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

a new one especially. At first, he was content to stand beside me quietly and watch as I painted, keen eyes taking in ratios and blending. He was a quick study, soon using the same techniques to mix a beautifully rich russet red for his fox. He followed up with creamy paws and tipped perky ears with black, using the same for the eyes that looked up at us from the page, peeping through green stalks of long grass topped with feathery tufts. It was so joyful, alive. He was so incredibly talented.

‘Are you feeling okay, Rachel?’

‘Hm?’

‘Are you feeling okay? After yesterday, I was worried. The accident.’

‘Not really, darling.’ The endearment slipped out easily, and I saw him glance at me, and felt embarrassed.

‘And your daughter?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Your daughter, is she okay?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose she is. I guess that’s a relief.’

‘Really?’ His unbelieving tone caught my attention.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I was wondering why it would be a relief. I thought she would be upset – isn’t she friends with Tristan’s sister?’

‘I, well, I guess it just hasn’t really sunk in yet. She struggles with expressing her emotions sometimes.’

‘You don’t seem like that. Is she not like you?’

‘No, we’re very different in a lot of ways. I definitely wear my heart on my sleeve.’ I thought again about her callous disregard of Tristan, of the tragedy of him losing his life at such a young age. It must have shown on my face, a grimace, because he turned away. Should Vivian have been more upset? Was it wrong to judge her for not being upset by Tristan’s death? I couldn’t actually remember how she’d reacted when Mum had died. Everyone reacted differently to grief. Vivian had always been a stoic, inward-looking child, bottling everything up until… well. She wasn’t like that now.

‘Maybe she takes after her dad?’ He put down his paintbrush and looked right at me, tilting his head as he waited for my response. My mouth went dry, and before I could answer he said, ‘My mum raised us on our own, too. I wouldn’t know if I was like him, either. My dad, I mean. I don’t see him any more. I haven’t seen him in years.’

I felt sick at the thought of Vivian being like her father. It was a thought I had spent a lifetime trying not to have, to not let poison my mind.

‘No, she’s not like him. She’s her own person, that’s all. She’s just processing it all in her own way.’

‘Everyone is different I suppose,’ Alex said, putting down his brush. ‘Shall I make us a cup of tea?’ His hand reached out, slipping across the small of my back briefly as he passed me, not waiting for me to answer, leaving me with dark thoughts.

‘I haven’t put sugar in this one,’ he said, as he came back into the studio, eyes on the tea in his hands. ‘I can go and put some in, though, if you want?’

‘No, it’s okay, I’m sweet enough.’ I felt silly immediately after saying it, but it was something I always said. I couldn’t remember who I had got in from. Maybe one of my parents’ sayings, nestled into my memory, a small treasure. He just laughed.

‘What are you working on at the moment? Are these from a fairy tale?’ He started nosing through my sketches, completely at ease with his surroundings. I was impressed with his confidence, the way he moved as though he belonged exactly where he was in every moment of his life. I was always so awkward, shy at his age. Easy pickings for Ciaran. He flashed into my mind, unwelcome, and I shuddered. Ever observant, Alex was there again with his cool hand briefly on my shoulder. He didn’t say anything, only smiled gently until I answered.

‘Kind of. I’m doing illustrations for a book. There’s an indie publisher in London trying to bring back the concept of drawings in books. Lots of old stories have them, but they cost so much extra to print it fell out of fashion.’

‘I think it’s great. I love those old books with illustrations. We had some at home.’

‘Where did you live before?’

‘Here and there.’ He turned away, picking up his palette. ‘I just need to go and rinse this off.’

I watched him walk back to the house, back straight, easy strides. He didn’t have that bouncy teenage boy walk. I thought to ask him how he had ended up here in the village, about his mum, but by the time he got back I was entirely engrossed in drawing Arabella walking through the veil from her world to the Fae kingdom of her future, and I had forgotten.

London

Carol was beginning to wonder if she’d offended someone. Usually, when she came to pick up Vivian, some of the mums would wander over, make the usual small talk about that week’s spellings or a lost piece of kit, but for the past couple of days she had found herself standing alone.

It wasn’t even that people weren’t speaking to her: judging by the quick looks and nods in her direction, they were speaking about her instead. About her, or her granddaughter. The cupboard incident had obviously not gone under the radar. Carol felt the invitations for Vivian’s birthday party burning a hole in her handbag. Taking a breath, she walked over to a group of the girls’ mothers.

‘Hi, Alicia,’ she ventured. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine, thanks,’ said the other woman, sliding her eyes to those of her companions and back again. Carol had to stop herself from frowning at the rudeness. She was far too old for schoolyard antics, and she thought the women in front of her should be, too.

‘I’ve got some invitations for Vivian’s birthday here. I’ve got one for Sophie – shall I just give it to you?’ She started to feel in her bag for the hard edges of the little envelopes. Alicia reached out a hand, a patronising smile