Charleston Downs

The Artist's Revelation

That next morning Hailey left abruptly. I didn't begrudge her for it, she had an important meeting and frankly our situation was to convoluted and awkward for early morning processing. So, I was fairly relieved to wake up beside a carefully written note and decided to go about my day as normal, with the knowledge that Hailey would call me in the evening. 

It was a gorgeous mid-summer day in Charleston Downs, the faint chirp of contented birds could be heard all around and the heat of the omni-present sun was unavoidable. As I slipped on my navy, leather boat shoes and prepared to head down to the marina I heard an unfamiliar sound emanate from the makeshift living room. It chirped like the birds outside, but more maniacally and mechanically, its urgency unparalleled. The phone was ringing. It was an unexpected surprise, they must have switched on the connection overnight. I steeled over and cautiously answered the phone.

"Hello, Mr Sutcliffe speaking." I listened for a response but received nothing but silence, then the gentle huff of a breath. "Hello? You've reached Mr Sutcliffe, is anyone there?" I waited patiently, more breathing and then the click of disconnection. I stared blankly at the phone for a moment, confused. 'Very strange' but I couldn't dwell, I made a note of the number and altered my plans as I decided to pay a visit to the Rowleys' on my way to the marina, mainly to see if Molly still wanted to go with me to their summer party.

This time the patterned gates parted for me without trouble and again I was immediately greeted by the circular fountain, the jet of water was leaning north-west to indicate it was around 11 o'clock in the morning. As I approached the main entrance Allison Rowley was leaving, she rushed over to the waiting black car with a deflective wave vaguely in my direction.

"Sorry, Mr Sutcliffe I'm in such a rush. I shan't be long though, if you're still here when I return it would be gorgeous to have a chat." She barely managed to utter the last word before the door slammed shut and the car sped away. 

I went into the mansion, this time there was no piano playing and Molly was lying on the white chaise-lounge by large, glass french doors with the blinding sunlight streaming in through thin, white, netted drapes that were gently rippling and fluttering like clouds of milk split in water. Her white dress was short, exposing her light, slender legs and bare feet. She was entirely white apart from her deep red lips and ebony hair. She rose softly and smiled when she saw me.

"I was hoping you'd visit." Her voice was liquor, warm and intoxicating. She lifted a hand, holding it up and I took it to raise her to her feet. She glided over to a little white box atop a grand mantlepiece with a silver phone inserted in the top, she swiped the screen a few times and the sweet strumming of a guitar echoed around the room. 

Molly laughed, "I love this one! Right, Finn Sutcliffe it's time to show me your dancing skills." Her red lips extended thinly sideways, her smirk was wicked.

"Oh no, I don't dance. Really, I'm awful." I raised my hands, back home I was famous for my two left feet. Molly's eyes squinted and her lips pursed.

"That, Finn Sutcliffe, will not do." She pushed her hands onto mine, still raised, and locked our fingers. Leading us round to the music, gliding, spinning, swirling and waltzing. Her laughter was affluence, her lips were jewels, and her hair was silk. I was transfixed as we continued to crescendo around the ornate room. We moved through Molly's favourite song, and then her next favourite, and the next.

"You can't stop now, this is my favourite song!" She toyed. 

"I really must stop now Molly. Where is the bathroom?"

"Up there and first on the right." She pointed, sinking back into the chaise-lounge.

Leaving the bathroom I noticed a room further down the hallway with the door open, I guessed it was Charlie's room. There was a large black book on the desk, a sketch book. Tempted to take a look, with the knowledge only Molly was home, I crept in. The sketchbook was expensive, the paper was thick and the cover leather. The boy who cried on the balcony orbited my thoughts as I opened the book. The first page was a watercolour picture of the circular fountain, followed by a pencil drawing of the marina on the next page. I flicked through several innocent drawings until I stopped on a picture of a familiar face. The drawing of me filled the entire page, it was detailed and masterfully accurate. My thoughts deserted me, and I was unable to process this information. There I was, my portrait from the shoulders upwards looking wistfully up at me from the page. I shut the book violently and went downstairs.

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