CHAPTER TWO

SORRY MARIAH AND MICHAEL

Throwing my keys on my dresser, I found two envelopes sitting in the middle of my bed. Dropping my bag on the floor by the door, I moved to sit on the edge of the bed, bracing myself. The first was a bank statement, the other was thick and expensive looking with the words Wickham's in looping script in the top left-hand corner.

The bank statement wouldn't show anything I didn't already know – that I was just shy of being completely broke. Living at home didn't do much to alleviate the consequences of working casually - at the end of the month, I was lucky to have a couple of pounds. Ripping it open, praying to the money Gods that I hadn't overdrawn, I quickly scanned the contents. I was more in the black than I thought.

I refolded the statement and put it in the drawer of my bedside table before grabbing the larger envelope. Tearing it open I braced myself for the worst. Wickham's, had, just the week prior had expressed an interest in displaying my works. There was a large part of me that refused to believe that this wasn't them pulling out. I hadn't signed any paperwork after all.

Tensing my muscles for impact, I pulled out the contents. As I read the letter, my muscles began to relax, the breath I had been holding gusted out.

Dear Elizabeth

We are pleased to report that your artwork "Pride" has been selected to appear in our Spring newcomer exhibition.

The reception date will be Saturday, 5 March at 7:00 p.m. The showing will take place in the main gallery hall on the ground floor.

We note that you have been in discussions with Fenella Younge of Talent Acquisitions regarding an exhibition of your other works. We expect that we will be able to host your works for the duration of July and we request that we see all completed pieces by no later than 30 May 2022. We enclose , for your attention, our contract to be signed and returned to us by no later than 5 January 2022.

We look forward to working with you in the future.

G. Wickham

Owner and Curator

With shaking hands, I set the letter to the side and quickly read over the contract, making a note to have Jane look over it before I signed it. It didn't feel real. After years of constant rejections and snide remarks that likened my work to "motel art", there was a big part of me that never expected this to actually happen.

But it had.

A real gallery.

A real gallery in London.

Calming my racing heart, I laid back on my bed and stared up at the cheap plastic stars on the ceiling I had made dad put up when I was kid. Weeks of research had gone into their placement, making sure they resembled constellations. Orion was now missing a couple of notches in his belt and the big dipper no longer had a handle but I couldn't bring myself to pull them down.

They always reminded me to aim for something bigger. Now look at me.

A real artist.

And I wasn't even starving.

Pulling myself up and together, I padded across the room towards the bathroom. It was a pink monstrosity that had come originally with the house when it was built sometime in the seventies. Mum was always harping on about wanting to remodel it for as long as I could remember. Just one of those things forever on the to-do list.

I cranked the shower knob, stripping as I waited for the steam of cloud in the air before climbing beneath the hot spray. As soon as I closed the door behind me, I began to belt out a stunning rendition of Celebration. There was nothing quite like the confidence the shower gave you when it came to singing. I could barely carry a tune in the shower I was suddenly winning Grammys and awards.

Washing my hair out, the song morphed into All I Do is Win, when a loud banging sounded on the door.

"Shut the Hell up," my lovely younger sister Lydia called out. Naturally, I sang louder, continuing as I turned the shower off and wrapped myself in a towel.

Pulling the door open, Lydia stood there with her arms folded over her chest glaring at me in the way only seventeen-year old's can. "All I do is win win win no matter what," I sang at her.

Her pert nose crinkled in disgust. "You realise how terrible you are don't you?"

"Got money on my mind I can never get enough…" I kept singing.

"Urgh!" She brushed past me and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Lydia was trying to make it as a social media "influencer" or to otherwise get paid to wear certain make-up in pictures of her living her everyday life. I didn't really understand it but then again I only used social media to post pictures of my art. She already had the diva thing down pat.

Laughing, I went back to my room and prepared myself for the evening. There would be ugly sweaters everywhere and I couldn't wait.

My phone chimed, once, twice. I quickly checked and saw that Jane had messaged me.

Jane: Can't wait to see you tonight!!! Getting there at about 9.

Jane: Charlie is bringing his friend and thinks you and him will really hit it off.

Why was everyone always trying to set me up? Did they think I was totally inept at love? I mean, I was, but that was neither here nor there. I replied that I couldn't wait either.

Before long, the Uber was ordered, I was down half a bottle of wine, and I couldn't seem to wipe the smile from my face – not even Mariah Carey's annoying whistle tones were enough to bring me down – mum had decided it was the perfect night for her entire album on repeat.

Would Christmas just implode on itself if Mariah Carey and Michael Bublé weren't there to serenade us with songs we'd all heard a thousand times over? For ninety percent of the year, they were in hibernation, then bam! Suddenly it's mid-November and they're everywhere. There were so many Christmas adjacent songs that were perfectly serviceable that were always ignored in favour of Mariah and Michael. It wasn't fair.

The Uber driver, who I quickly discovered wasn't the talkative type, had turned the radio up, drowning me out with Bublé crooning about it looking a lot like Christmas. Except, looking out the foggy window, it wasn't.

Not yet anyway.

Snow hadn't begun to fall yet, light displays were still being put up, and the fatigue that came somewhere around the second week of December hadn't begun to set in yet. What was Christmas without the looming anxiety of having to deal with crowds of people?

The party is already thumping when I arrive. People have spilled out onto the front lawn, overflowing plastic cups of cheap beer sloshing over the rim. Ugly sweaters were abundant, making me feel right at home with Rudolf's nose flashing on my chest. With a "thank you" I get out of the uber and quickly lose my shoe to the sticky mud. The red high heel stood up perfectly, its glittery exterior glinting under the lights strung in the tree.

I awkwardly hop back to my shoe, slip my foot into the high heel Lydia had sworn were the perfect complement to my sweater. I had been perfectly content with a pair of beat-up sneakers that had seen better days. Shoe firmly back on my foot, I carefully turn so not to lose it again and survey the scene; the Lucas boys pounding shots on the railing of the balcony; Mary King teetering on towering heels dancing without a care in the world. The front window had been thrust open despite the cold, The Killer's Don't Shoot Me Santa spilling into the night.

Humming along, I headed toward the house in search of a drink, when a lonely figure caught my gaze. A man around thirty, dark haired, broad shouldered, and very much not enjoying the festivities sitting alone on the steps of the porch. His face is lit up by the phone in his hand casting deep shadows in his furrowed brow. Jaw clenched, the bottle of beer in his other hand untouched, as he swipes his thumb across the screen.

It was absolute chaos, there were simply no other words to describe it. Standing behind the man on the steps, there is a group of people playing a shouting version of never have I ever, all breaking out in groans and fits of laughing all at once. To the right, a suit is leaning over a red-haired woman, his hands so animated that I was worried he was going to hit her accidentally.

As the first part of the holiday season, the promise of free liquor and the guarantee of a good time had everyone falling over themselves before the holiday ennui set in.

But the dark haired man sitting on the porch steps has a tension about him that makes him stick out amongst the revellers. He didn't belong. That was the simple truth of it. Wearing a green sweater with some sort of image I couldn't make out; he was suspiciously devoid of any sort of festive cheer. Hell, he looked devoid of any joy, mirth, Christmassy cheer, etcetera, etcetera.

I'm not sure what compelled me to approach him. Honestly, I would have been better off just going into the house and seeking out a drink and some friends. Maybe it was the fact he cut a depressingly lonely figure and no one should be alone on Christmas. Or maybe it was the bottle of wine I had split with Lydia when I was getting ready. Not that it really mattered.

I tuck a red curl behind my ear and set off toward him. As I approach, his eyes stay fixed on his finger slowy dragging whatever he's reading up on the screen. I catch a highlighted word on the screen, treating idiopathic scoliosis with spinal fusion.

The man was reading a medical journal at a party.

I sit next to him, propping my elbow on my knee and resting my chin on my hand as I face him. "You don't belong here."

Hazel eyes slowly lift to my face. He blinked slowly. "Excuse me?" The voice was deep with a cold edge and a distinctive Scottish bur.

"I mean, you're sitting here, at a party, reading a medical journal." I gestured around for effect.

He studies me for a moment, debating what sort of response to give me, settling the untouched beer on the step beside him. "I was forced to come," he replies finally.

"By who?"

"A friend." One who clearly thought he needed to work on his social skills.

I lifted an eyebrow, Don't Shoot Me Santa fading into Last Christmas. "So… the medical journal. Are you a doctor?"

"Orthopaedic surgeon specialising in spinal surgery for paediatric patients."

Wow.

That should have been the perfect time for me to take my art school ass out of there. Except, for reasons known only to the Almighty and some small part of my brain I wasn't even aware existed, I said, "I once dislocated my knee." He looked at me blankly. "I was sitting down to eat at the table and twisted my leg the wrong way and pop! Who hurts themselves sitting down?"

"Uh…"

I wanted to die. The earth just needed to open up and swallow me whole. What in the world compelled me to share the knee story? The knee story. The story that shows I can't even do the basic human function of sitting down.

"And I had RSI in my wrist once." I continued despite the bewildered look on his face. "I was just really bored and between jobs. It was like a frenzy had overtaken my body."

His mouth presses tight. "Right."

"Oh my God. Not that. I just realised what that sounded like and no. Just a lot of drawing." I could feel the heat crawling up my neck. "Not that there is anything wrong with that. It's perfectly natural as you know. I'm an artist."

An artist who is going to be showing at a gallery. Those arty types might buy my works and display them in their cool apartments and make casual statements like; "oh, yes, that is an Elizabeth Bennet original."

"Sure." His eyes drop to his phone.

He's not giving me much to work with, but I'm not giving in. "I'm Lizzy by the way," I forge ahead. "And you are?"

"Not interested," he says, still reading.

"You're a barrel of laughs aren't you?"

"So they tell me."

"Well Chuckles," I stand up, teetering slightly on my heels in my speed. His hand reflexively reaches out to steady me. Our eyes meet for a split second before he drops his hand when he's satisfied I won't face plant into the gravel. "It's been fun."

He doesn't say anything when I walk up the steps into the house. I glance at him over my shoulder, the untouched bottle was back in his hand, his gaze firmly on his phone screen. If he wasn't going to enjoy the night, I would.

I wasn't sure what to expect when I stepped into the house. Certainly not the explosion of tinsel. Every nook and cranny was covered in the stuff. Fairy lights were strung everywhere giving the interior a warm haziness and the lounge had been converted into a dancefloor, spinning coloured lights and all.

"There you are." Charlotte almost ripped off my arm, as she intercepted and dragged me into the kitchen. Depositing me in one of the stools at the island, she poured out two shots of vodka then handed me a beer. She slid over a shot to me and I picked it up. "What took you so long?"

The bright lights of the kitchen were almost as blinding as the hideous, straight from the seventies sweater she had on. Everything about her was soft and warm, from the dark cloud of curls framing her round face to the fuzzy socks peeking out of the top of her hiking boots.

"Cheers!" We clinked the plastic shot glasses and knocked it back. It was pure battery acid. I quickly washed down the taste with a swig of my beer. It was just as grim.

"It takes time to look this good." And it had.

My hair didn't want to cooperate. The shoulder length red curls deciding to frizz rather than smooth out nicely. Eventually, I had managed to get it to look somewhat decent. Then there was my makeup, the eyeliner refusing to cooperate and doing whatever it pleased rather than going on in a straight line.

"Mai hated the gift wrap by the way." Charlotte poured another shot. "But she couldn't say anything in case she looked ungrateful."

I took a swig of the watery beer. That was Charlotte's relationship with her family all over. They would just passively aggressively do things that would deliberately annoy one another rather than engage in a simple conversation. It was perfectly healthy and not moderately dysfunctional at all.

Charlotte had once told me that her mum and aunt had been in a fight for nearly twenty years. No one remembers the reason for the fight, only that they were mad at each other and naturally that meant pulling the rest of the family into the feud. I wasn't about to try and understand it. It wasn't like my family was any better after all.

"And mum was being mum again," Charlotte continues, vaguely annoyed. "If I have to hear that when she was my age she already had two and A half kids and a house I will scream."

"Honestly, what is it about being in your mid-twenties that suddenly makes everyone have an opinion on everything you do? Oh, your womb is vacant? Better fill it, tick tock. No ring on your finger? Let me help you find a fellow on the Tinder. Not drowning in a mortgage? Well, you're not a real adult. They should just be happy we get out of our pyjamas."

"It totally sucks."Charlotte quickly poured another shot and knocked it back with a wince. "This is terrible."

I snorted. "And yet you keep drinking it."

Charlotte shrugs with a grin. "It's free."

She had a point. Everything tastes better when it's free. Even watery beer that had no business being called beer in the first place.

"I have news."

"Do share," Charlotte propped her elbows on the bench, resting her chin on her hands, giving me her full attention.

"Wickham's is definitely going to show my work," I said with a smile.

"Oh my God!" She straightened and rushed around the island to wrap me in a tight hug. "I'm so happy for you."

"Thanks," I said into her shoulder before she let me go. "I knew they were interested but I didn't think I was going to hear anything until next year."

"This calls for tequila."

"No!" I laughed.

Charlotte went over and pulled a bottle from the counter, shimmying back to me humming Tequila loudly. "Tequila!" She yelled, measuring out two shots. Shaking my head with a smile, I clinked my shot glass against hers and knocked it back with a grimace.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and checked it. Jane.

Jane: I'm out the front.

Me: Coming

I let Charlotte know I was going to see Jane, not that she seemed to hear me: someone she knew had caught her attention and was dragging her to the dancefloor.

Walking through the house on wobbly legs, I soon found myself back outside, the frigid air cutting through me as soon as I stepped out onto the porch. Scanning, I quickly found Jane and made for her.

"Lizzy!" Jane said, whatever concoction she has in her red paper cup spilling over the edge and onto the gravel in her excitement.

Jane: lawyer extraordinaire, devoted plant mum, sweetest person on the planet, and the best sister a girl could ever ask for. Looking perfectly put together from the top of her artfully messy bun to the bottom of her Louboutin's, you would be excused for thinking that she was a bit of a snob, ; however, that couldn't be further from the truth. Everything about her screamed "chic", even the ugly sweater that was two dancing penguins looked impossibly expensive.

She lived and worked in London, kicking ass in Court, and looking damn good while doing it. Unfortunately, we haven't had a chance to catch up in some months, something I was hoping to remedy in the coming year. Who knows, if my art career takes off I might finally be able to move out of home into the big bad world.

I step towards her, wrapping my arms tightly around her in a hug. "I feel like I haven't seen you in person in forever."

Even though we talk via Facetime every week it wasn't the same as actually being with her. A small screen couldn't replace the warm comfort of a familiar hug.

Gravel crunched behind us as I released Jane from the hug. A group of three was approaching us, their faces shadowed as they stepped around the house and into the light. It was Jane's boyfriend Charlie, Doctor Chuckles, and a woman I didn't know.

Charlie's orange hair looked as if it were on fire on in the glow of the porch light. He was handsome in that boy next door sort of way. Everything about him was open and eager to please, reminding me of an excitable Labrador puppy. He was dressed casually in jeans and a Star Wars themed ugly sweater.

I could finally make out Doctor Chuckles' sweater. It was forest green with a large Rudolph in the centre. Unlike my own, his nose didn't flash, instead it was a barely attached big red pom-pom. It didn't fit very well and was decidedly lumpy in appearance.

"You know Charlie of course," Jane said warmly as the trio joined us. "This is his sister Caroline, and this is his friend Darcy."

"Nice to see you again Chuckles."