The Keeper

No one Special in London

Initially, Martha had been dismissive about the course. Dean had said that she would learn a lot, but it wasn't from instruction; she learned little from the tutors. Instead, observation, encouragement, and freedom to experiment took art to another level. Everything was used to create the new. Rubbish from the streets, balls of hair, bodily fluids: all was fair game as a medium. Tutors suggested subjects and guided students, but they spurred you on to go off on a tangent. Sometimes way off: there was no censorship. Would Miss Staverly have written Martha's letter of recommendation if she had seen the roadkill collage that hung in the student bar? Not that Martha's work was in that vein. St Hibbert's ate the ordinary. Martha was challenged, survived and then grew outside her old boundaries, the way that ivy left unchecked grows up and around an old shed before pulling it apart. She didn't concern herself with grades and qualifications anymore – only with being different, apart from the mainstream, better.

Martha let herself go so that Marty exerted her influence when painting, preferring grey and brown over blue and green. She leaned into her painting, applying layers of oil paints with a palette knife to build works with the depths of despair that countered her outward emotions. It confused her tutors, challenged interpretation and got her the marks she needed but didn't seek.

Marty was happy and busy, which kept Martha from thinking too much about times past and what the future might hold. When she went home for Easter, Amy wasn't there. Her mum said, "Didn't she tell you? She's working through the holidays at the Mexican restaurant. Gets extra pay and more tips, she said, but I think it's the boyfriend she's staying for."

"I bet you're right. What's his name again?"

"Tony. He sounds lovely on the phone, but that Italian accent works on everyone, doesn't it?"

Martha laughed, thanked Mrs Chen and hung up. She didn't know what Tony sounded like because until that point she hadn't even heard of him. She hadn't talked to Amy all term. And now she wouldn't even see her at home. It wasn't entirely Amy's fault. Martha hadn't called or written either. It would've broken the guise of Marty and left her in limbo again.

* * *

The Easter holiday dragged on. There was no reason to be home without Amy. There was nothing to do except walk and bike around the reminders of before. Joan's allotment had been taken over, she noticed, as she watched a young couple pulling the weeds that had already swarmed over the previously neat beds.

Her parents asked questions about her social life and she described what she knew they would like to know about her nights out and weekends away. It only took a day for her dad to ask if there was 'anyone special' in her life.

"Just a lot of friends, Dad. I don't want to be all coupled up and miss out on all the fun."

Because there was no one special in London – not unless that was where Dean was hiding.