The Liberation of Alice Love(42)
Author: Abby McDonald

“That sounds great.” Julian lit up. “What do you say, Aly? Come cheer on some other great British failures?”

A look of annoyance flickered across Yasmin’s face, so Alice just shrugged. “I don’t know…”

Julian frowned. “You were just saying you wanted to do something different.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Actually, I think I can only get two seats,” Yasmin interrupted. “So, perhaps not this year.”

Alice met her with an even smile. “Perhaps not.”

There was a pause, and then Yasmin leaned in to murmur something to Julian. He laughed, kissing her fondly. Alice ate another strawberry. She hadn’t realized it, but she’d hardly spent any time alone with Julian and Yasmin before: somehow, they usually met at some distracting event or with Ella around to act as a convenient buffer. Now, for the first time, she was aware of the small but noticeable moves Yasmin made to mark her territory.

“Have you got any more business trips coming up?” Alice tried a more friendly tone. “You’re always off to such exciting places.”

“A couple, in the next month.” Yasmin narrowed her eyes, and Alice realized too late that the question may have sounded strategic, as if Alice was checking when she would leave next, so—of course—she could leap on Julian.

“Anywhere nice?” Alice pressed.

Yasmin shrugged. “Tokyo, and then Paris again.”

Julian looked up. “Remember the time we went to Paris?” he grinned at Alice, oblivious to Yasmin’s displeasure.

“We were backpacking,” Alice explained quickly. “Stayed in a big hostel dorm with a group of rowdy Irish guys.”

“Oh. Fun.” Yasmin’s lips pressed together thinly.

“It was!” Julian didn’t seem to grasp the tactless nature of discussing foreign travel with another woman, however innocent—and unhygienic—the adventure may have been.

“You should take Jules with you on one of these trips,” Alice tried again, to defuse the growing tension. “A break would be good for him, he’s been slaving away.”

“It’s not like they’re holidays.” Yasmin managed to make Alice’s friendly suggestion sound like a slur. “I’m working nonstop.”

“Right,” Alice exhaled. “Of course.”

They fell silent again, turning back to the food and newspapers. Alice idled with the magazine section, exasperated. She should stay an hour or so longer and try to put Yasmin at ease. She might be resistant now, but with more effort and conversation, Yasmin would surely thaw; it would just take work—that was all.

The thought of more work was somehow not appealing to Alice.

“You know, I think I’m going to make a move.” She smiled, decision suddenly made.

“Really?” Yasmin brightened.

“Yes. Flora wanted us to spend some time together.” Alice began to gather the papers and her share of the food. Just because she was leaving, it was no reason to forsake her lunch.

Julian looked confused. “I thought you said she was locked away in her studio.”

“Exactly,” Alice agreed. “Which is why she’s counting on me for a break.” She pulled her sandals back on and got to her feet, brushing down her dress for stray grass and leaves. Strangely, she wasn’t even lying. Flora had been shut away in that studio for most of the week, looking pale and anxious whenever she did emerge. Alice had found a DVD rental listing on Ella’s statement that looked just Flora’s sort: a rom-com starring Colin Firth, Kate Hudson, and Sandra Bullock. It was practically the pinnacle of happy endings.

“Can’t you stay a little longer?” Julian asked, but Alice simply smiled.

“Afraid not. It was lovely to see you again, Yasmin.” She made her farewells warmly and gave Julian a brisk hug. “Enjoy the rest of the day!”

Alice strolled away, happily swinging her bag as she meandered back down the hill. It was a small, simple thing to leave a social function when she first felt the urge rather than tolerating the situation until it was polite to make her departure, but Alice felt remarkably cheerful as she left Yasmin and Julian to their brie and kisses. The day was hers now, to do with what she pleased. Perhaps she’d even stop for ice cream.

***

“Flora?” Alice arrived back at the house that afternoon, exhausted from a dance class. She’d popped by the gym on an impulse to check their schedule and found a session about to get under way. Nadia, the girl from before, had been there too, and together they’d labored in the back row, trying to perfect their jazz hands. “Flora, are you in?”

There was no reply, so Alice made her way to the studio and poked her head inside. She blinked. Last time she’d dropped by, the room had been bright and ordered, with canvases neatly stacked along the walls and paints lined up on the big table. Now there was disarray. Paintings were piled haphazardly, and brushes and bottles were strewn across the floor, open books, and easels upturned. Alice hovered in the doorway, unsure, but curiosity won out. She took a tentative few steps deeper into the mess.

The kitten project was clearly still stalled. Torn-up sketches littered the floor, and as Alice carefully smoothed out the pages, she found Princess Fluffy toying with a ball of string or nudging her milk bowl—over and over, on sheets of discarded work. Watercolors, charcoals, even pen-and-ink drawings; Flora had been locked in that room, working for days, but even though to Alice they looked perfect, full of movement and joy, Flora didn’t seem to agree.

Alice wondered for the first time whether Flora’s moods were something more than artistic temperament. Or was this just a natural part of her creative process—one that Alice had simply never been around to witness before?

She backed away, already guilty for intruding, but just as she turned to leave, something caught Alice’s eye. A leather portfolio was tucked between the table and a bookshelf, but it had fallen open, showing a flash of dark brushstrokes and deep, violent red. Alice reached for it. They were portraits, crammed carelessly into the slim file: some sketched hurriedly, others labored over in full oil paints—a blur of faces, united in grief, anger, and misery. For a moment, Alice didn’t understand where they had come from. Then Flora’s tiny looping signature became clear on the corners, half buried by a layer of paint.

Alice stared at them. The colors, if she could even call them that, were murky and dull, and the brushstrokes were sharp, etched deep into the canvas and paper in places, as if the artist had hurled them there in fury or pain. But the artist was Flora.