Keys of Life

Chapter Eleven: Keenan

Chapter Eleven: Keenan

   "No offence, but I will never sell these paintings." I blinked, startled. Why do people say 'no offence'? They clearly mean to insult you, or else they wouldn't say hurtful things. It's as if the ultimate joy lies in supposedly taking away someone's right to be annoyed.

   To tell you the truth, I hadn't expected anything else. Faye's mother was the only person who ever decided to buy my art. I just thought that maybe if she saw something worth keeping, someone else might. I had to believe that one day, they would. In the meantime, I ferried canvasses from building to building in the vague hope that my talent would be confirmed; that someone who wanted a new face for reasons other than PR would decide that they needed me. Until that fateful day, I had to deal with the owner in front of me, trying to get out with the minimum amount of fuss. I wrote down my number as I answered him, averting my face so he couldn't see my despair as I rearranged my expression.  

   "That's okay. I have another woman interested in my art, and she'll pay more for them if they're exclusively hers." I hopped up from the sagging armchair beneath me, the picture of indifference and confidence. I held out my palm for him to awkwardly manoeuvre the painting into. I wasn't in the least surprised when he hesitated.

   "May I ask who this person is?" This always happened. They all wanted to know whether or not they had misjudged me, if they were looking at the next 'big thing' and were too straight-laced to see it. More likely, they were looking at the next one-hit-wonder who would sell five paintings before something suitably tragic happened. 

   "No, I'm sorry. She asked me not to reveal her name." In reality, I couldn't remember it, only the moment when the sharp, white corners of her business card had pricked the tips of my fingers, and the time she had handed me my first pay cheque.

    I had been coming out of yet another place that I thought could potentially buy my art, not overly surprised when they had refused the offer. My best work was resting under my arm as I started reloading the pictures into the car a friend had lent me, when a taxi screeched to a halt a few metres away, the brakes squealing in protest. A couple of cars had honked at the sudden stop, shaking their fists as they remembered the near crash. A woman with brown hair reaching just below her shoulders, immaculate and stylish rushed over to me, asking if I was the artist who had painted the work. I had nodded, dumb struck by the thought that someone might actually be interested in me.

   She handed me a small, square piece of card without a word, scrawling something on the back. Smiling at me as she turned away, she hurried back to the black taxi and it left causing as much havoc as she had when she'd come. Reading what she had written, the words 'Call and ask for the owner' had been immediately etched into my mind, the only other detail I cared about at that moment being that it was, indeed, a gallery. I had floated through the rest of the day on cloud nine, nearly having a couple of accidents myself as I enthusiastically sped down the motorway.            

   I remembered the few weeks I had thought my search was over, that I would never have to trawl galleries again. A month ago, I would've laughed at someone who had said they didn't like the person who bought their art. Now, all I wanted was for someone else to be interested in it, so that I knew I would have someone to rely on once my novelty factor expired.

   I hated to say it, but I couldn't trust Faye's mother, even after she had given me a place to stay. It was as if she was hoping to draw in the clientele by constantly changing the pieces on her walls. She told me that she had room for me at the gallery for as long as I fancied it, that I had true 'originality'. I wanted to believe her, but I'd been turned down one too many times to think that someone else wouldn't have recognised it. The speech had worn only a little thin, making me think it was just a line she threw out time and time again.    

   I nodded to the man before leaving the shop, lugging the frames behind me. I had a taxi waiting for me, cursing the fact that I had to spend the money from one of my bigger and better paintings so I could be rejected from even more galleries. I sighed, wondering whether or not I should give up. It was one of the times I wished that this was just a school project or that home was just a few miles away, instead of a flight across the channel. The taxi driver looked over his shoulder at me, sympathetic to my plight.

   "Where to?" he asked. "I know a place over in Belfast that might be interested in your work, if you want to go there. I'll even charge you half the price." I hesitated. What did I stand to lose, except even more of my cash?

   "Sure."

***

   I was tired when I got home, barely aware of anything but the emptiness of my wallet. I nearly walked straight into Faye. She was sitting on the bottom stair, head in her hands and looking as thoroughly miserably as I felt.

   "Bad day?" I offered, sitting beside her. She shimmied towards the banisters to give me a little more room.

   "Yes." Her voice shook.  

   "Want to tell me, or are you just going to keep me in suspense?" She nearly choked on the sob she was desperately trying to hold in. Her hands were trembling, her muscles so tense I thought she would snap.

   "Sometimes, it all catches up on me. It's like I've forgotten how different everything is. I half-expected that there would be a voicemail on my phone with Carrie sobbing about the latest drama, or Lucy pleading with me to help her with her maths homework because she couldn't understand any of it. I thought that my mother would be furiously texting me about how Jason had asked her for money for his latest business venture, and Dad would be here when I got back, ready to laugh about it all. Then I realised it hadn't happened in a year, and that it won't happen again."

   Her voice broke on the last sentence, the only sign of the emotions she refused to show. There was nothing I could say, even though I knew what she meant. Sometimes, I thought that I was at home in the family manor, and that when I opened my eyes there would be sunlight streaming in from the balcony and my mother knocking on the door to bring me scrambled eggs on toast. When I managed to struggle into some form of consciousness, all that was waiting for me was the chill of cold air because the heating had broken down again.

   I gave Faye what I hoped was a consoling smile, and continued upstairs. I knew what she wanted me to tell her. I realised that she needed someone to say that things would get better. Maybe they would, but no matter what I said, it would be a lie, because she was right. She never would have her old life back. Saying that everything was going to be okay was just patronising. She would figure it out. Eventually.