Page 5 of The Artist's Rival

Fred nods. He swallows the last bits of his lunch, and chooses his response carefully, knowing Ellie’s approach to be very different from his own.

“Why don’t you just flow with the piece, see where it takes you? You don’t really need to sell anything at the moment, so feel free to experiment.”

Ellie looks away.

“I think I’m trying to prove something,” she admits. “With this new rival landscape artist.”

Fred laughs, amused.

“Tatiana Khan? Oh please, there is enough room for the two of you. I got to know her recently, she’s charming.”

Tatiana is charming? huh.

Ellie doesn’t want to talk about Tatiana Khan, but the thought of her remains stuck in Ellie’s mind. She feels silly, being influenced by insecurity or some strange competitiveness. She knows Fred is right, and there is more than enough space in the city for two landscape painters but feeling that Khan’s art represents something she disagrees with, Ellie feels the need to prove her own style’s right to be. They talk of the upcoming exhibitions and their shared friend’s new book, before Tatiana Bloody Khan is brought up again.

“By the way,” says Fred, slowly gathering his things up to go. “I’m hosting a dinner party next weekend, and Tatiana is going to be there. Would you like to come?”

“Well… Sure,” she says, before giving it much thought.

Ellie rarely rejects invitations.

Having parted with Fred, however, she begins to really imagine how the party could go. Insecurity often gets the better of her, even though usually she’s a sweet and encouraging person, especially with respect to fellow artists. Making her way back up to the studio, she decides to remain hopeful. Perhaps the encounter will somewhat tame her ill thoughts about Khan’s art, and they will emerge out of it as friends.

Returning to her sketch, she resolves to wait and see where the art takes her.

What will this Tatiana Khan be like?

3

TATIANA

“I’m five minutes away, Fred, I swear,” Tatiana shouts into her malfunctioning car speaker and hangs up, annoyed at herself.

Per usual, she’s failing to be on time—something she has sworn to work on again and again, endlessly having to apologize for her delays. Stuck in a traffic jam, she can feel her thoughts buzz with excitement and a tinge of anxiety. Having the chance to finally meet her rival, Ellie Matthews fills her chest with tingling, not knowing what to expect, really. The cars around her keep honking chaotically, aggravated men in expensive suits, in their expensive cars, try to outsmart everyone, unwittingly blocking the road even more. Clogged up in the middle of the lengthy string of cars shining in the afternoon sun, Tatiana can do nothing but open the window and wait, hoping that the wine bottle on her backseat will not warm up too much. She picked out the wine hastily hoping it would be a decent one, now worrying that she bought something distasteful. The air flowing into the tight space of her car finally smells of spring, sun-filled and fresh, calming her irritated nerves. The cars finally begin to move.

–

The doorbell seems stuck, worn out by time. Tatiana presses it repeatedly to no avail, resorting to banging on the sturdy door with her fist. Waiting for an answer to her knocking, she looks up.

What unravels above her can only be described as angelic. Tall trees in early bloom spread their light-pink branches in elaborate ways, delicate petals fall here and there, stroking the ground with blessings of this effortless beauty. Tatiana takes out her phone, in an attempt to capture the view. Unfortunately, the quality of her pictures turns out to be disappointing and inadequate. The flat, banal photos fail to translate her awe. That’s why painting exists, she thinks to herself when the door finally swings open revealing Fred, elegantly dressed up.

“Oh, hello,” he says, his face pretend-upset at her being late.

They embrace, feeling their budding friendship spark brighter with each meeting. Their interactions flow effortlessly, and friendly physical contact grows more frequent between them, in the light way friends have with each other.

Stepping in, Tatiana is led into a wide, sunny hall. The tall walls seem to breathe light; their warm, off-white color embraces its guest with a kind welcome. The decor is simple but tasteful, certainly adequate for an artist’s dwelling. Spread around the floor, glass vases hold tall, vibrant flowers in them. Tatiana nods, approvingly.

“Quite a nice place you got there, Fred,” she laughs.

“Feel free to take off your shoes or keep them on, whatever suits you,” Fred offers, moving swiftly to another room, presumably the kitchen. Tatiana can already smell rich spices permeating the air as she hears light, giggly voices filling the dining space. She takes these little joys in, relieving herself of the anxieties for the moment.

She sets the wine bottle she brought on the hallway table and decides to keep her shoes on, thinking that her clothes look more complete this way. Taking off shoes always seemed very intimate to her, perhaps because in her family there was no strong custom surrounding going barefoot inside. Having taken off her coat, she makes her way to the dining room, once more welcomed by strong light, bathing the entire house. Large, door-sized windows stand shadowed only by delicate cyan curtains, and when her eyes begin to settle into this pool of brightness, she notices Ellie Matthews glancing curiously in her direction, sitting amidst the other—more or less known to Tatiana—guests.

When their eyes meet at first, the women scatter their gaze, not knowing how to handle the weight of expectations each harbors for the other. Their brief game of glances is jumpy, with rules unknown to either of them. Tatiana’s eyes juggle between meeting Ellie’s and sliding away towards the safety of the wall, the elaborate table decor, and some other guests. With mercy, Ellie at last rises from her seat, making her way around the table towards Tatiana, putting an end to their awkward dance. Her green eyes seem to sparkle with dim curiosity, veiled, perhaps, by manners, as she extends her hand, decorated by various jiggling bracelets and elaborate, golden rings that match her golden hair.

“Hello, you must be Tatiana Khan. Pleasure to meet you,” she smiles.

Her voice has a particularly pleasant lilt Tatiana wasn’t expecting to hear. Each syllable sounds honeyed and rich, as if smoothly caressed by her tongue. It’s deep and golden, like a jar of honey left at a tabletop.

---