Lace and Paint (True Colors Book 1) Read online

  “What happened? How did you get yourself into this terrible mess?”

  He’s being direct, no playing games. The thing is I can’t pinpoint anything specific that caused me to be in this situation. I have a collection of things which I’ve dragged behind me for too many years, like pearls of pain threaded on a long chain.

  “What happened with what’s-his-name?” Danny makes no effort to try and remember the name of my last boyfriend.

  “It ended badly, as always.” I sigh. It wasn’t a complete surprise. I was naïve again, hoping for true love, but all I did was a ton of compromising for a mediocre guy who treated me like shit. I’m really good at that. The more screwed-up they are, the more attracted I am, and the more I allow them to treat me with disrespect, so long as they don’t leave. But in the end, they always leave—once they understand.

  “Why did he leave?” Danny doesn’t let it go.

  “Why do they all leave? He was just like the rest. He didn’t really want me and I’m not going to waste my energy thinking about every guy who was around for a couple of months and then ran off.” I stare at the hot drink, the steam rising out of my cup. I can’t even say how much of it was actually his fault. If anything, I think it was mine.

  “Talia, you can’t fall apart every time something goes wrong. You can’t let things affect you this way.”

  He’s seen it happen so many times before.

  “It’s not like I choose this.”

  I look up from my steaming cup. His eyes are staring at me and he doesn’t like what he sees.

  “I want you to eat and sleep properly. You know you can stay with us as long as you like.” He doesn’t tear his eyes away from me. “But I can’t worry about you all the time. I need to know you plan to take care of yourself.”

  I know all about Danny’s attempts to fix the situation. To fix me.

  “I’ll try,” I reply softly.

  “Elusive as always. What’s wrong with you?”

  “I said I’d try!” My anger grows. “What do you want, promises I’m not sure I’ll keep? Do you want me to lie to you?”

  “I want you to be okay.” I can hear the frustration in his voice. He hasn’t seen me like this in a long time.

  “Have you thought about what you’re going to do while you’re here?” He takes another sip of his coffee and looks up from his cup.

  “Don’t know, maybe find a job.”

  “What kind of a job?”

  “I’ll go waitress in some restaurant, what else can I do? It’s not like I have four degrees and am on my way to my PhD,” I answer sarcastically.

  “Are you still writing your blog?” His familiar smile, which I love so much, returns. I breathe a sigh of relief. I think the difficult part is behind us.

  “Yes.” I give a timid smile.

  My blog, Lust on the Internet, has a knack for details. Sometimes I can be really crude. My smile widens of its own accord as I remember the juicier descriptions I’ve written there.

  “When can I read it?” Danny interrupts my naughty thoughts as he tries to pry information out of me.

  Oh, it doesn’t work like that. My blog is anonymous; no one knows it’s me.

  “Never!” I give a little laugh.

  “Come on, don’t be like that!”

  “It’s not going to happen and believe me, if you read it, you’d regret it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Let’s just say, it’s intimate, and I’m your sister, and we’ll leave it at that.”

  I give him an impish look so he gets the hint.

  “Okay, too much information!” He raises his hands in submission and rises abruptly from his chair, his eyes shining brightly.

  “We have a surprise for you. Come.” He motions me to follow and opens the white door in the kitchen. It leads to the basement, if you could call it that. In truth, Danny’s basement is actually another self-contained guest room, with a wide sofa, a sophisticated music system, a bathroom, and a huge plasma screen. He turns the light on in the stairwell and I follow him down the stairs.

  “John and I thought you would like this. We didn’t know exactly what to buy, so… anyway, you’ll see…” He turns the light on in the basement as I come down the last step. There, in the corner of the room, I notice a large easel with a huge canvas.

  My heart swells. Danny knows how much I love to paint.

  “Danny…” I walk toward the empty canvas and slowly brush my hand over it. It’s not completely smooth and the coarse texture excites me. At the tips of my fingers, I can feel a painting itching to come out.

  “I know how happy you are when you paint. Maybe this is a good start.” He kisses my head. He really is the best brother in the world. “The paints and brushes are in that box.” He points at a large box on floor.

  Oh, wow! Did he leave anything in the store?

  I sit down on the floor and open the box. Inside is everything I need. I won’t have to leave the house for at least a week. When I look up, I have the biggest smile on my face, like a little girl who’s just received the best birthday present in the world.

  “You shouldn’t have…” I’m amazed.

  “Nonsense, look how you’re smiling.” His satisfaction rings in his voice.

  I dig inside the box and find acrylic tubes of every possible color, thin and thick paintbrushes, and a palette for mixing colors. I just need a water jar and I’m all set.

  “Okay, you’ll have enough time for this later. Come and eat.” His tone becomes stern, which surprises me, and I know his plan to fix me has begun.

  “Okay,” I grumble. I don’t feel like eating. It’s still so early. I really hope he has a salad in the fridge.

  At six p.m. John returns from work. He’s tall and lean, dressed in a gorgeous suit. His arms are powerful, his black hair stylishly cut, and he has a cute dimple that appears with his smile. What a loss to the female gender, I think. Still, it was a win for my brother.

  “I’m happy you’re here.” He gives me a warm hug and kisses my forehead. John is thirty-two and I feel as though I’ve gained another older brother.

  “I’m really happy to be here. Thanks for having me.” I smile wide with my thanks.

  “Don’t be silly. Where else would you go? Do you like your gift?”

  “It’s perfect.” I smile widely, indicating just how much I love it.

  “Great.” He takes a bowl of pasta out of the fridge and shoves it in the microwave. “Do you want to eat?”

  “No thanks, I already ate.” I ate enough salad for a week, I swear. Danny watched me like a hawk until I finished eating it all. I felt like a five-year-old. “I think I’m going to turn in early tonight.” I smile while he spoons the pasta on a plate and washes the bowl in the sink.

  At home, I just let the dirty dishes pile up for days until I get the urge to wash them. But here I’m a guest and I’ll have to behave accordingly.

  “Good idea.” He gives me another kiss on my forehead. “I’m happy you came,” he repeats.

  John sits down at the table and I go into my room, sit on the queen-size bed, and stare at the walls. I take a deep breath. I’m here, and it’s either the best decision or worst mistake I’ve ever made.

  Don’t think about it. Put it all behind you. You’re in London and you need to seize this opportunity and get yourself out of the situation you’re in.

  Blog and then bed.

  Wednesday

  May 16th, 2012

  Maybe There’s Still a Chance.

  London was waiting for me with open arms, like an old lover sitting at the window, waiting for my return. The weather has decided to cooperate, as though all of nature’s elements stood to attention, anticipating the princess’ arrival.

  The city received me with love and yearning, as I love and yearn for her. Just like a woman, preparing for her man’s return from the battlefield, bathing and perfuming in his honor and wearing her most dazzling and comforting smile.

  And I
wonder—have I left my battleground behind? Have all the cannons ceased fire? Am I moving toward serenity, or is the lull deceiving, while war rages on in the horizon, threatening to erupt again and to arrive at the doorstep of my small room. Must I be ready and alert for the next battle?

  I’d like to think—or maybe live in the illusion—that I’m battle-weary, but my stomach clenches when I think of the quiet. I don’t know how blessed it is—I’m used to chaos, to blood, to victims lying on the side of the road while I storm through, leaving casualties in my wake. I’m addicted to chaos. Thinking about it makes my heart race, as though I’m preparing for an encounter with a mysterious stranger, like the first time your clothes come off and your defenses fall apart, and you’re left exposed and vulnerable.

  I’m excited to be here in London, defenseless. Either I sink or swim, go crazy or die. I want to go crazy; I think I already am…

  Stay a little bit longer. The battle isn’t over yet, and the quiet…well, it’s not my cup of tea.

  Until tomorrow.

  Talula

  I wake up on Thursday morning, take my phone from the bedside table, and check the time. It’s ten thirty a.m.

  I like living upside down—staying awake until the small hours of the morning and then sleeping in. I like partying or just staying in bed with my computer and writing. Nevertheless, this inverse schedule isn’t good for me. I know that the boring routine I hate; small doses of alcohol, and a decent sleeping pattern, are what keep me balanced without the damn pills. I’m aware of all this. The problems usually begin when I stop caring. Then the nights become long and I can’t fall asleep, even when I try. I can wake up at four in the morning and climb the walls, unable to contain my high. And once I crash, whether it takes days or weeks, the darkness comes; grey despairing days swamp me, and I struggle to take each breath, struggle to hold onto life.

  After I’m showered and dressed into some skinny jeans and an oversized shirt that falls of my shoulder, I make my first cup of coffee and go out to the garden to smoke a cigarette.

  The house is quiet. Danny and John must be at work.

  On the roofed patio, there are two sofas shaped in an L against the wall. I sit down on the smaller one, and put my coffee on the low glass table, kicking off my shoes. I stretch and lift my bare feet onto the cushions and light a cigarette, inhaling deeply. I’m dying to start painting, but before I do, I need to pop over to Primark to buy a cheap pair of pants and a shirt I won’t mind dirtying.

  Above the skies are blue and clear. I love this city so much. And this visit I’m here without a time limit, unconcerned that with every passing moment my holiday here is ending. I look out at the sprawling garden. From the dark wooden deck, three steps lead down to the lawn, which is surrounded by a fence. Tall bushes cover the fence, and it’s barely visible.

  I can breathe here.

  I finish my coffee and cigarette and leave the house, put in my earphones, and listen to Amy Winehouse singing song after song, all the way to Oxford Street.

  The store is packed. I choose a black tank top and a pair of knee-length brown cargo pants. By evening, they’ll be completely stained.

  I go into the dressing room. Okay, so I’ve definitely lost weight. I look at myself in the mirror and realize the clothes I’ve chosen are at least one size too big. My fingers find their way to my collarbone. It protrudes more than usual. I can’t help the small smile that crosses my face. My hand slips down to my hipbone, which protrudes under the waistband of my panties.

  So what if I’ve lost weight? It’s not a bad thing. I like being thin. I like my protruding bones, especially those holding up my pants and skirts.

  I don’t understand it when guys think I’m pretty. Even now, as I stand in front of the mirror, I just don’t see it. Not pretty enough and certainly not thin enough.

  I shove all the clothes back into the basket and get dressed quickly. Then, I buy everything one size smaller.

  Back in the basement, I tie my curly hair up high so it won’t get dirty, and then check the time. It’s two p.m.—I’ve got all afternoon. There’s a music system in the corner and I put in my flash drive, turning up the volume, and press ‘repeat’. Pearl Jam’s “Black” starts playing. Then I take out a black tube of paint and a red one and start to dream…

  While I paint, I allow myself to think of everything. My emotions spread all over my body and pour onto the canvas. I put down the paintbrush and smear the paint with my fingers. I love the sensation of the paint’s smooth, cold texture between them. I disappear into a world of my own and completely lose track of time. The song begins and ends, begins and ends…

  What is it I want in life? To be loved, to be accepted for who I am, without those looks of shock and pity. I have bipolar disorder. Two words that have the power to scare people away. The things I’ve agreed to, the way I’ve been treated just to feel I belong. Belong to what? To where? I’m a ludicrous creature. Everyone around sees in me something I’m not. A show, a pretense. I hide the truth at all costs. I prefer selling them happy, energetic Talia, who’s uninhibited and carefree. However, the minute they discover the baggage I’m carrying, everything comes apart around me, and I find myself alone in the dark once again.

  Who can love me? And why would anyone even want to?

  “Hi!” Danny calls from the top of the stairs.

  He’s home? Already? How long have I been here?

  “I’m downstairs!” I call back, trying to shout over the music.

  He clatters down the stairs and enters the basement with a smile.

  “I see you like your present.” He kisses my head and checks out the painting. “Wow! You went wild!”

  “A little…” I turn to him with my hands covered in paint. He jumps back in surprise.

  “Don’t touch me!” He laughs, lifting up his hands in self-defense.

  “What happened to your creative instinct?” I playfully shove my hands at him.

  He runs behind the sofa. “I never had one.”

  “What time is it anyway?” I ask.

  “Five. How long have you been down here?”

  “A while…”

  I turn back to my painting.

  “Don’t hide down here all evening.”

  “Why? You can tell people you have a ghost in your basement. It could raise the value of the house.” I laugh. He goes back up the stairs and closes the door behind him and I return to my painting.

  Red, black, and mixed feelings, the pain almost squeezes from my body and onto the canvas. I bite my lip as I wipe my fingers on the material, floating and losing track of time.

  After my shower, I go into the empty kitchen. The smell of meat wafts through the house. I pour myself a glass of red wine from the table. I love red wine, especially Merlot. And beer. And drinking shots of tequila with my friends. And then dancing the night away. Well, I just love drinking and dancing. But I need to take care of myself after the last outburst. Music will just have to replace alcohol.

  I go out to the patio. As usual, Danny’s tending the grill. No one else prepares the meat when he’s around. John is sitting on the wide sofa, smoking a cigarette. I smile at him, sit down on the small sofa, and lift my feet, bringing my knees close to my chest. I take a small sip of the wine, I haven’t really eaten much today, and if I want to avoid problems with Danny, I’d better make an effort to eat something at dinner.

  “How was your first day in London?” John smiles at me.

  Danny’s never really told me much about John’s past, but I know that his Catholic family reacted badly to his coming out. He was forced to leave his home and went through a terrible time. I try to imagine this impressive man sleeping under some bridge, but the image just doesn’t click with the John I know.

  “I guess I’m still adjusting.” I light up a cigarette. “I still haven’t unpacked everything.”

  I hate unpacking and can easily live out of my suitcase for a month. Maybe I really should make an effort and arrange my clo
thes in the closet.

  “You have time.” John’s voice is quiet. “Danny and I meant what we said. You can stay for as long as you want.”

  “Thank you.” I smile, feeling embarrassed.

  The problem isn’t how long I can stay, but what it is I want from myself.

  “Did you paint all day?”

  “Yes, your gift is amazing.” I hug my knees. I forget how cold it can get here in May, and I haven’t dressed warmly enough. Now, as I sit outside on the sofa, a small chill goes through my body. John notices straight away.

  “You’re cold, sweetheart.” He smiles.

  “A little.”

  “I’ll bring you something warm to wear.” He gets up and goes inside before I have time to stop him. His concern for me, the feeling that someone cares, is unfamiliar to me. I don’t know how to react to it. My mother would never get up for me, or for anyone except for herself. I lean my head back, close my eyes, and allow my thoughts to wander.

  My mother’s shrill voice calls out my name. She’s knocking on the door and I can hear the anger in her tone.

  “Talia! Open up!”

  I’m sitting on the floor, my back against the door. I won’t let her in. She can stay out. Out of the room. Out of my life. She can stay as far away from me as possible. She doesn’t have to pretend she cares, there’s only one person she cares about and it’s herself. She just wants her quiet life back, God forbid anyone says anything on the matter. As long as Talia does as she’s told. As long as she takes her pills and doesn’t come home late and drunk, as long as people don’t talk. As long as Talia behaves like a good, quiet girl. Why can’t she be like everyone else? Why does she have to cause problems?

  I am a problem. That’s what I am to her. A problem that needs to be solved—and quickly—so no one will discover her secret. Talia has a mental condition. That’s why she is like she is. It’s not her fault. She just needs to take her pills and decline quietly.