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

feel like shit,’ said Chantel. ‘I’m calling in sick.’

‘Ditto,’ said Tim. ‘Shelves can stack themselves.’

‘I’ve got the studio for two hours this morning because that’s all I can afford,’ said Amy. ‘Then I’m going to the office. It would be really nice if this place wasn’t disgusting when I get back.’

‘Sure, sure,’ said Chantel. She closed her eyes. Tim was already snoring. Amy slammed the door on her way out, hoping the sound reverberated inside both their heads.

Amy didn’t do her best work at the studio. The colours felt subdued, the textures muted. She rarely painted anything she was pleased with these days. She sometimes wondered if it was partly her job at Trapper, Lemon and Hughes that was to blame; it was meant to just be for a month, after all. That was a year ago now, but it had gone from filling university holidays to filling her life. She should curate a gallery, perhaps, or work in an art supplies shop. Maybe she could even teach. Amy took a moment to imagine herself teaching life drawing to an enthused and talented class. Then she’d go to her studio, full of ideas, and be able to paint the masterpiece that she hoped was still lurking within her.

But she needed to pay the rent. Tim still refused to get a better job than the supermarket, insisting that it was just an interim thing till his band made it. To him, getting a proper job meant accepting that the band didn’t have a future.

Amy stewed like over-brewed tea all day, still feeling hard done by when she got home that evening. Tim came into the hallway and gave her a kiss.

‘Come in to the living room,’ said Chantel. ‘We’ve got something to show you.’ Amy obeyed, and gasped.

The room wasn’t spotless, that would be impossible. But it was cleaner than she’d seen it before. Tim’s guitars were neatly stacked in a corner and a mug filled with honeysuckle sat on the coffee table.

But the thing that really stood out were Amy’s paintings. The one she’d given Tim years ago had always lived on the wall in his bedroom, but until now most of the others had been shoved unceremoniously in a cupboard. Now her three favourites adorned the walls. Each depicted the sky at a different moment. Sunrise, with little pieces of cracked eggshell worked into the paint. Midday, the rich yellow sun adored with flecks of golden bottle tops that Amy had picked up from the pavement and ground down to powder. Twilight, the purple sky punctuated with dried buddleia which floated like clouds in front of the nascent moon.

‘We thought it was time to display them,’ said Chantel, with a grin. ‘Here, just until you get an exhibition.’

‘Which you will,’ said Tim. ‘I know you will.’

‘We had a spare mug after we washed them all up so we put the honeysuckle in it,’ said Chantel. ‘Looks nice, eh? Arty.’

‘It looks amazing,’ replied Amy, looking at her two favourite people. ‘Thank you.’

‘Bright and early again, Amy,’ said Mr Trapper, as he ran the coffee machine. ‘That’s what I like to see. Catching the worm.’ Amy nodded, but she barely even saw him. She went to the stationery cupboard and took out a brown envelope with ‘Please do not bend’ printed on it. She slipped out the photograph and the remnants of the letter from a slender cookbook she’d been using to keep them safe, and made to transfer them to the envelope. She paused.

She could hardly make out any of the writing on the letter. Rain had seeped in, snails had left their glittery footprints, and Rachel’s mice had nibbled much of the rest. It must have been inside that pot for years. That pot used to live by her front door, holding umbrellas. The letter could easily have slipped inside, just like the ring had. Then, when her hallway had become too crowded, she’d taken out the umbrellas and moved the pot outside. Others had been piled on top, protecting the letter from the worst of the elements.

And now here it was. Her name at the top. Typically, the first line was perfectly preserved, but said so little.

I don’t know where to begin. I’m so sorry. I had to be selfish.

That handwriting. Gently slanted, oddly neat for a person often so careless. It made Amy remember countless notes passed to her in class. Uncontrollable fits of giggles. Hugs and shared clothes and laughter and Malibu. She hadn’t had a friendship like it again.

After the first line, it was just the odd word that was legible. But it was enough for Amy to complete the heartbreaking jigsaw.

Jealous

Love

Afraid

Run

Sorry

Amy shoved the paper into the envelope. Perhaps it was a good thing the letter was in that state. It was a confession she didn’t want to read.

Just when hope was rising. Hope in the shape of a beautiful aquamarine ring. Hope that they hadn’t betrayed her. And this letter came to tell her to believe what she so fervently wanted not to be true. It was as if it had happened all over again. As if they were rubbing her face in it still, years later.

She looked at the office shredder and wondered if that was why she’d slipped the letter into her handbag that morning. But shredding it would make it no less true.

Amy turned her attention to the photograph. Why had Chantel included it? Amy supposed the letter might explain, but she couldn’t imagine what the explanation would be. We grew up together then I ran away with your boyfriend. Here’s a pretty picture of a bit of woodland in the sunset to make up for it.

She needed to find out where this place was. It was the only solid clue she had, with the letter illegible. If she found out where the photo was taken, surely that would take her one step closer to the truth.

‘Fancy meeting you by the stationery cupboard.’ Amy looked up