Pointlessly, he checked his phone again. Nothing. He hadn’t heard from her in two weeks. That probably meant he could give up on this pathetic hoping she’d be changing her mind. That probably meant it was final.
Yeah, Richo was right, he ought to get over her.
If only he knew how.
Ava dropped into the blessedly cool air of the gallery ten minutes early for a scheduled “Morning Tea with the Featured Artist” session, to find half the two dozen or so seats already taken and Evan brimming with excitement. “I’ve got two pieces of good news for you,” he said. “Twenty-four of your pictures have sold! How’s that? And there’s still a week of the exhibition to run!”
“That is great news,” she said, needing the boost to her spirits more than she’d care to admit. She’d never been a fan of the meet the artist type sessions where for an entire hour and a half she had to pretend that, instead of being the introspective painter who liked to work alone, she had to perform as Ava Mattiske, the outgoing artist, who loved nothing more than doing a Q&A on her art and influences. She would much rather her art speak for her.
Besides, it was so hard to appear fresh and interesting, especially now when she was having trouble sleeping properly at night. “What’s the second bit?”
“I’m not telling you.” Evan winked conspiratorially, waving to the women who had just entered the gallery. “Not until afterwards. But you’re going to love it, I promise.”
“Oh, okay.” She saw the women sitting down. “I might just get a glass of water.”
“Ava? Are you all right?”
She put a hand to her temple where a dull ache throbbed in a vein. “I’m not sleeping well. It’s the heat.”
“You don’t have air conditioning?”
“Just a fan.” Spinning around and ultimately going nowhere. She hadn’t turned it on since that night.
“Take your time. I’m sure your audience will wait. And then the really good news, and I promise you’re going to feel a lot better.”
It was two hours before the last of the audience had ceased with the questions, and left, two hours of studiously not looking in “that” corner where a certain picture was hung, although there were also two more red dots on her pictures by then, so the session had been worth it.
“It’s the Federal Department of Agriculture,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper after the morning tea attendees had given their thanks and were gone. “They want to commission you, for an entire series showcasing Australian fruit.” He mentioned a figure that was their starting point and her mouth fell open.
“You’re kidding me?” A commission like that would pay her way for the best part of a year, but not only that, would get her art in front of the entire country. Who knew where that could take her?
“You need to talk to them, Ava. And you seriously need to get an agent,” he told her, nodding. “You don’t want these offers being communicated through me. I can’t help you like an agent could.”
“I know,” she said, knowing in her head what he said was right, but she couldn’t bring herself to commit. Who to trust when she’d gone so wrong before? “But thanks so much for fielding the enquiries.”
“Oh,” he said, as she was on the way out. “And your firefighter friend’s picture is up to three thousand six hundred dollars. How good is that?”
She glanced towards the picture she’d been avoiding all morning, of Caleb looking magnificent all spread out on her bed, and felt a stab of pain in her heart so sharp, it made her catch her breath. She moved towards it numbly, drawn to it. Alongside it was pinned the cutting from the newspaper.
“Very good,” she said softly, drinking in his perfect form with her eyes, wanting to reach out and touch his skin and feel his warmth again.
“Will you tell him?”
“Who?” she said, wondering at the pain inside her, this pain that wouldn’t go away, that left her numb and listless and puffy-eyed come morning.
“Caleb Knight, your model.”
She snapped her eyes away. “Oh. Look, he’d probably love to hear it from you. Why don’t you give the station a call?”
She left a quizzical looking Evan in her wake, together with a phone number to call the marketing director of the Department of Agriculture and a reminder to find herself an agent. Still buzzing with the good news, Ava stopped on the way home to pick up her mail from the local post office. As usual, there wasn’t much, a couple of window envelopes from the bank, another from her energy provider, but there was one in a fancy white envelope, her name and address type written on the envelope, while the stamp said it was from Singapore.
She slit it open and a notecard slid out of a folded paper.
And what she saw on the notecard turned her blood cold.
Her name, in her mother’s handwriting.
She recognised it even now, even eighteen years on, it was still enough to put a shiver down her spine.
What the hell did her mother want? Now? After all these years?
She put it back down and circled it for a while. She poured herself a glass of wine and sipped at it while she stared from all angles at the envelope and the note card sitting alone on the bench top. Her mother had abandoned her to hell. And even when Ava had reached out, her mother had told her there was no choice.
Like an unexploded bomb, it sat there. And in the end she couldn’t bear it. She had to reach for it and rip it open. She unfolded the small notecard determined to tear it in tiny pieces if it dared begin with “Darling daughter” or even “Dearest Ava”. But it started with neither. It began with two
