If You Love Me, I'm Yours Page 4

  Chapter Seven

  Maud glanced up as Daisy leaned across the coffee table in the staffroom, sliding a newspaper in front of her. Everyone else was standing around the decrepit coffee machine, waiting for it to splutter out another cup of watery sludge. It was almost like a sideshow of sorts and, although no one liked drinking the coffee from the machine, it held a grisly fascination each time someone new tried to make it behave and supply a drinkable beverage. The teachers were enjoying a few moments of peace before stepping back into their respective classrooms. Maud’s forehead wrinkled and she turned her nose up at the sight of the paper. She was fed up with reading bad news and had given up buying the local paper in the last few days in disgust. She glanced at the page and wondered what Daisy had been looking at. Then she straightened it out with her palm and shuddered.

  It was an article with a full colour photo of a piece of art. The journalist explained there was a mystery artist in the region who was leaving valuable paintings in public areas. The photograph displayed a delicate canvas of a badger, with lots of interlinking spidery lines submerged in a wash of beautiful colour. The detail was exquisite, but the story was based around the fact that these little artworks came with a hand-written tag, saying, ‘please take me home and cherish me. If you love me, I’m yours.’

  Maud gasped as if she’d been slapped, and a couple of her colleagues turned round before she smiled and waved them away. She grabbed the paper and hid it on her lap so that nobody else could see it. The colour drained from her face and her hands started to sweat.

  Daisy waggled a finger at her and sat down next to her. ‘It’s no good hiding it. There are thousands of copies in people’s houses by now. It’s all everyone’s talking about. What the hell were you thinking?’

  Maud’s stomach hurt. She rubbed it with her hands. Daisy must be embarrassed to know her. Maud had been so fed up with her parents’ derision of her work, whilst Nancy applauded her delicate style and intricate drawings. She’d decided to let the public decide. Originally she had left one or two very small paintings on park benches, and then she’d hidden in a nearby bush to gauge the reaction of the first person who came along. The problem was that, upon seeing the little brown tag that accompanied the paintings, the recipients’ faces had lit up with joy. One lady had clutched the frame to her chest and had tears in her eyes. She’d rummaged around in her handbag for her mobile phone and called someone. Maud hadn’t been able to hear the whole conversation from her hiding place, but the gist of it was that, after the awful time she’d been having, she must have a guardian angel after all and maybe things weren’t so bad.

  Maud now felt it was that lady’s fault that her secret had become a bit of an addiction. She didn’t stalk the people who found her art, but she did hang around for a while, then pop back the next day to see if her paintings were still where she had placed them. They never were. It was like a drug and it gave her an adrenaline buzz to think that someone appreciated her work enough to take it home, even if it had been thrust on them for free. Just to be double sure, she had taken up pretend-jogging, and had checked out all of the rubbish bins in each vicinity. She was getting fitter as a bonus, as she usually hated any kind of exercise, although she did need to invest in a good sports bra if she kept this up or she’d end up covered in stretch marks or knock herself out with her bazookas. She counted in her head and realised she had given away eight paintings so far.

  Daisy’s face was so angry and red, and she was giving Maud one of her death stares that could bring small children – and some adults – to their knees, and make them behave in seconds. Maud cringed. Perhaps she would be found out now. Her parents would be embarrassed again, and her mum would disown her. She considered whether this would be such a bad outcome, and decided reluctantly that it would.

  Daisy threw her hands up in exasperation and bent down to hiss in Maud’s ear. ‘Why would you give your work away to strangers? Give them all to me, and I will proudly hang them on every wall, but don’t sell yourself short, if you are finally showing people your work.’

  Maud felt momentarily ashamed that she had doubted her friend. Daisy was her biggest supporter and already had several of Maud’s older-style paintings proudly presented in her home. Maud had been too embarrassed to sign them in the normal way, but she had created a logo out of the letters of her name, looking like a little fox’s face, which she hid in the corner.

  ‘I’m always telling you that you should sell your stuff,’ Daisy’s voice was rising as she got angrier, and she was now attracting more attention from the coffee machine crew. ‘You could make a fortune if you didn’t listen to your mum and dad for once in your life. It says here they are valuable artworks.’ Daisy’s jabbed her finger at the article, and her nose was almost touching Maud’s now.

  Maud moved back in the seat, her palms slick with sweat as she chanced a quick smile at the teachers grabbing their things to return to class. Daisy gave Maud some room, but then held her palm in her face to stop her protestations. ‘Your parents are completely short-sighted and ignorant about art… or fashion… or design… or anything that you enjoy as a talented creative!’ Daisy sucked in some air and slumped back into her seat, anger abating as she looked up and realised almost everyone else had left the room. She sighed heavily and rubbed her temples, as Maud looked on miserably. ‘Why do you listen to them when they clearly have no taste?’

  Maud’s eyes shone at last and she hid a giggle with her hand. This was a regular argument from Daisy, but it did seem, after reading the article, that perhaps she might have a point? The thought rocked Maud. She hadn’t questioned her parents’ authority since she’d discovered how angry her actions made them as a small child. Her mum had become unwell and had spent weeks in bed. Maud had been terrified that she was going to die of stress, as she’d been deathly pale, and her dad had tried his best to keep the house running smoothly, but it had been a disaster. Maud had been so young and cried herself to sleep at night and had never forgiven herself for making her mum ill. She frowned and tried to recall a time when she didn’t try and please her parents or listen to their every word. She’d never asked her mum, as she didn’t want to upset her, but maybe she’d just been ill? Could her parents be wrong about her?

  Daisy nudged her on the shin to get her attention and Maud yelped in pain, as it was a spot she’d banged on the shower door the night before. Her friend looked like she meant business this time, and wouldn’t be fobbed off with excuses. ‘You’ve been leaving your paintings on park benches?’ she accused. She was so mad at Maud, her hair was starting to stand on end and her eyes were bugging out of her head. Maud understood that Daisy had tried for years to get her to be herself, and show her art to others. She’d also implored Maud to wear the divine outfits she stored away in her wardrobe at home. Daisy couldn’t understand why she wasted good money on them if they were only going to hang morosely behind a closed door.

  Maud noticed that there were still one or two people chatting in a corner and felt a bit sick again. She implored Daisy with her eyes, then added, ‘people can hear you, Daisy. They’re looking at us, wondering why we’re hissing at each other.’ She saw the head of PE turn their way and offered her a bright smile, and nodded to her friend Laura, another teaching assistant, as she passed. Both smiled back and resumed their conversation as they left the room.

  Daisy was in her stride now. Maud could see she’d pushed her friend too far from the bright spots of colour on her cheeks and the way her fists were holding the seat cushions as if she wanted to throw them at someone. ‘I don’t care who hears me! Why don’t you spend all day in that studio you hide from the world, or do a job you would actually enjoy, if you’re going to waste your time on anything? You know you’ve never really liked this job. You could be an art teacher, but you didn’t put yourself forward for that job. You like the kids, but it’s not your vocation.’

  Maud sat back in shock. Daisy always supported her, never scolded her. She was too sweet-natured
for that. Being a receptionist at the school, she had helped Maud hear about the teaching assistant job before anyone else, and listened to Maud moaning about her parents without too much judgement. They had gone to school together and fallen into the same career path. The difference was that Daisy adored her job. Maud enjoyed working with children, it was so rewarding, but Daisy knew she was a frustrated artist and bored senseless. Maud would happily spend her days immersed in her art, if only she didn’t think it was indulgent and a waste of time. She felt a big salty tear form in the corner of her eye and she brushed it away with the back of her hand. ‘I have a mortgage to pay.’

  Daisy sighed at the sight of Maud’s tears, took her hand in her own and patted it affectionately, pulling her in for a hug. ‘I understand that... well, I don’t really. Why didn’t you just buy a little flat like mine?’

  ‘I got a massive reduction and a studio,’ Maud leaned backwards and grabbed her hand away indignantly.

  Daisy spoke slowly, as if she was talking to one of the children that turned up at the school reception window and stood on tiptoes to peek over the counter. ‘I do know that… but your mortgage is a huge responsibility, and you don’t show anyone your art.’

  ‘You have a mortgage!’ This all seemed so unfair to Maud, who was getting fidgety as she’d just heard the five-minute warning bell that classes were about to start.

  Daisy was speaking slowly again and Maud wanted to ram a cushion in her smug face. ‘Yes, but I have a small flat. You have a two-bedroom bungalow, and you never invite anyone round in case they ask to see your etchings, which they never would, by the way, as they’re hidden behind a gate and a twenty-foot hedge.’

  Maud felt angry hot tears burn the back of her eyelids at her gentle friend’s outburst, so she squeezed her eyes tighter shut. ‘I didn’t know you felt that way,’ she said, ashamed that her stupid hobby had taken over so much of her life. She’d let her best friend down and made a complete fool of herself yet again.

  Daisy held up her hand to stop Maud. ‘Before you think it,’ she said, gulping in some calming air after her outburst. ‘I feel relieved that you have finally plucked up courage to strike out on your own, but this isn’t the way to do it. Your confidence is so fragile and I hate seeing tears in your eyes, but it’s time to speak some home truths.’ Daisy waited a second and Maud could see her courage growing. ‘I want to slap your parents for the way they treat you, and to he honest I’m just as bad, for always simpering in their company and not standing up for my friend. They are just so intimidating. I’m going to be stronger with them – and so must you, Maud.’

  She grabbed Maud’s hand again and squeezed it in solidarity. ‘I’m not trying to upset you.’ She reached out and gently wiped away a stray tear on Maud’s rosy cheek. They heard the children race in from playtime and start to file into their classrooms, so Daisy picked up the newspaper and put it on the table in front of Maud. ‘Read it again. Listen to what the journalist is saying, then decide what you are going to change.’ Daisy looked around the staffroom at the worn-out furniture and the functional design. ‘You might feel comfortable here, but it’s just not for you.’

  ‘That’s the problem…’ Maud regarded her friend sadly. ‘I don’t know what is for me or who I am.’

  ‘Well, isn’t it about time you found out?’ asked Daisy, resolutely getting up and leaving Maud on her own.

  Chapter Eight

  Dotty pored over the article in front of her and she started tapping her long blue nails on her desk in excitement. She was sure that thousands of people had read it by now and found it interesting, fascinating even, but Dot was determined that she would be the one to find the artist everyone was now searching for. She knew she could make a great success of their work.

  It was about time that she began branching out on her own and having clients outside the family. The distinctive style of this particular artist was sublime and the character in the line work, together with the way the artist had added colour and tone with such reverence, almost bought the faces of the animals they portrayed to life. Their eyes looked like they could see into your soul and were eerily realistic.

  Dot knew the area the artist was working in, it was a suburb just out of town. The paintings had been mainly delivered to parks across a five-mile radius. Some of the people interviewed in the article were named too, so she could start her amateur sleuthing there. If there was a pattern to where the art had been left, she would find it. She scratched her hair as it was itchy and a twig fell out. She sighed and picked it up, throwing it into the bin nearest to her sculpted desk. The new nest hairpiece she was wearing from a very exclusive designer was literally digging into her skull and twigs kept getting tangled in her hair. Her shoulders ached and she tried to knead them, but just succeeded in knocking off another bit of tree. Being artistic was so exhausting.

  She grabbed a pencil from the steel pot on her desk and drew a line between all of the art drops. She squinted before remembering that she was wearing new coloured contact lenses that were supposed to make your eyes an exquisite blue, but in reality were so uncomfortable that they made her feel a bit sea sick. She muttered to herself and scraped them out of her eyes, aiming for the bin and shaking her hands in annoyance as they stuck to her fingers. Flicking them away, she picked up her tortoiseshell glasses and rammed them onto her nose. The lines she had drawn came into focus and she saw that they crossed over at a little village called Twigleston, of all the names in the world. She grabbed the bird’s nest from her head and threw it unceremoniously towards the poor overflowing bin, where it bounced and settled onto the nearest chair as if a bird had flown in and nested there.

  Dot looked up distractedly as her parents knocked on her door, and then walked into her office without waiting for her to invite them in. Her mother, Camille, rushed over and held Dot’s face in her hands, looking deeply into her eyes while her daughter squirmed in embarrassment. Why did her mother feel the need to look into her soul every time they met? She always cupped Dot’s face and stared into her eyes and said they were a window to her psyche, or some such rubbish. It freaked Dot out and never worked, as her mum thought she was a tortured artist, when in reality she was just tortured by not being a ‘real’ part of her family’s legacy.

  She straightened up, making her mum drop her hands, and then leaned in to hug her warmly. Looking over her mum’s shoulder she studied her dad, Cosmo, who wore a jaunty trilby hat and was holding a long lightweight coat over his arm. He looked like an English gent who was just about to burst into song and splash in puddles, and she’d just noticed his 60’s-style shoes and tailored trousers, which he had tucked in at the ankle. Why, oh why, were her parents so odd? She was sure everyone else had a perfectly normal mum and dad who burnt the sausages and spent hours in the potting shed. Her parents thought Wednesdays were a good day to dance around the house naked and the weekends were best spent in bed! The rest of the week was for frivolity and the serious business of art. They were incorrigible. She couldn’t even turn to Nate to understand, as he seemed to find everything they did highly amusing.

  ‘Daaaarling!’ trilled her mother when she finally released Dot. She looked like she was about to say something else, but then she noticed the bird’s nest hat on the chair by the bin. She bent down to retrieve it, and was soon studying the craftsmanship from every angle.

  ‘Dad?’

  Her dad was watching his wife with an amused smile and he turned to Dot to give her a hug. ‘Hi, darling. We thought we’d pop in on our way to the Swansons’ to say well done on Nate’s preview show. He’s sold ten pieces already.’ The corners of Dot’s mouth turned up at the compliment. It was hard to be mad at her parents for long, because they were… well… mad. However much she despaired at their antics, she secretly wished that she could comfortably throw seven colours together and still look dreamy like her mother, or quietly create exacting works of art like her father. She just didn’t fit in.

  Her dad began inspecting a new pa
inting she had hung on her wall and he linked his hands behind his back and begun humming under his breath, which was a sure sign he was up to something. Her stomach plummeted and her shoulders sagged in exhaustion. The previous evening’s hosting was starting to catch up on her. Her dad always started humming to himself when he wanted to distract you from something ugly. ‘What have you done?’

  She turned to her mother who was standing in front of the floor length, intricately-carved silver mirror near Dot’s desk and angling the bird’s nest hat on her tawny hair. Annoyingly, it looked like it had been crafted by angels just for her. Her mother’s voice rose a pitch, which meant Dot would hate what she was going to say. ‘It’s nothing,’ she flushed slightly and waved her hands around theatrically before realising that the movement had dislodged the hat and sent it flying back onto the chair. ‘The teeniest inconsequential thing is that we have invited a few more people to your birthday party, as we were so sure you wouldn’t mind.’

  Dot rolled her eyes. ‘Not again.’ She hadn’t wanted the blasted party for her twenty-fifth birthday, but had acquiesced to a very small gathering at her parents’ house. She knew how much they adored entertaining, as they used the excuse of their goldfish’s birthday to throw another bash. Dot cringed at the thought of how big this event had become. Considering she arranged glittering events for completely bonkers artists, she actually hated her own parties. Ever since she was five, her parents had made her stand up in front of family and friends and give a birthday speech. These days she mostly got drunk and swore a lot during her speech, which they all found hilarious, but more people witnessing her embarrassment was just too much.