Yesterday`s flower, Michelle Tarynne [best pdf ebook reader for android txt] 📗

multi-colours, and perspective didn’t ma er. Erika picked up her roller, swishing it up and down in giant blocks of colour, laying the foundations. She swept across the canvas till her arms hurt.

 

Erika loved acrylics. They suited her temperament, didn’t require the endless patience of waiting for colours to dry. Even the thicker layers were hardening onto the surface. Watercolours always seemed wishy-washy to her – not that she couldn’t use them. Actually, she was quite good. It was a requirement of her profession; pastel baby books or princess tales marked up with neat strokes. And oils, she luxuriated in their texture, the thick globules she could blend on the canvas, with time to change her mind.

 

Though she didn’t easily change her mind. Why else had she pushed herself through IVF after IVF when nothing seemed to be going right?

 

♥

 

It was ages before Erika stood up again.

 

She stretched, opening the porch door only to be assailed by the brackish smell of ro ing kelp. The sun was just beginning to dim, impaling itself onto the horizon in a riot of colour, tingeing the clouds cerise. Without thinking, Erika locked the door behind her and headed towards Camelrock Road. There was a shortcut down to the wooden walkways crossing the beach rock, but this time she meandered onto Seagull Road, studying the strange mix of houses, some looking so abandoned while others – clapboard painted in blues and whites, proteas trimmed back, grass neatly cut – seemed remarkably lived in. She walked past ‘For sale’ signs, pine trees, wa les just beginning to burst into yellow blooms, rows of lavender. Scarborough was eclectic. Remote as an island.

 

Not for the first time, Erika asked herself what she was doing here, not speaking to a

 

 

 

soul for days. Sometimes she watched smoke rising from the chimney of the house behind her, wondering who lived there. Cars passed on the road from Kommetjie heading beyond Scarborough to Misty Cliffs; they never really seemed to stop here. No reason to. Unlike Erika. The only sign of life was the cluster of shops around the coffee shop. Madeleine seemed to pull in the crowds from pure will – and good coffee, of course.

 

A dog barked. Desmond probably, although she’d seen a few other hounds scampering across the beach, their owners cloaked in Macs or disguised under umbrellas. Nobody passed her as she walked. And no one but Erika ever bathed. People stepped close to the water, warmly wrapped, and on the odd occasion, Erika had looked back to shore and seen them watching her. The madwoman from Hilltop Road.

 

The thought made her smile. Maybe Erika could reclaim her eccentricity, and de-Albert herself.

 

Erika, reborn. She sighed.

If only it were that simple.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3

Erika woke up, and stretched the width and length of the bed. Had she ever been this alone? So untouched?

After all the predicting of timings and ovulation, the measuring of her temperature, she’d once thought she’d never want a physical relationship again. The whole process was so mechanical. Missionary position for a girl. Alkaline for a boy. The She les Method. The Whelan Method. Potassium from bananas or apricots for boys. Magnesium from spinach or black beans for girls ...

Albert had wanted a boy, of course. (Even Rose hadn’t got that right.) The stress of trying to fall pregnant had only been made worse by the thought that she could get it wrong, create the wrong type of Shaw. Was that why she hadn’t conceived at all?

Erika had almost forgo en what it was actually like to fall into bed in a fit of lust ... and at one point in her life, even a bed had not been compulsory. Before Albert, and not all that long before either, there had been Peter. Pete. She remembered Guy Fawkes Night. Fumbling behind his Land Rover, her skirt up, back against the spare wheel … She’d hardly noticed the fireworks above them. Even now her heart quickened at the memory. So many people about. The danger of discovery. She scarcely recognised that girl in the mirror these days. Left to dry naturally, her normally smooth brown bob was lank and thin. Her skin was blotchy, and her lips dry and slightly cracked.

Erika slid her legs out the bed. Though overcast, it wasn’t raining today. She thought she might head up to Madeleine’s with a book. Pass the time drinking la es, and heighten her senses with caffeine. She could hear Ashton’s voice: For Christ’s sake, Erika, just go out and get laid. You’re in a foreign city. Your accent will kill them. Just use protection, that’s all.

Of course Ashton herself hadn’t had to follow that sort of advice for at least eight years:
sex with some random stranger wasn’t part of her agenda. She had Frank.
But Erika was beginning to think she wasn’t meant to be alone.

Although she’d shunned conversation when she’d first arrived, especially when it went past the ‘how-are-yous’, she had to admit that she was now craving company. Ge ing dressed, she decided to head to the only place she seemed assured of a welcome, albeit as a paying customer.

♥

Seeing Erika padding around the corner, Madeleine waved.
‘You’re up early,’ she said.
‘I can’t sleep forever,’ Erika said. Much as I’d like to.

‘The usual?’ Madeleine bustled off to behind the counter and returned moments later with a muffin and a copy of the Argus. She pointed at the front-page image. ‘Can’t miss that,’ she told Erika. ‘And on such a beautiful day!’
Erika raised her eyebrows as she followed Madeleine’s finger.

‘The West Coast flowers!’ Madeleine exclaimed. ‘You’re an artist, so you’ll really appreciate the spectacle. Listen, Erika. I know I’m a busybody – my husband tells me that all the time. But you can’t stay here every day confusing the locals with your crazy swims

and warming up on bran muffins and la es. I can see you’re sad. I don’t know why exactly, although I could guess. You need soul food. So why not pack your bags for a few days? Take a drive down the coast and go and find yourself an adventure.’
Erika blanched, si ing back in her chair.

‘I’m sorry, dear. I can see by your face that I’m interfering. But you’ve been here almost three weeks, managing so admirably. And I’m worried about you.’

‘I’ve been painting,’ Erika protested. ‘You should see what I’ve already done. I’ve captured the colours and the light. You don’t really know what that means −’

‘You won’t get be er inspiration than along the West Coast. Or colours for that ma er. Or light. It’?s only two hours away. You could head towards Langebaan, maybe stay a night or two.’
Erika changed the subject by flapping the newspaper to the next page.

When her coffee arrived, Erika found herself staring at the cup. The coffee tasted bi er after Madeleine’s input ... Of course she meant well, but now Erika felt insignificant and put upon. Erika sank into her chair like a sack of wheat. To think her heartache was branded on her forehead – enough so that a complete stranger could read her hurt and advocate a cure! Madeleine didn’t know a thing about her or her life! After a moment, Erika pushed the coffee away and stood up, leaving a twenty-rand note under her teaspoon.

Erika slogged her way back up the hill to hibernate in her humiliation. She wondered if she could feel any worse, a kicked dog retiring to lick her wounds. Madeleine had been trying to help her, she knew but oh…

The entrance hall shuddered as Erika slammed the front door behind her and slipped down onto her haunches, rocking herself, her arms around her knees. Who was she kidding? Certainly not Madeleine. Why didn’t she just go home and get on with her non-life?
Her divorced life.
While Albert loved a new wife. A daughter on her way. In Erika’s beautiful house.
With her dogs, for Christ’s sake.
And Erika, meanwhile, had nothing.

With her back against the wooden wall, Erika looked across towards the lounge, to that empty wall. The canvas was upstairs in the bedroom she’d chosen as her studio. There was nothing for it but to paint herself into oblivion.

♥

Erika didn’t leave the house for days. Her fingernails became crusted with acrylic. She’d tried to scrub them clean at first, but then didn’?t bother. Her hair probably needed a wash but she avoided mirrors. Happiness’s sidelong glances suggested that Erika was increasingly resembling the woman in the a ic. Erika remembered to bath on Tuesday. That was before she got Ashton’s e-mail.
Your turd of an ex is a daddy. God help that poor child. Saw the announcement in the paper.
Elizabeth Iris Shaw.

Erika wanted to vomit. Elizabeth Iris. Had Albert at any stage mentioned to Rose that Iris was her choice? For God’s sake: Iris was her grandmother! Did Rose know? Probably not, because Albert was a filthy liar. Erika of all people knew that. He’d managed to not make a baby and make one, all in the space of one year.

Standing in front of yawning kitchen cupboards and fridge, Erika realised she was going to run out of supplies soon. The food she was less concerned about, but the wine – well that was a crisis. She wasn’t as inhibited after a glass of red … the white of the canvas was marginally less intimidating. It was always like that: the first stroke of paint across the surface dictated everything. The flow. The movement. The excitement or disappointment. How many times had she obliterated a germinating work with a white-dipped roller because something about it just told her it wasn’t right? Sometimes she envied other artists who churned our variations on the same painting, month after month. It took the thinking away, paid the bills. But then, it also took away the joy. Of novelty. Discovery.

She reached for the last crust of bread. Toasted it would be alright, and she’d just scrape off the green frosting on the one side. The lone tomato in the fridge could be sliced thinly, the ro en side removed. She had salt. Pepper. It would do.

She would build up the courage to emerge from her cocoon when Donald’s painting was done. Truthfully, it was already finished, but she found she was still too afraid to leave. And though she was craving a decent cup of coffee, she was too embarrassed to go back to the café. So she kept on dabbing and daubing.
Busy hands. Less thinking.

Perhaps Madeleine thought Erika had taken her advice. Her shame was ridiculous, she realised that. There wasn’t anything wrong with being sad, except of course for how it felt. And the fact that she’d exposed herself like some flasher in a yellow plastic raincoat.
It was time for a swim, she realised. Give those locals somebody to talk about.

♥

Wet and bedraggled, Erika took the long way up the hill to avoid the coffee shop. She’d swum herself to ice and wished she’d brought a decent wrap. If she carried on like this, she was going to make herself sick – full-blown pneumonia and no one to take care of her. Erika tried to increase her pace, stubbing her toe in the effort. By the time she got to the front door she was bleeding and shivering.
A mess.

Madeleine