m the face of the UK’s premium incontinence pads. Pay’s great, though, so who cares?”
Eliza choked on her Prosecco.
“Wow, congrats.” I raised my glass. “Today, bringing glamour to leaking wee, tomorrow—”
“The face of conquering erectile dysfunction, believe it or not.” She clinked her flute against mine. “I did a shoot for Fortis ErectaGel too, last week. Incredible stuff. You just rub it on the helmet—”
“Mum!” Eliza looked like she might gag.
“Well. Anyway, they gave me loads of free samples. You can have some if you want?”
“No,” we said together.
“I’ll post you some,” she said. “You never know.”
“Mum,” I said carefully. “Please say I’m not going to see your photo on the Underground holding a—”
“What?” She frowned. “Oh, God no! I just had to look secretly pleased, the director said. Like I’d just seen a really large peni—”
“Mum, we didn’t tell you.” Eliza jumped in. She raised a brow at me, indicating she’d had to resort to emergency measures. “Andy’s worried she might lose her job.”
“Surely not?” Mum gasped. “After that business with Rudy, too? Why on earth—”
“We’ve been bought out,” I said. “By a rich guy.”
“A rich guy?” Mum leaned in. “Is he nice?”
“Nice isn’t the word I’d use.”
“Oh dear, too old for you?”
I didn’t answer.
“Shame. Well, I’m sure he wouldn’t want to get rid of you, darling. And even if he does”—she looked pointedly at my artwork hanging on every wall—“it’s not like it’s your life’s vocation, is it?”
I glanced around the room. Some of my pictures were as old as the pink-and-blue fitted valance above the kitchen window.
She’d even framed one I did when I was eight—a blobby felt-tip princess with a castle and a herd of cats, my name scrawled underneath it in childish print: Alexandrea L.
Jones. I’d used my full name on my art ever since I was a kid.
“It pays well, Mum,” I said. “I need the money. And the job’s okay. Really.”
She’d never understand why I worked in sales. Nothing had felt stable since Dad died. The house had been paid off, but Mum had never had a steady job—I couldn’t imagine the unease I’d feel in her shoes.
“Pfft. If you’re happy with the slow death of your soul,” she said, then softened. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, sweetie. And what about you, Lizzy? Have you decided what sort of lawyer you’re going to be yet?”
My sister shoved a huge scoop of guacamole into her mouth and tried to talk anyway. “Not really, no. It’s not exactly … well. I don’t have to decide yet, anyway.”
“Dominic says family law is very lucrative, if that’s your thing?”
“It’s not.”
“Oh. Right. Well. I’m sure you’ll be marvelous, you always had such a way with words. You’ll be a wonderful lawyer, darling.”
Eliza rolled her eyes.
Mum turned back to me. “And have you been painting, darling?”
“I don’t have time, Mum. Full-time job.” I gave Eliza a look while Mum pulled something hot out of the oven.
How the hell did she think my sister would make it through college without some stability behind her?
It was hard enough for her to focus on her studies as it was, without worrying about money too.
“Oh, Andy. You mustn’t give up your art. It’s your calling. Whatever happened to your winning picture, by the way, sweets? I caught up with Christian Lange last week, and he said the touring exhibition was almost over. Faces of Now, wasn’t it?”
The portrait was one I’d painted of Eliza in my final year at uni for the Montclair Portrait Award.
She always said I’d made her look fat, but everyone else called it breathtaking.
I put winning the young artist category down to Eliza herself being breathtaking—the painting hadn’t come out as polished as I’d wanted.
“The commercial rights were transferred to the sponsor, Montclair Global, remember?” I said. “Part of the prize terms for having it in the exhibition for four years. It’s being sold at auction soon.”
“So you don’t even get to keep it?” I could almost see her anti-establishment fire igniting.
“I did get five grand prize money, Mum,” I said. “Plus five hundred pounds for every year it’s been touring. And I get seventy percent of the sale proceeds, too.”
Even if it sold, it wouldn’t go for much. Art wouldn’t pay the bills for long.
“Well.” Mum clapped her hands. “When’s the auction? It’s not the big thing in Chelsea, is it? Ooh, I hope it is—it was advertised on Facebook. We should at least go and watch. Great way to network, too. All sorts of wealthy art connoisseurs and investors.”
Thank God Eliza hadn’t told her about Liam Roth—he’d tick every box Mum had for appropriate suitors. Red flags be damned.
Would he be there? He certainly ticked the wealthy investor box …
“I don’t actually know—”
But Mum was already texting.
“Christian will be across it, darling, don’t worry. Did I tell you, he’s closing his gallery in Gloucester? Said he wants to travel Asia again.”
“Oh my God, Asia? That’s my dream.” Eliza clapped her hands to her cheeks and looked at me. “Christian’s so cool. I can’t wait to talk to him about it.”
Christian. Another member of Mum’s man harem, along with Dominic the lawyer, Bruce the mechanic, and now, Murray the cricketer. Even the optometrist had been sending her follow-up texts trying to arrange a date. She was catnip for silver foxes.
“Ooh, darling!” Mum’s eyes were bright. “He’s sent me a link—look!”
The website popped up on her screen:
First night of the Global Contemporary Evening Sale at Cranley House. Silent auction.
“It’s next week,” she said. “Chelsea Harbour. Christian’s going, of course. I’ll see if he can get you in.”
She went back to frantically typing on her phone.
“Dammit, Andy.” Eliza looked at me. “We have to get tickets. I can’t believe they’re not hosting you as a matter of course.”
I put a hand on the back of my neck. “Yeah, that would be cool. But I’m not exactly ‘a name.’” I knew the auction was coming up, but I’d put it out of my mind. That part of my life was behind me—no point living in the past. The tickets were probably worth more than my painting.
Everyone wanted landscapes or abstracts on their walls. Not portraits, and certainly not by an unknown. My piece was only included as a condition of the prize.
“So.” Mum put the phone down and pushed the olives toward me. “It’s the hottest art event of the year. Collectors, critics, celebs. Very swanky.”
“Can he get us in?” Eliza asked. “Christian knows people, doesn’t he?”
“Tickets are a thousand pounds each,” Mum said. “Charity thing, you know.”
“Holy crap, Andy, a thousand pounds just to get in?”
“Well, Christian’s happy to see if he can squeeze you in on the door,” said Mum. “It might be a waste of time. But nothing ventured, don’t you think?”
“Come on, Andy, let’s go,” said Eliza. “At the very least, we can hang with Christian and hear about his trip. Something different. Fun.”
She had a point.
“Imagine,” she added. “Listening to all those stuffy art boffins intellectually masturbating over your creative genius.”
“Do you remember that knob, Sebastian Wetherall?” I asked.
“Wasn’t he the one who described your piece as ‘naive’?”
“That’s the one.”
He’d said more than that, and he was probably right. I hoped he wouldn’t be there.
“‘Naive’?” said Mum. “What does he know? You won your bit, darling, never mind the Sebastian Wetheralls of this world. You are being celebrated. You deserve to be there. I say”—she paused for effect—“eff the establishment. If Christian can’t get you on the guest list, you should just break in.”
“Yeah, right. Disguise ourselves as waitresses and slip in via the kitchen with a tray of smoked salmon blinis?” I said.
“We could, you know. White shirts, black ties. Glitzy frocks underneath?” Eliza nudged me.
“Just show up with confidence and say you’re journalists?” suggested Mum.
“I wonder if Liam Roth’s going,” I said without thinking.
“Who, darling?” Mum asked.
“Oh. Nobody.” Why had Liam’s name popped into my head? Must have been all that talk of privileged arseholes rolling in cash.
Mum looked at me a second too long. “Okay. Well, you’ve got just under a week. Are you up for it?”
“I am,” said Eliza. “Worst-case scenario, we get forcibly removed.”
“True,” I said. “And if we do, so what? The paps aren’t exactly going to take a photo of two twats from Datchet getting booted out, are they?”
Mum raised a glass. “Nothing to lose. You two ‘twats’ need some fun. And like I said, you never know who you might meet.”
I had no intention of meeting anyone, certainly not some stuffed shirt with more money than sense, but it would be a great distraction. And if it all went pear-shaped and we got kicked out, so what?
Our shame would remain a secret between Christian, my sister, and me. Nobody else would ever know.
“We’re in,” I said.
It was about time we had a break from the drudgery.
This was going to be fun.