All the Little Things Sarah Lawton (red white royal blue TXT) 📖

work in progress and he hadn’t done much shading, just careful quick lines that captured the crouching intensity of an animal poised to run. ‘Do you want to try the paints? This would look lovely with a wash of colour.’

I got out some old watercolours and palettes and told him to go and get himself some water from the kitchen. He came out of the house carefully carrying two jam jars of water – he’d spotted the stack obviously, and was clever enough to bring two at once. The look of concentration on his face reminded me of Vi when she was little, trying to tie her shoelaces. I felt myself warming towards him, and I wondered why it was he had disconcerted me so much before. I still couldn’t remember who he reminded me of, and so decided it wasn’t anyone, that I was imagining it. I put it out of my mind.

We settled easily into our work, engrossed in what we were doing. I had opened the doors of the studio wide in an attempt to let the air in, but there was no breeze to be found and I felt more than one slip of sweat trailing down my neck. Alex looked as cool as he always seemed to, but he must have been feeling it because in one quick motion he pulled at the material of his top and lifted it off his torso, screwing it up and using it to rub at his face and neck. I couldn’t help but look at him with an appraising, artist’s eye. He was superbly formed, with a perfect dip of muscle above his hips which edged above the denim of his shorts. He wasn’t overly muscled, I doubted he was a gym bunny, but I could see a natural definition on his flat stomach and his arms were not thin. I imagined he had a wiry strength. He could probably lift me easily.

That errant thought made me jump, and I realised that there was an eye peering at me past the white of his top, and half a crooked smile, too.

‘Checking me out, Rachel?’ he teased, and before I could answer he absolved me and my blushes. ‘Don’t worry, I do that all the time. Stare at people. It’s a sketcher’s habit, isn’t it? There’s a bloke at work, he has the most amazing curly hair. I’m always looking at it, it makes my fingers itch wanting to try and draw it. He probably thinks I fancy him.’

‘I know what you mean. I always want to draw my daughter. I’m always staring at her, too. She hates it.’

‘You don’t look old enough to have a daughter. You barely look older than me.’

‘Oh, flatterer. I’m old enough to be your mother.’

‘You’d be a young one – I’ll be twenty next year.’

We settled into another comfortable silence – I was glad he wasn’t a chatterbox – and worked side by side for a while. I don’t think he really needed my expertise so much as my encouragement: he had an incredible natural talent. Colours are always tricky, though. We were talking about blending techniques when my phone buzzed again and I picked it up. It was a message from Steve. Just one line. Call me.

Warning pheromones started bursting in my body. Something was wrong, I could feel it. I don’t know how, but I knew. Swallowing against a suddenly dry throat I took my phone outside and called him.

‘Steve? What’s happened?’

‘Oh, sweetheart. Are you at home? I’ve got some bad news.’ I felt tears prickling at the back of my eyes and my throat felt tight as he continued. ‘I’ve just heard – you know Tilly Beaumont’s brother, Tristan?’

‘Yes, of course I do. He takes Vi to school sometimes with Tilly.’

‘He’s been in an accident in his car. He didn’t make it, Rach. He lost control of his car and crashed. His brakes must have gone or something, I don’t know, it was such a shit heap!’ He said the last bit angrily, and I felt the same way. He was only seventeen! How could he have been gone, just like that? I’d seen him on Friday sitting by the green. I was hollowed out by shock, eviscerated.

‘Oh god, poor Tilly and her mum and dad, they must be devastated. How did you find out?’

‘Geoff came in. He saw the police leaving the Beaumonts’ house, and he knows one of the detectives, who told him. Bob’s just gone past. He must be on his way to get Tilly from school to tell her.’

I felt a bit sick that I must have known about her brother before she did, and I immediately started to worry about Vivian. Would the school tell them straightaway – should I go and get her? Would they come home? I said goodbye to Steve and I walked back into the studio, where Alex was still painting. He looked up and I knew he must have been able to see on my face that something was wrong and it occurred to me that maybe he knew Tristan – they would be about the same age. I felt a pain in my chest that they might be friends and now I would have to tell him that Tristan was dead.

‘What’s wrong, Rachel?’ he asked, putting down his brush and walking over, wiping his hands on a cloth. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I’ve heard some bad news, Alex. Do you know Tristan Beaumont?’

‘No. I don’t think I’ve met him yet. The name is familiar, though—?’

That small pang of relief was the thread of feeling that caused a cascade of sudden grief for Tristan, who I’d known since he was a gangly, cheeky eleven-year-old; for Tilly, who had lost her brother; for his lovely, lovely parents, and I couldn’t stop it rushing out.

‘He’s dead. He’s been killed in a car accident.’ I choked the bitter words out and then the tears followed them.

Alex went distinctly pale, then stepped toward me and wrapped his arms