October 16th, 1984
Indigo sat down at her desk, sighing. She pulled the record she'd bought out of her bag, and looked at the gorgeous cover for a moment. It seemed everywhere she went, Christine McVie followed.
Truthfully, she didn't mind. She loved her voice, her face, every interview. But the rational part of her mind knew that she should have moved on long ago. She hadn't managed to date anyone else in nearly twenty years and it made her feel stupid, like she was broken. Like she wasn't good enough for anyone else but at the same time, nobody was good enough for her after Christine. She laughed, if she had said that to Christine, years ago, that she'd ruined every other woman for her, they would have found it funny and sweet. Now it was just plain sad.
Leaning back, Indigo listened to her voice, letting it wash over her like a comforting blanket. Her life seemed so exciting now, she could afford records and rent and proper supplies- canvases instead of scrounging around for cardboard to paint on. But she still wasn't happy.
She grabbed a cushion from the couch and snuggled into it, mushing her face into the soft fabric.
How the fuck was she still stuck up on Christine?
Hours later, she had listened to it several times, and the sleeve of the album was resting on her desk still. She looked closer at it and realised she had made up her mind, she sat down in front of one of the huge canvases she had planned to use for a gallery show but changed her mind. She pulled the sleeve closer, and began to mix the paint.
October 24th, 1984
"Hey, it's me," Christine smiled at the sound of Lindsey's voice on her voicemail, "I know you're halfway across the world, but I wanted to say how much I love how the album turned out, I'm so grateful you let me help. I'll never forget that week. Anyway, I love you, Chris. See you soon."
She put the phone back down, looking up at the clock and realising it was too late to call him back. She smiled, glad he was thinking of her still.
