Gabriel spun back to his desk. He picked up a pencil and tapped the sharp end on the sketchpad, ready to catch a line or a curve to act as a starting point for his design. A design that Y Studio hoped would win awards.
Since starting with the firm three years earlier, he’d won them plenty. The validation should have been enough for him to feel he was doing what he was meant to be doing. But designing apartment blocks, office buildings or ‘iconic community concepts’ lacked the challenge he craved.
What took sweat, what took his whole attention, was fashion. He’d filled sketchbooks and gigabytes with faceless figures, men and women both, draped in designs of his own making. They’d found their way onto the corners of briefs or sketched onto the people walking through the promenades he designed. Stock images saved time, saved brainpower, saved creativity, but still he snuck in unique elements where he could. No-one had noticed.
What they had noticed was that he hadn’t produced anything for this latest project.
He twisted his pencil into the paper, gouging a hole.
Rivervue Revitalisation.
How could he do this? Sure, the theatre was in an excellent location, the alignment on the banks of Brachen River an inspired choice as the sunrise burst upon its eastern face. The big windows would stay, as would the odd curves from the ’70s. But the exposed brick would have to be softened and the approach modified to be more user-friendly and open. He scrolled through the photos and the plans. His hand drew while his mind wandered, sketching out where to put the supports, which walls to knock down, the shape of the living spaces and how they’d integrate with the existing building. Buzzwords flashed through his head—‘organic’, ‘context’, ‘facade’—though they didn’t blare loud enough to blot out what this was really about.
Money.
He pushed on, unable to stop the ideas pouring forth. This was always the exciting bit, when he got lost in flow and sketched while the world faded into the background. Some trees would be removed; trees that had stood for fifty years or more. Light needed to get in—and so did the trucks and cranes.
Inside was the hardest, turning it into the five levels they demanded. The foyer gone, easily the ugliest part of the building. Carpets gone, stage gone, green room and workshops gone. Wardrobe …
He stopped like he’d slammed into a brick wall.
What would happen to all the costumes when it shut? And what would happen to his mother, Sofia? She’d become Rivervue’s costume designer soon after they’d moved there nine years earlier. Desperate for a way to involve herself in the community, she’d answered an ad to be a seamstress then became their costume designer. Later she added the role of set designer to her repertoire. And now he was on the demolition team. Wrecking her life.
He couldn’t do it. Not again. He was the reason she’d had to leave her old life behind in the first place.
Pages of his notes and scribblings spread out across the desk as he’d ripped the heart and guts out of Rivervue. He had to refuse to work on the project. And if that meant quitting Y Studio, then that’s what he’d do. If the people back home discovered he was within a whisker of the company engaged to turn their beloved Rivervue Theatre into luxury apartments …
He dropped the pencil and pushed back from the desk, gathering up the pieces of paper into a neat stack ready for shredding. Andrew sat in his office, the door open, staring at his screen. He’d taken Gabriel on even before he’d finished his degree and mentored him, but Andrew wasn’t family. He took a deep breath that struggled to reach his belly and calm the swell. He had to do it before Y Studio got further behind. He stood up and his mobile rang.
His mother’s name flashed on the screen.
In the middle of the day?
He sat back in his chair and answered the call. ‘Mamá, what’s wrong?’
A pause. ‘Gabriel, it’s Bruce Clifton.’
Bruce’s resonant voice vibrated at the base of his spine and radiated into his groin. Bruce Clifton. It’d been years since they’d spoken more than two words to each other but it was still a voice that did things to him. Lucky he wasn’t standing in front of the whole six-foot-five package.
‘Are you there?’
‘Yeah, sorry, hi Bruce. What’s up? Why are you calling from Mum’s phone?’
‘Your mum’s in the hospital. She’s okay but she collapsed earlier today. Did you know she was unwell?’
The vibrations crystallised to needles and shot into his chest. Sofia? Sick? She never got sick. He’d spoken to her the day before and she’d sounded fine.
‘No, I didn’t. What’s wrong with her?’
‘Hmmmm.’ That didn’t sound good. And there was something in his tone, something he was holding back, and it wasn’t the diagnosis. ‘I think she should be the one to tell you. When did you see her last?’
There it was. Guilt. Disapproval. All because he’d run away to Sydney five years earlier. If Bruce hadn’t stopped talking to him, he would have known how often he went to Brachen to see Sofia.
‘I visited last month.’ She’d seemed in good health, though a little tired. She said she’d not been sleeping well. When he’d pressed for more, she’d brushed aside his worries. ‘Is she awake? Can I talk to her?’
‘She’s asleep. They’re monitoring her. I’ll level with you. Her health’s not good. They say she’ll be fine to go home soon, but I think you should get down here. If you can.’
Gabriel was already shutting off his computer, distracting himself from Bruce’s passive-aggressive guilt trip. He didn’t need it; he’d bought tickets for his own, printed with enough questions to last him the journey. How long had she been sick? Why hadn’t he known? Why was Bruce there and not him?
‘You still there?’ Bruce’s tone pushed him to the edge of a cliff face.
He
