Chapter Text
They bump into each other for the first time on a rainy Wednesday night in March.
They’ll bump into each other again in four months time too.
Becky is in a hurry. The rain is beginning to soak through her hoodie and the more she blinks the more her vision goes. The rain has that unruly quality about it – the type of rain that doesn’t feel like much but when you’re in it you end up drenched through your clothes.
That’s why when she turns the corner in an almost jog she doesn’t see the woman huddled underneath a tiny flimsy umbrella trying to protect the basket of flowers she has tucked away under her right arm.
There’s a dull sounding thud. And then there’s blue petals falling like colourful confetti in amongst the raindrops.
“Shit! Are you alright?” Becky asks, leaning over.
The woman frowns, deeply enough to assure Becky that no, she certainly isn’t okay. And no, she certainly isn’t amused by this whole thing either but then again, who would be?
“I think so.”
Surrounded by pretty blue petals, Becky’s not sure she’s seen anything so poetic. They encircle the woman on the ground in the rain and Becky’s fingers twitch on their own accord at the sight of it.
Becky watches as the woman winces and then pushes herself up and onto her feet, reaching for her umbrella on the way up. “Damn it, watch where you’re going the next time!”
“Are you okay?” Becky asks again.
The woman looks down at her hand and there’s a small trickle of blood coming from her thumb but the rain quickly washes it away as if it was never there in the first place. “Well my flowers are ruined and I have blood coming out of my thumb, so no, not particularly.”
“Least you’re up on your feet now. That’s an improvement from down there,” Becky says and she goes to smile but the glare that is shot her way quickly derails that.
She glances down at the flowers that now lay at their feet instead. Becky has no idea what they are but she knows that they are pretty. Modest. They are lacking in the bright richness of roses or poppies or lilies but Becky usually finds the simple things in life are usually better anyway.
“What are they?” Becky asks, looking up and then nodding back down towards the ground.
“They were Forget-Me-Not’s. Now they are mush.”
Becky glances back down at the concrete and the wet ruined petals have basically taken on the unappealing quality of crushed fruit. She feels guilty. She pulls out a twenty note from her pocket, and then another. “Will this cover them? I don’t know what the goin’ rate for flowers is.”
The woman makes no move to take the notes and instead chooses to glare at Becky again. Men and women have buckled under that glare; Becky is certain of it. She’s pretty sure some of them had liked it a little too. She feels a bit like an idiot standing in the pouring rain holding money out in her hand.
“I don’t want your money.” The woman’s jaw is practically ticking with tension, Becky can see it. “And I don’t sell flowers.”
“Oh. So what was with all the flowers then?”
The woman continues to look at Becky and the question hangs in the air between them like the now sodden money that Becky is still fucking holding out like an idiot. She retreats her hand back towards her pocket as subtly as she can.
“Alright, don’t tell me then.” Becky rolls her eyes, half at the woman and half at herself.
“Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to.”
Who cares why she had all those pretty flowers anyway? Certainly not Becky. Not even a little bit. Absolutely not. Of course, the fact that the woman isn’t going to tell her makes Becky wonder even more. Goddamn this woman and the stupid pretty flowers.
The woman gives Becky a non-committed, totally false smile before she walks away into the rain, throwing a pathetic glare back over her shoulder for good measure.
Becky swallows tightly and then feels her heart shift in her chest, like an animal finally waking from hibernation.
Like a song she has forgotten even exists, the needle has touched the record at the exact right time and the woman has stepped into Becky’s life without Becky even really realising it.
You see, life has coincidences. Serendipity occurs. Right place, right time or wrong place, wrong time. It stems from the fact that there are about seven billion people colliding with each other in the space of a single planet. But there’s an unspoken rule in Becky’s life – there are no coincidences.
Everything happens because of calculated moves that lead her to where she is. Coincidences are just like illusions.
Then again, maybe there aren’t illusions either.
Maybe things are just supposed to be a certain way and that’s that.
*****
Charlotte’s date had sucked.
No, not in the mutually polite ‘this was fun but we probably shouldn’t do it again’ type of date, it was more the ‘I’d rather be in Hell than relive a single second of it’ type of date. She’d even started clock watching at the time and counting down the minutes until it had been acceptable to leave. So yeah, her date had totally sucked.
That’s why on a Wednesday night of all nights, she finds herself outside a building that has certainly seen better days. She pulls the metallic blue Ford Mustang into a free parking space and kills the engine - the car had been a gift from her father for her 21st birthday.
She sits for a minute, resting her head back and holding onto the wheel, not really knowing why the hell she is thinking about a birthday that happened years ago. There was nothing she loved more at the time than taking road trips in the summer with her friends. She smiles bitterly at the memory then.
Charlotte Flair, twenty one years old. Hot car. Hot woman. Hot friends. Hot times.
Then the hot times had come to a juddering halt and here she is about to pick up her best friend from work after another bad date so that they can go home to the apartment that they currently share in a ‘transitional area’ of the city which basically translates as the building you’re staying in sucks but if you walk for ten minutes you can see where all the rich people live. Good times.
By the time she opens the driver’s side door and climbs out of the car the rain outside has turned into a mist. It throws a petrol like blue tint across everything, from the clouds above to the sidewalks below, it’s as if all the light has escaped.
She heads towards the coffee shop where Bayley works and where she usually stops in the morning after her routine run. By the time she pushes through the door the stillness inside is a jolt to her system – the place is usually always busy with queues almost out the door – but tonight the place is totally empty, save for Bayley who is wielding a mop.
“That bad?” Bayley asks with an easy smile.
“Like you wouldn’t believe. Can I get some tea?”
Bayley sighs like Charlotte has just ruined her whole night. “Okay, but it’ll have to be plain.”
“That’s fine.”
The place is so quiet that the chair creaks when Charlotte sits on it. There’s something almost eerie about being in something as simple as a coffee shop after dark when it is usually so full of life. Charlotte’s not sure she likes it much.
When Bayley returns with a disposable cup she brings with her a printed out piece of paper that looks like it’s been folded a hundred times over. Charlotte has a feeling that it should belong on the community bulletin board that’s near the coffee shop door instead of Bayley’s pocket.
“Here.”
Charlotte takes the paper and stares at it for a second before looking back up at Bayley. “You can’t be serious.”
“Of course I am.”
“I’m not sitting posing for someone to paint me, Bayley. It’s weird!”
“It’s not painting… it’s drawing.”
“That doesn’t make it any less weird.”
“Look at the money, Char.”
“Well, you do it then.”
“I can’t, I’m not good at that kinda thing and you know it.” Bayley shrugs as if that’s the end of it before she adds, “It’ll pay a chunk of our bills or it'll be extra so we can do whatever we want with it.”
The famous guilt trip. Bayley is a surprising master at it and Charlotte falls for it every damn time because literally no one can say no to Bayley’s puppy dog eyes. It’s an impossibility.
“Do you even know who the artist is?” Charlotte asks before taking a sip of her drink and looking back down at the flyer.
“Sure, her name is Becky. She comes in here almost every morning after you and she’s always nice so when she asked if I could pin this flyer I said yeah… I also told her that you may give her a call.”
“Fine,” Charlotte huffs, “I’ll call tomorrow at some point.”
Bayley hugs her then, arms around Charlotte’s shoulders and her chin on Charlotte’s head and it’s a comforting hug despite being uncomfortable all at the same time.
*****
She looks at the flowers and with the sky ablaze in a fiery red and orange and the sun dipping out of view beyond the window, the flowers take on a new lease of life. They look darker now, more vivid. Perfect.
Ever since she can recall, Becky has loved to draw. She was one of those kids who never really paid attention at school because she was too busy doodling in the corner or decorating the inside sleeve of her notebook. It wasn’t as if she planned on making a career out of it, it just kind of happened by happy chance.
The beautiful thing about art is that anyone can do it. And it doesn’t matter how good or bad you are at it, you can do it. Just pick up a pencil or a brush and draw whatever the hell you want. That’s what makes it so easy.
She sits at the canvas in front of her, twirling a fine brush in a water cup. Colour rises from the bristles, moving through the liquid with ease until the water turns a milky blue, much like the flowers she’s spent the last few hours recreating.
Artists always want to make everything their own, there’s an animalistic greed and hunger for that and yet, the flowers still elude Becky and have done for months now. There’s always something not quite right about them in her recreation. Tonight is no different. She’s starting to think that maybe they are a little too delicate for her own hand.
She removes the brush from the water, gently dabbing the bristles on a clean towel and taking great care to make sure that she dries them in the right direction. It doesn’t matter how often she paints – and these days it’s not often at all – she is always conscientious about the clean up. There’s something oddly soothing about the whole routine of it: washing, drying and then putting things away in the right order.
There’s blue paint everywhere: on her t-shirt, on her hands, there’s even blue blood like paint splatter on the floor. It always takes Becky by surprise even though it shouldn’t. She’s always in her own world when she paints – unaware of anything and anyone except for the colour on the canvas – so when her phone rings she answers it without a second glance at the screen.
“Yeah, it’s Becky,” she says as she looks back at the canvas, at those damn elusive flowers.
“Hey, this is Charlotte. I think my friend Bayley said I would give you a call?”
“Oh, for the modeling session? Yeah, she told me she thought you’d call. Are you up for it? Cause if not it’s fine – “
“No,” Charlotte interrupts, then she takes a moment as if she needs to choose the right words and a sliver or trepidation snakes its way into her voice, “it’s still paid, right?”
Becky hesitates but only for a second. “It’s paid. Everything on the flyer is legit.”
“Fine, I’ll do it then.”
Becky gets the feeling that this woman definitely does not want to do this and she’s also pretty certain that if no money was involved this woman would definitely not be on the phone to her right now.
“Are you sure?” Becky asks, “don’t feel like you have to, I’ve had plenty people turn me down for this before.”
Charlotte pauses then, it would be easy to just hang up the phone right now and stop this whole awkward situation and put her foot down. Bayley would get over it. Instead, she ends up saying: “I’m sure.”
“Alright, how does next Friday suit you?”
“It’ll have to be in the evening, around 6?”
“That’s fine,” Becky answers, “I’ll text you the address of the studio. It’s on the third floor, there’s stairs but you’re better off using the elevator.”
“Noted. See you next Friday.”
The woman hangs up then and Becky stares at her phone, confusion covering her face like a mask. What the fuck was that?
She quickly texts Charlotte the address of the studio and then she makes her way over towards the window so she can move the damn flowers.
*****
It’s just before 6.pm when Becky hears a knock on the studio door. For some reason she’s not remotely surprised that Charlotte is a little early, she has the feeling that Charlotte wants this over and done with as quickly as possible so the earlier they start the earlier they will be finished. It makes sense, Becky reasons, she’d be the same if she was doing something she didn’t really want to.
Two things happen when Becky opens the door.
One: She instantly recognises Charlotte as the woman she ran into several months ago.
Two: Charlotte instantly recogises her too; it’s written all over her face and Becky’s not sure it’s good.
“You’re the artist?” Charlotte blurts out almost automatically. “The person who knocked me on my ass a few months ago?”
“That’s me,” Becky answers, “I think we’re destined to keep bumping into each other or somethin’.”
Destiny. It’s a funny idea that is encouraged by writers and poets and apparently artist's too. Even if Charlotte does believes in destiny – which she absolutely does not she’ll have you know – running into Becky isn’t her destiny. It can’t be. Not a chance.
Without even thinking about what she is doing, Charlotte moves forward into the room that Becky calls her studio. “Don’t worry, I don’t have any plans to cross your path again any time soon after this.”
“Oh, alright. Well I guess I can sleep soundly tonight then.” The corner of Becky’s mouth lifts in a stupid cocky grin and the sight of it infuriates Charlotte even more.
“This is… this is not what I was expecting,” Charlotte admits. The studio is pristine. For some reason she had it in her head that studio's were messy and untidy and a bit of a riot but this is spotless and everything looks as if it has a particular place.
There are several large canvases on the wall; drawings of women in several different poses, one is even nude but it has been tastefully done and Charlotte wonders if Becky has drawn them herself or whether they have been a gift or whether she just bought them because she wanted them.
Becky’s not the kind of person Charlotte would usually associate with art if she’s being honest with herself. Becky’s bright hair is struggling free of its ponytail and she has a scrubbed clean look to her with barely a hint of make up. Her sneakers are scuffed and worn and there are smudges of pencil on her t-shirt. And despite all that there is an innocent, attractive beauty that lights up her features.
Becky watches as Charlotte sizes her up. Charlotte’s face is some how pale and bright, some how curious and caring, some how kind and strong, she has the prettiest face Becky’s ever seen. But there’s something else there too, lurking underneath, and it isn’t all light. There’s a hint of shadow there too, a darkness dancing under the surface, a shade of something deeper.
Becky starts to wonder how she can attempt to draw Charlotte. How she can possibly capture all the things she has seen in the last few moments. Charlotte’s face is going to be the hardest because a face is usually all about the light, but that light usually comes from what is in the inside and shining out, especially around the eyes.
And she can feel the steady hum of Charlotte’s nerves, but Beck’s also pretty certain there’s an undercurrent of sadness there too. Charlotte really doesn’t want to be here at all. Becky had known that from the phone call but in person it rolls off Charlotte in waves. Becky isn’t used to it. Her own capacity for sadness is relatively low these days; she intends to keep it that way too. But some people like to grab at it and give it a home within themselves. Becky is pretty sure that Charlotte is one of those people.
“Your first time sittin’ for someone?” Becky asks simply. Most of her models don’t talk to her and she’s fine with that. But she has the feeling that she has to break the ice here.
“Yep. Why? Are you going to try and knock me off my feet again?”
“Knock? Nah. Sweep? Maybe.”
Becky sees it on Charlotte’s face then: a tiny, brief little smirk and she knows that she hasn’t sunk – yet.
“I don’t want to be here for what it’s worth.” Charlotte’s voice is flat enough for the words to slip back under the studio door and her eyes go stiller, if that is even possible. They are nice eyes though. Somewhere, deep down they have a dreamy quality about them, Becky is sure of that. A bit like a Degas painting.
A Degas painting? Really, Becky? Fucking hell.
Becky clears her throat then and injects as much sarcasm into her sentence that she can muster. “Really? I hadn’t noticed that at all.”
Becky’s eyes narrow playfully. They are piercing dark eyes framed with lovely long lashes and when she aims her gaze directly at Charlotte, Charlotte has to remind herself to breathe for some strange reason.
What on earth is going on?
“Let’s just get this over with.”
“Alright, take a seat. Get comfy, it might take awhile.”
Charlotte sits in such a way that she tries to hide and she’s good at it, she’s clearly had a lot of practice.
Becky thinks she’s pretty anyway.
-
Boredom has always been something that has plagued Charlotte. She’s used to keeping herself busy and active - mind and body included - so sitting as still as possible in the middle of a studio while staring at someone trying to draw her shouldn’t really appeal much to her.
The boredom doesn’t appear though which is the most surprising thing.
Charlotte thinks of the money she is going to get for a few hours of her time and what she can do with that. She thinks of the sun that’s currently plummeting out of the sky outside the building. She thinks of what she is going to eat for dinner when this is done. She thinks of the pencil Becky has clutched between her nimble fingers. She thinks of the way Becky’s tongue peeks out every so often to wet her lips.
“Stop thinking so much,” Becky says gently, and it’s the first time she’s opened in mouth in over half an hour. It’s not exactly a telling off and Charlotte doesn’t take it as such but there’s a slight lilt in Becky’s tone that tells her she should relax a little and she wonders what has given her away.
“How did you know?”
Becky smirks then; quick and fleeting. “I’ve done this all before. I know when people’s train of thought goes. A guy I drew a few years ago asked for a break every half hour so you can imagine how long that took me. Never again.”
“Why did he even agree to pose for you then?” Charlotte asks.
“Probably the same reason you did,” Becky answers easily, “the money.”
Charlotte’s mind should be setting off warning flares but instead all she is offering is a nod. “Point taken.”
“Thought so.” Becky tilts her head to the side and then back onto the canvas. She pushes away from the seat she is sitting on and walks a few paces so she is standing in front of Charlotte. “Can you just tilt your face to the right for me? Wait, can I just move you like this?”
“Yeah.”
Becky puts her hand onto the curve of Charlotte’s chin and Charlotte’s head lifts a little higher and then shifts slightly to the right. Becky leans down and oh it’s awkward, it’s really awkward for some reason. Becky’s finger traces over the curve of her cheek and then slips over the bridge of her nose and if Becky notices her breathing a bit quicker she doesn’t mention it and Charlotte is more than grateful for that.
What the hell is happening?
Becky makes her nervous for some reason and no one really makes her nervous anymore. She can’t say why Becky is an exception but she is and Charlotte’s not entirely sure that she likes it.
-
“And… I’m done.”
Becky’s voice breaks Charlotte from her daydream and she’s been sitting in such a way for so long that she swears she can feel pins and needles tickling her neck. It almost hurts to move her head and she’s stunned to find out that almost an hour has passed since the last time she looked at the time. Her and Becky have just passed the rest of the time in the same space without really saying anything and it hasn’t been totally unpleasant.
Becky scrapes her stool back and stands, shaking her hair loose from its tie. She watches as Charlotte stands and cringes at the pain that’s clearly radiating through her muscles after being sitting still for so long.
“It’s me,” Charlotte says quietly as she stares at the canvas.
“Well, yeah,” Becky answers with a frown. “You don’t like it.” It’s a statement rather than a question.
“No, it’s…” She looks sad is what Charlotte wants to say but she doesn’t. She doesn’t even recognise herself, not really anyway and who the hell wants to admit to a relative stranger that they look sad? No one, that’s who. “I like it.” The words are heavy in her mouth, like she’s telling some sort of sordid lie and she is. Like she doesn’t want it to be her that Becky’s drawn at all.
Despite herself, Charlotte lets her gaze wander back onto the drawing and she can feel the sting behind her eyes. She swallows heavily, trying to shift the lump that’s currently taking residence in her throat.
“Are we done here?” She says eventually. It’s such a stupidly blunt thing to say that for a second she considers just turning and walking out the studio door in sheer embarrassment. The movement of Becky from her side makes her wonder if Becky expects her to do just that.
“Um, yeah, that’s it. Listen, I know it’s weird – “
“Can you just pay me so we’re done?”
When Becky returns with the money there’s an awkward silence between them. How exactly do you say goodbye to someone who has just drawn you in exchange for money? Do you give a quick wave? A brief handshake? A promise to catch up another time? Or none of that, do you just leave?
Charlotte decides on the latter and just heads for the door, and Becky is left standing wondering what the hell has just happened.
*****
It’s a weird Saturday for Charlotte.
There’s an odd pull in her stomach and the image of that fucking drawing from last night plays in her mind on a loop like her brain’s own little cinema room. It’s not pretty viewing. It has managed to get under her skin.
Charlotte doesn’t realise how much time has passed until Bayley comes into the kitchen to grab a bowl and cereal. That happens to Charlotte more than she’d like to admit to anyone. She’ll blink and the tv show she’s supposed to be watching is over, or the sun has set and the apartment is in darkness, or Bayley is finishing a conversation Charlotte can’t remember her even starting.
“How did last night go?” Bayley asks as she plops herself down onto the couch next to Charlotte.
“Remember a few months ago I told you about that woman who knocked into me and ruined my flowers?”
Bayley simply nods.
“Well, the woman was Becky, and no I’m not joking and no I don’t want to talk about it.”
Bayley purses her lips to contain the smile that she certainly wants to beam in Charlotte’s direction because Bayley believes in all that nonsense. She believes that everything happens for a reason; that everything follows a certain path; that there are cosmic cupid laws at work in the universe and everyone is pulled into it at some point.
The odd sensation stays with Charlotte and she carries the troublesome weight in her stomach all day – from the time she leaves for her daily morning run, to the moment that she’s standing underneath the spray of the shower head trying to wash her thoughts right down the drain, to the moment she steps into the bar ready to start her shift.
In all honesty, sometimes Charlotte wants to peel away her skin so that she can find a different person underneath.
But then again, doesn’t everyone want to do that at times?
-
Becky comes to a stop outside a bar called ‘The Bar’ and it has a large beer glass neon sign above the door. If she hand picked a hundred bars in the city this still wouldn’t have made the list in regards to where Charlotte works.
By the time Becky has stepped through the door she notices two things: one, that 50% of the people in the bar are wearing cop uniforms and the other 50% of people looked like they should be wearing a cop uniform; and two, she stands out like a sore thumb.
She’s about to turn and leave when a voice stops her. It’s broad, loud and characteristically British and it’s coming from the woman with the dark hair who is standing behind the dark wooden bar.
“Not staying for a drink?”
Now, Becky’s never has been one to back down from a challenge. Not even when she was younger and her best friend had told her she couldn’t make the jump over the ditch on her bike – she’d made the jump and it had come at the cost of a front tire but still, she’d made it. So when the woman behind the bar raises an eyebrow at her, Becky decides that she won’t start backing down from a challenge now and makes her way towards the bar.
It is quickly apparent that no one really cares that she’s there now; her sudden arrival has become irrelevant to the others who are here - there’s a large group of men who’s focus has turned back to the pool table, another large group of men go back to playing cards at a far away table and two women nurse their drink at the other side of the bar from where she now sits.
“You don’t have a clue where you are, do you?” the woman behind the bar asks but not in a way that is condescending, it’s more curious than anything else.
“I’m in a bar,” Becky replies as she takes another quick look around the room.
The woman grins and Becky can’t help but smile back.
“What can I get you?”
“I’m lookin’ for someone actually. Charlotte. D’you know her?”
“What do you want with Charlotte?”
“I just wanna talk to her about something, Bayley told me I could find her here – “
“Becky?” Charlotte appears behind the woman at the bar like some sort of magic trick and her eyes give away her surprise at seeing Becky. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.”
Becky watches as Charlotte whispers something into the other woman’s ear and then she’s tilting her head to the right and Becky follows the order, taking a few seats to the right of the bar so that she is sitting away from everyone else. It only takes a few minutes for Charlotte to join her.
“What are you doing here? Are you following me or something?” Charlotte asks.
“Why? Are you on Twitter?”
“That’s an awful joke.”
“Well I liked it. I told you,” Becky says, “I came to see you and Bayley told me where I could find you tonight.”
“You came to see me?” Charlotte’s lips move in a way that makes Becky think she’s going to smile or she’s at least thinking about it. But she doesn’t, Charlotte holds onto it and keeps it for herself.
“I want to draw you again.” It’s said easily but there’s something else too, a surprising tingle of excitement at the idea of drawing Charlotte again, and every time Becky tries to untangle what that means, she just ends up in knots again. It almost feels like a challenge.
“Is this a joke after last night? Because if it is, it isn’t funny.”
Becky’s face softens as she peers into Charlotte’s own with concern. “No joke. Wait, you don’t look happy tonight.”
“I’m fine. I’m happy enough for a Saturday night at work.”
“I guess you need to be telling me some truth,” Becky agrees.
“How do you figure that out?”
“Cause your tip jar is pretty full,” Becky says nodding to the jar that sits on the bar with Charlotte’s name on it. “And it wouldn’t be if you were a moody dope.”
Charlotte does smile this time. It’s a hesitant rich, complicated expression that trembles across her face like sunlight chasing away the shadows of the day. “You’re an ass.”
“It has been known,” Becky agrees. “So, how about it?”
“I’ll think about.”
“You’ll think about it?”
“Yeah. I’ll think about it,” Charlotte says as she slips off the seat. “I have work to do.”
Becky will see Charlotte again. She knows she will. That’s the kind of thing that curves the world and pulls it into shape. There are very few fixed points and they points tend to be places. But, rarely and very unusually, they are people. Charlotte is now a hook in Becky’s life and Becky’s pretty sure she will get caught in it again.
She’s perfectly fine with that.
Charlotte doesn’t turn her head when she saunters away from Becky; there’s something in her head telling her she should but she doesn’t, she waits until she hears the tell tale noise of the door before she turns back to where Becky had been sitting. When she slips back behind the bar she finds three flowers sitting in her tip jar: Forget-Me-Not’s.
She rolls her eyes and finds herself wanting to smile again.