I'm Normally Perfect (re-upload)

Chapter Thirty-Three

I didn't get out of bed until the following afternoon, when Alex returned from her studio and came up to see me. Standing in the doorway she asked, 'Feeling at all better?'

'Meh.'

'Any requests for supper?'

'Meh.'

She clapped her hands, 'All right, up you get, let's go. I've something to show you.'

'Does that require putting on clothes?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'Then I think I'll have a pass on that, this time.'

'Not an option. I wanted to save it until the day before you left, but you've forced my hand. So get up. Meet me downstairs in ten minutes.' She added menacingly, 'Or reap the consequences.'

She had a surprise for me? Trying to not seem too eager, I got dressed. When I got downstairs she said, 'Into the car.'

I wasn't certain a surprise was worth a car trip, but I followed into the garage anyway and we motored to the centre of the village. When I realised we were on our way to her studio I turned to her, 'You've finished my portrait, haven't you?'

'Yes, I have. And you'd better like it, getting the bloody material right was a nightmare.'

'Okey dokey.' A picture of me wasn't exactly the corking surprise I'd been looking for, but I was happy Alex was happy. And that she cared enough to try and cheer me.

She covered my eyes before we entered her studio. I liked her hands over my eyes then I reminded myself about my moratorium on touching Alex and forced myself to be uncomfortable, as I knew I should be.

She asked, 'Are you ready?' I nodded and she removed her hands, 'Ta da.'

'Jesus, Alex.'

'I do hope that's a, "Good show, Alex", and not a "what have you done, Alex".'

I sniffed in amusement, 'It is. It's...amazing.' It looked like something that should be hanging in the National Portrait Gallery. She'd captured the textures of the many fabrics beautifully. It was me, holding a large piece of needlework, gazing out of a window at the sea. My dress was burgundy and I had on a deep purple cloak over the top of it. I walked right up to the painting, the velvet seemed to have texture, as though I could pull the dress and cloak out and put them on. My hair was pulled back in a low bun, wispies falling down and about. The sea outside my window was grey and stormy, the sky echoing the sea. 'I thought it was to be a portrait.'

'I got carried away. Do you really like it?'

'Yes. I do.' I figured she mustn't have been too upset with me over what happened at Stewart's if she'd taken the time to finish the painting, though, she might have done simply because she'd started it and didn't want to abandon a piece of work. Then again, if I lost interest in a story I'd simply stop writing, so perhaps not.

She broke my internal dialogue, 'Hello, Catherine? Are you all right?'

'Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired.'

'You've been in bed for eighteen hours, darling.'

'Hey, it's hard work lying about, trying to figure out what's wrong with you.'

She sniffed in amusement. 'You shouldn't spend so very much time caring about what other people think.'

I didn't care. Or maybe I did, but hated myself for caring. Ugh. Why must everything be so complicated?