Everything is Beautiful by Eleanor Ray (classic literature list .TXT) 📗

‘It means I can stay in town over the summer.’ She looked at him, hoping he’d take the hint. They’d been together almost four years now. Surely it was time. ‘And see more of you.’

‘About that,’ said Tim. He passed her the mug back and Amy gripped it in anticipation. It felt smooth and hot and Amy realised her palms were sweaty. ‘I was thinking, you’ll be here most nights anyway. I know it’s not the Ritz or anything, and there are always piles of washing-up around, but maybe if Simon knew there was a lady here he’d get his finger out—’

‘Yes,’ squealed Amy. She squeezed the mug, then put it down and flung her arms around Tim, burying her face in his neck. ‘I’d love to move in with you. Thank you.’ She released him and beamed up.

‘I didn’t expect you to be quite so thrilled,’ he said, smiling back at her. ‘You have seen our bathroom? Four guys sharing a place, it’s not exactly—’

‘I don’t care,’ said Amy, her summer taking shape again in her mind. A flat-share in Camden. Every night with Tim. Waking up with him each morning and not worrying about whether she’d remembered to pack clean clothes. ‘It’s perfect.’

‘You’re perfect,’ said Tim. He leaned forwards and kissed her. ‘Let’s celebrate,’ he said, gently nuzzling her ear. ‘I think I’m going to like sharing a room with you.’

The afternoon sun spilled through the flimsy pink curtain, casting Tim’s sleeping face with a glow that reminded Amy of strawberry ice cream on a hot summer’s day. She couldn’t resist.

Amy grabbed the mug that sat on the bedside table and went to the bathroom to add a little water. Taking advice from her art professor, she didn’t just carry a sketchbook with her any more. She had a small watercolour set, a few brushes and a pad with thick, coarse paper just waiting to be painted on. She knew now that colour was at the heart of her art, and pencils, though convenient, would never do that justice.

Amy settled herself on the carpet, ignoring the biscuit crumbs and tobacco shag that kept her company, and dipping a wide brush into the mug of water, she started to paint. Not Tim’s features, but the colour of his skin as the sun poured through the curtain. The colour of his dark hair, shining almost blue in the light. He snored, and she took a finer brush, and used it to create tiny flecks of movement above him.

It wasn’t perfect, but it gave her the memory she needed. She’d use it as a base for something in oils next time she was in the studio. But she’d need texture. Amy stood up, stretched, and a pouch of tobacco caught her eye. She pocketed it: she’d mix tiny flecks of tobacco with the paint. Perfect.

She looked back to Tim. His eyes were open and he was watching her. ‘If you wanted to start smoking, you could just ask for a rollie,’ he said, rubbing his eyes and stretching luxuriantly. ‘You don’t need to wait till I’m asleep to snaffle it.’

‘Sorry,’ said Amy, removing it from her pocket and perching on the edge of the bed. ‘I was going to use it for an art project.’

‘Take it,’ said Tim with a laugh, sitting up. ‘I’ve got plenty. I knew it would be something like that. I was only joking.’ He noticed the sketchbook. ‘Let me see.’

‘It’s just preparation,’ said Amy, feeling embarrassed – as she always did – revealing a picture that wasn’t finished. She moved it out of his reach and glanced at her watch. It was two p.m., so Mr Trapper would likely be back from lunch. She jumped up to get her phone. She should let him know as soon as she could that she wouldn’t need that job after all. He could find some other poor unfortunate to spend their summer burning themselves on photocopiers.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Tim.

‘I’m going to tell Mr Trapper where to stick his job,’ she said. ‘Politely, of course.’

‘What? Why?’

Amy looked at Tim in confusion. ‘If I don’t have to find a place for the summer, I won’t need to work the whole time.’ She smiled. ‘Maybe I’ll do a little bar work and still be able to do that trip to Florence . . . ’

‘Oh,’ said Tim. ‘Yes, of course.’ He smiled at her and then glanced at his watch. ‘Right. I have to get going. I’ve got a double shift at the supermarket, then we’ve got that gig tonight. You’re coming, aren’t you?’

‘I wouldn’t miss it,’ said Amy.

‘Great,’ Tim replied. ‘I’m on an early tomorrow, though, so I can’t stay up late. Enjoy telling Mr Trapper where to go.’

‘Yes,’ said Amy. She watched Tim pulling on his trousers. She realised he had bags under his eyes and his skin, always rather fair, had an unhealthy grey pallor once he was out of the sunlight. Perhaps it wasn’t just cigarettes and alcohol. Perhaps it was exhaustion. ‘You are working hard,’ she said. ‘With the band and the supermarket.’

‘It will be worth it,’ said Tim. ‘When we get signed. There’s a scout coming next week, did I tell you? Then all our money problems will be over.’

‘Money problems?’ repeated Amy.

‘Shitty jobs and crummy flats,’ said Tim. ‘It won’t be for much longer.’ He smiled at her. ‘It’s given me an idea for a new song, actually,’ he said. ‘I just need to work out the harmonies. Perhaps I’ll have time to play around with it after the shifts tomorrow. Who needs sleep anyway?’

‘I’m taking that job,’ declared Amy, suddenly.

‘What? It sounds horrible.’

‘I want to help,’ said Amy. ‘I’ll take that job and we’ll share the money. You can cut down your shifts and spend more time on your music.’

‘No, Amy,’ said Tim. ‘What about Florence?’

‘Florence can wait,’ said Amy. She closed her eyes a moment, thinking of the colours she’d miss. The pink, green and white marble outer panels of the