I nod and pick up my paintbrush. I have an idea. I’ll show Sylvie and émile how my reflection makes me feel. Boy, will I show them. Right here and now, they’ll invite me to stay forever. Smiling, I choose random colors and squirt paint onto my own palette.
émile pokes his head in and says something that makes Sylvie throw her head back to laugh. Then he leaves, and Sylvie starts singing a song. Every verse ends with, “and then I have a cigarette.” I find this hilarious. We giggle together as we paint.
Sylvie chats on occasion, telling stories about different artists who have lived and worked around here, slapping paint onto the canvas in her sloppy manner, and I do my best to remember what I learned about the correct proportion of facial features. What I start with looks terrible, but I keep going. While Sylvie keeps chatting, I paint some brown roundish shapes for my eyes. Ugh. This is so bad. I still laugh. I paint a blob for my nose. Ew. But I tell myself it’s okay, because it’s not about what I see. It’s about what I feel.
“Good morning.”
The quavering words float to us from the direction of the shop, and I glance up, startled. Where is Sylvie? I wasn’t aware that she’d left her studio.
“Ah, Mrs. Thackeray. Good morning to you,” Sylvie responds, her voice coming from the shop as well. Seconds later, she’s leading Mrs. Thackeray right into the studio, and what’s worse, the old lady isn’t alone.
“You remember our neighbor, Rosie?” Sylvie asks.
I nod, but Mrs. Thackeray barely acknowledges me. She points to the gaunt man next to her, and introduces him as her son, Thomas. He towers protectively over his tiny mother, hovering like her bodyguard. His wide-set eyes dart around the room, taking everything in. A dark mop of curly hair, touched with gray, sits on top of his head like a tangled cap. Though his body is lean, it’s also solid, bulging with muscles. Mrs. Thackeray beams at her son and pats his arm.
“My son, Thomas. I’m so glad he’s here. I don’t know what I’d do without my Tommy,” she says.
Thomas nods a greeting, glances once at Sylvie, and then his narrowed eyes rest on me, and I know who he is. Suddenly, I’m back in my hiding place behind the screen, trying not to breathe as this towering man searches the room, inches away from me. I take a breath and step back. His eyes narrow even more. I finally notice the small painting the man clutches in his big, bony hands. It’s the portrait of a woman with short, dark hair and gleaming eyes. Sylvie places an easel in front of Thomas, and he sets the painting there.
I turn my back and pretend to work on my self-portrait, adding random blots here and there while I listen to the conversation behind me and pretend to breathe normally. First, I hear nothing but blather about the painting, which Mrs. T. says was in her family for years, by some marginally well-known artist. Where should she sell it, what does Sylvie think it would be worth? Thomas says nothing, but I swear I can feel his eyes on my back.
Trying to ignore everyone, I work on recreating what my hair looks like. At least, I try.
“Did you hear me, Rosemary?” Mrs. Thackeray’s quivery old-lady voice says, causing me to whirl around with the brush still in my hand and splatter paint.
“I asked if you have noticed any strange noises during the night. Last night, we were certain we heard noises coming from the empty flat next to yours.”
I shake my head.
“Thomas and I are rather concerned about vandals. We’ve considered calling the police.”
“We will call the police the moment we hear any other strange noises in that flat,” Thomas says in his gruff voice. I know his eyes are on me, but I can’t meet his gaze. Instead, I look at his mother. Mrs. Thackeray’s crinkly eyes stare into mine. I know I’m being warned.
Sylvie chatters in alarm and asks me if I’ve ever heard any noise coming from the other side of my bedroom wall. I catch a reaction in Mrs. Thackeray’s shriveled face when she realizes that my bedroom is right on the other side of the empty flat. Her face hardens and her eyes bore into mine, but a moment later she turns back to Sylvie, the hardness smoothed away, her expression calm, polite. Heart in my throat, I turn back to my easel.
A dark slash cuts across the face of my self-portrait, right across the blob of a mouth. I must have done that when I whirled around. It’s perfect. It’s just what I’d planned to do. I wanted to paint that bad dream I had. I wanted to show Sylvie and émile what it’s like not to have a voice. I only wish that our “guests” weren’t here right now, breathing down my neck.
Feeling the gaze of two pairs of eyes on my back, like tiny spiders crawling up and down, I lift my paintbrush. I’m going to act like I don’t care that the old lady and her son are here. I have to act like I didn’t lie to them. I add more dark paint to the slash across my portrait. Soon, my painted hair sweeps across my face and covers my mouth. Then the hair snakes itself around my painted neck. It’s exactly like it was in my nightmare. I keep working. The spiders stop crawling up and down my back. Noises blur into a soft hush in the background.
I don’t hear anyone approach until the gruff voice whispers in my ear.