Everything You Need (3 page)

Kris was where he had left her, sitting in the armchair, staring out through the window, observing the people passing by. While he was gone, she had got rid of her coat, which now hung over the back of the chair.

He watched her for a while, admiring the curve of her neck, her profile, the way she slightly tilted her head down and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Vulnerable and fragile, that’s how she looked, with an air of sadness that hung over her like transparent veil, invisible to the eyes, but he could feel it, quite clearly. He strode closer to her, his hand curled over the edge of the white armchair as he leaned over her. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“No.”

“The coffee will come shortly,” he told her, set the stool before her, sat on it and opened the sketchbook.

“What should I do?” She shifted on the chair so that she more fully faced him, and with her hands folded on her lap and her knees touching while her feet were apart, her toes pointing inward; she reminded him of a doll.

“Stay just like that.” The tip of the pencil slid over the paper leaving behind curves and lines that formed a face, Kris’s face. Kate’s face. They were so similar, but as he drew her, stroke by stroke, he noticed the little differences between their faces. He had drawn Kate’s face countless times. He had trailed over it with his fingers and with his mouth. Even after ten years, if he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could still feel it under his fingertips, every dip and curve of it, every hollow. But even when he couldn’t remember the feel of her, he could go to the chest he kept in his studio under the desk, and take out the bust of her he had made her for her eighteenth birthday.

Claudia brought coffee and an additional stool, which they used as a table.

After he saw that Kris was getting bored, he brought her a book,
Good Omen
.

Darkness fell, and the street lamps cast their orange glow against the glass. Occasionally people stopped before the display, peeking inside. He told her to ignore them as he continued to draw her; her downcast eyes and the little smiles that twitched at the corners of her mouth as she giggled at something she read in the book. He wanted to catch it all and if he could he would gladly have captured the giggles that sounded like small bells, so light and airy. How could somebody who had such a thick layer of sadness around her have such a joyful laugh?

She put the book down and glanced outside. “It’s late.” She stood up and stretched. “I’ll have to go.”

“Yes, yes, just a moment.” He pushed the page of the sketchbook over to get to the new page, but all he had was blank cardboard. In just two hours, he had used up all the pages in his sketchbook.

Chapter 3

“...hiding it in the dishwasher, in the wardrobe wrapped in clothes... actually anywhere I knew that my family wouldn’t look.”

Kris leaned against the uncomfortable wooden chair and crossed her legs, while her gaze slid over the people sitting in the chairs forming a circle, not seeing their faces, but a face framed with ebony black hair. He had such vivid dark blue eyes and such an intense gaze that made her feel as if he was looking into her soul, as if he was seeing her, the real her, the essence of her that was hiding under the layers of sorrow and deceit and numbness. But how could he see her for what she really was, when even she had lost herself and didn’t know who she was anymore? But had she ever even known who she was?

Somebody coughed.

Kris lifted her head and glanced sideways. Her eyes found her mother, who was sitting beside her, discreetly yawning. Twenty more minutes of monologues as the other patients were asked to talk about the places where they had hidden their alcohol. Her mother liked to hide it behind washing machine, under the kitchen sink, into her boots, and in the trash. When it was her mother’s turn, she only mentioned the washing machine and the sink.

The session ended.

Kris stood up. Her mother had already elbowed her way out, to have a smoke, most likely. Kris followed her. She passed the doctor, who stood beside the mother of a new member of the group, a young man of her age, twenty-four. Dr. Kress was just ending the customary speech she gave to all the new members of their little therapeutic group. Kris had heard the talk many times before, the first time when it was meant for her, and then every time their little therapeutic group got a new member. They were here to support their family member and use the group for healing themselves, Dr. Kress told each one of them.

“Miss Mayer,” Dr. Kress called.

Kris turned.

“Could you give me a minute of your time?”

Kris nodded.

Dr. Kress gave the new patient’s mother a pat on the shoulder and an encouraging smile, then stepped across the hallway, gesturing for Kris to follow her. When Kris fell into step with her, she said, “As you already know, since your mother had another relapse, she has to start her recovery anew and her stay here just lengthened again.”

“Yes.” And they had also cancelled the weekend visits home. Kris was familiar with the process; she had gone through it twice, the first time four months ago. The disappointment of it was bitter and it shattered the illusion of things getting better. Just because her mother agreed to go to rehab, that didn’t mean that she was going to be well as soon as she passed through the clinic’s door.

‘Relapse is part of the recovery,’ Dr. Kress had told her that time, when Kris sat in her office feeling like a pile of unhappiness. ‘Rare are the people who make it right from the first try.’

Kris had acknowledged that, she didn’t have any other choice. So she did the only things that were in her power; she listened to
King of Pain
by Alanis Morissette and lowered her expectations.

“After the session with your mother, we believe that she needs at least two additional months,” The doctor slowed her stride. “But the problem is that your mother’s insurance, because this is her third relapse, will only cover one month. We have already mentioned that to your mother. Since this is a matter that not only concerns her, but you too, I propose that you both stop by Mrs. Johnson’s office -- she’s our accountant -- and learn about all available options.”

“We will. Thank you.” Kris nodded and after she said goodbye to the doctor, wrapped her thick cardigan tighter around herself and joined her mother outside. They shifted out of earshot of the other smokers.

“Has she told you?” her mother, a petite blonde, asked.

“Yes.”

“I said that we don’t have that kind of money.”

“How much is it?”

“Five hundred a week.”

She had a thousand in her savings account. With the rent due, another two hundred was coming her way, and she had the two hundred Ashton had given her for the two hours she spent sitting in the armchair reading. She still needed twenty-six hundred. What were her options? To borrow it from her dad? She would hate to be indebted to him more than she was already. Payment on instalment? “We have to talk to their accountant and find out the available options.”

Without saying anything, her mother took a drag on her cigarette, her eyes cautiously observing her.

Kris knew why. “I’m not going to bring it up.” Usually the fact that her mother had squandered the money, her inheritance from her father, burst out into the open only in their fights, where they liked to dig out all of their past mistakes and throw them in each other’s faces. Since she was younger and not as gullible as her mother, the list of her mistakes was much shorter than her mother’s, and the fights usually ended up with her mother slamming the door on her, calling her names and then getting herself even more drunk. That was why Kris held herself back, refused to fight with her mother, and always yielded to her mother’s requests.

“I did buy us a new sofa,” her mother said sullenly.

“Yes, you did.” Kris wrapped her arms around her middle, as if that would shield her from the biting wind, while she scrutinised her mother. She was still a beautiful woman, despite the excessive consumption of wine. In the six months she had spent in rehab, she had filled out and the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, and the hollowness of her cheeks, which made her look sick, had disappeared. She was slowly becoming the woman Kris remembered from her childhood.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Kris shook her head. When her grandfather had faced his mortality for the first time, when he, at his seventy-two years, had a quite severe case of flu, he had wrapped his bony hand around hers and told her, ‘I know you must hate your mother sometimes, how frivolous she is and irresponsible. But the thing is, your mother is a butterfly, light, colourful and so fragile. She isn’t able to take care of herself. She was such an obedient little doll, such a beautiful child, always so eager to please, and instead of preparing her for the harshness of life, your grandmother and I spoiled her silly and wrapped her up in cotton wool. She’s not as strong as you are, Kris, that’s why you have to take care of her, because if you don’t, you might lose her. I need to know that when I’m gone, you will take care of her. Please, promise me that you will take care of her.’

Kris had promised, so easily, because she loved her mother and because her grandfather was right. Her mother was a butterfly, so beautiful, and it was a joy to be with her -- when she was sober and in a good mood.

After her mother smoked her cigarette, they went inside in search of Mrs. Johnson’s office, which they found on the first floor of the building. Kris rapped on the door and entered the room, her mother close behind her.

Mrs. Johnson, an elderly lady, asked them to sit down, and then opened the folder she had with her and listed their options.

They did offer an instalment plan, and Kris, despite her mother’s objections, took it. She had promised her grandfather that she would take care of her mother, and she would keep that promise. If that meant that she had to find a second job for a few months and beg her dad for a loan, it was a small price to pay for her mother getting better; not providing her mother with this opportunity would have felt as if she had failed her grandfather.

#

It was two o’clock in the afternoon, an hour before the end of Kris’s morning shift. She had just stepped onto the platform of the city’s main train station, feeling restless, not ready to head straight home and crawl into bed as she usually did after her visits to her mother. Today, the idea of stuffing herself in her room didn’t seem appealing at all, so she strolled through the city streets, absently lingering before window displays. An hour passed and she found herself on the street she passed every day as she walked to work. On
his
street. On the pavement across from the gallery, above which he had his studio.

She looked up, trying to gauge which windows were his and smiled to herself. “What am I doing?” She had only known the guy for three weeks and here she was, gazing up his window like some sort of infatuated fangirl. Well, he was one of the hottest men that she had ever laid eyes on and she had seen some good looking men in her life. Actually, her friends, Callie and Rose, dated gorgeous men, and her co-worker Camden was a looker too, so why did... She shook her head at herself and smiled again, her gaze lowering and trailing over the window displays, stopping on the silhouette of a man.

Ashton stood by the door, one hand in the pocket of his black trousers, while the other held a cup, his gaze fixed in the direction from which she usually came when she got home from work.

That was her chance to slip away unnoticed and yet, her feet were frozen to the ground. She wanted him to notice her, she wanted him to come out and seek her company, as he had done a week ago. But she had already served as his model for two hours, he had no use for her anymore. That’s why he hadn’t stopped her in the past week. She averted her gaze.

A child came running from the opposite direction, wildly waving his arms as he called for his mother who had already passed Kris, telling him to hurry. As he ran past Kris, his flailing hand hit the plastic bag of oranges she held. It fell, but luckily the oranges didn’t spill over the cobbled pavement, only one rolled out of the bag.

“Sorry,” the child gasped and then he was off, the edge of the scarf he had wrapped around his neck fluttering behind him.

Kris squatted down and grabbed the orange, threw it into the bag, and stood up.

Ashton stood before her, dressed only in a thin red sweater. “Hey,” he said. “Long time no see.”

“Hi.” She gave him a small smile. “You’re going to catch a cold, dressed like that.”

“I’m fine.”

Yes, he was. Her gaze glided down his torso. Very fine.

“Are you busy? Do you have time for a quick cuppa?”

“In the gallery?”

“Or in the coffee shop.”

“The gallery is fine.”

He closed the distance that separated them in one step and looped his arm with hers. “Is tea okay?”

“Tea would be great.” Her eyes lowered to his arm. He was a head taller than her, and wide across the shoulders, with quite impressive biceps, as she had discovered on her last visit to the gallery when he had worn a snugly fitted T-shirt. She was not a tiny fragile thing like her mother, but with the way Ashton towered over her, she felt small.

He guided her into the gallery, into the same corner as before, where there were now two armchairs facing each other, an end table between them. He sat her down and then strode away, to take care of the tea.

Kris set down her bag and her handbag, took off her cap and slipped out of the cocoon of her coat and scarf.

In two minutes, Ashton was back, juggling a tray with two cups, a tea pot and a plate filled with biscuits. He laid it on the end table and sat down. “It needs to sit a bit, the tea,” he told her and offered her a biscuit. “It’s good to see you. Really good to see you. It puts my worries to rest.”

She leaned closer to take the biscuit. “Why would you worry?”

“I haven’t seen you for a whole week now and I was always here in the mornings and in the afternoons. I was afraid that something had happened to you. Were you sick? Or did you change your route?”

So he was on the lookout for her? That was nice of him. “I had an afternoon shift.” She bit into the pastry.

“In that coffee shop you work in?”

Her mouth full of the biscuit, she nodded.

“Why don’t you want to tell me where it is?”

She swallowed her mouthful. “Because.” Because she didn’t want her co-workers to know about him and because if he appeared in The Delight, there was a high possibility she would be subjected to a string of questions and she would have to explain where she had met him, what kind relationship they had, and she would probably have to suffer some mild, well-meant teasing.

“Can you at least give me your telephone number?”

“What for?”

“To schedule a new posing session.”

“I don’t know.” She felt comfortable in his company and his attention flattered her ego. It would be nice to be able to spend more time with him, but as much as she enjoyed his company, would she even be able to find the time for their sessions?

Wrinkles cut into his forehead. “Am I so untrustworthy?”

“It’s not that.” She sighed. Beyond knowing that he was a painter and that he lived above the gallery, she didn’t know anything about him; however, there was something about him that inspired trust. Which was weird, since she didn’t trust people, not ones she had just met, anyway. Well, even if she didn’t trust him, it wasn’t like she wanted to keep her job search a secret. “I don’t know if I would have the time for it. You see, I’m looking for a second job, I need some more money.”

“How much money?”

“Huh?”

“How much money do you need?”

“A few thousand.”

“How much is a few thousand?”

“Three thousand.”