Page 45 of The Seemingly Impossible Love Life of Amanda Dean

Mandy shifted in her seat. “I shouldn’t have asked that, huh?”

Miss Georgia rested her hand on Mandy’s. “It’s fine. Maybe one day I will, but for now, I’m living just for me.” She squeezed Mandy’s hand. “The only person you need to make you happy is you. And I’m perfectly content with that.” Miss Georgia raised her glass, and Mom clicked hers against it.

“Being alone doesn’t mean being lonely,” Miss Georgia said.

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t say anything.” Mom raised her hands in mock surrender.

At the time, Mandy wasn’t sure what that had been all about, but now, standing on the precipice of what was going to be either the best or worst day of her life, she realized maybe Georgia was right. Mandy had much more control over her destiny than she gave herself credit for. She could pack up her bags and run…run as far and fast as she possibly could. But then what? She would always wonder if she’d made the right choice. But if she put her dress on and took the pictures and went to the venue and it all blew up anyway, she would at leastknowit wasn’t because of her. She tried. She put herself out there, and that’s really all she could do.

But how many times had she done that just to be crushed? Just to be told she wasn’t enough, or good enough, or the right one. As much as Mandy wanted to be, she felt as strong as an overcooked noodle. She didn’t know the first thing about being married, and what if she was bad at it? Like exceptionally bad?

Mandy tipped her head back, and she gazed at the ceiling. Crying would ruin her makeup. She’d spent way too much time perfecting it just to let that happen now. But oh, how she wished she could curl into a ball and sob even for a few minutes. Just to let it out. Holding it all in had its own dangerous consequences—like spontaneously bursting into tears later. But then she could likely play it off, or it would be justified.

Another buzz from Mandy’s phone gave her a moment to stop thinking and reach for the offending piece of electronics. Yes. She was late. She didn’t need the reminder, Mom.

It wasn’t a text from Mom though; it was from Isa. And not even a text, simply a video of a cat hanging from the side of akitty-scratching-post-tree thing, struggling to get back on, and finally making it. Mandy laughed. Isa had done it again. She had come through with exactly what Mandy needed when she needed it. Like a sixth sense.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Mandy jumped to her feet, grabbed her dress, and slipped it on. A special zipper placed strategically in the side under the arm was all she needed to do, but when she tugged, nothing happened. The zipper wouldn’t move. No. This wasn’t good. She climbed out of the garment and tried again, the zipper easily moving up and down. Okay, it worked. It likely was just caught on something or who knows, but it worked. Mandy carefully slipped back into the dress and tugged on the zipper. And then she tugged a little harder—but nothing. She twisted her body, trying to get a look, and when still nothing happened, she moved over to the floor-length mirror. It didn’t seem to matter though. There was no reason why the stupid zipper wouldn’t budge.

This was a sign, wasn’t it?

Her phone buzzed again, and Mandy stopped. Stopped twisting. Stopped tugging. Stopped thinking.

Every time she’d tried the dress on, there was someone there to help her. As much as she wanted to be the strong, independent woman, today she needed help. It was okay to ask for help, because she still chose to ask for it. Mandy took a deep breath and made eye contact with herself in the mirror. “You can do this. It’s going to be okay.” No matter what happened today, she was going to be that cat and give it her best try.

Chapter Twenty-Three

September 2005

Nothing could have preparedMandy for how intense the art program turned out to be. She learned so much, but barely saw any part of England past the four walls of her bedroom and the school she attended daily—even on the weekends. Although she was taking only a couple of classes, they occupied every moment of Mandy’s waking hours—and sometimes her not-waking hours. Mandy barely had time to eat, or sleep, or breathe, but it was a good thing because it gave her little time to think either. No time to think about missing home, or her parents, or Isa. No time to think about what she had done.

So instead of doing any of that, Mandy poured herself into her studies. If she could get through this one task, she could move on to the next, and so forth—but she didn’t look forward, and she did everything she could to stop herself from looking back. Anytime one of those before thoughts crept in, she would distract herself. Sometimes in small ways, like scrubbing paintthat shouldn’t be there from her fingernails, or helping Sophie iron fabric—she’d gotten really good at that.

Today though, she was concentrating on her current assignment, which had her re-creating the work of a master with her own unique POV—meaning she had to take a well-known piece and somehow remake it as her own, but not let it be so far from the original that it couldn’t be recognized. And if that weren’t hard enough, Mandy chose an artist she admired but whose work was nothing like her own—Artemisia Gentileschi. Realism wasn’t Mandy’s strength, but there was something about Gentileschi’s work that spoke to Mandy in a way she couldn’t explain. Plus, Mandy was there to challenge herself. She hadn’t come all this way to play things safe.

After carefully preparing all of her supplies, Mandy swept her long hair back into a bun and stared at her blank canvas for a moment. It wouldn’t stay that way for long, but it was like a ritual at this point, to take a moment and visualize what she was about to do. In her head she watched herself create exactly what she intended—each stroke of the brush held purpose—and when it was completed, it was perfect. She could do this. She hadn’t given everything up for nothing. She needed to succeed.

As always, she started with the background. She would get the base to exactly where she needed it and go from there—the plan seemed simple enough, but the blue wasn’t mixing correctly, or there was something wrong with the lighting, because it seemed too dark and not at all the tone she had wanted. Plus, there was a little hair that must’ve escaped her bun tickling her nose. She swiped her hand across her face to get rid of the sensation, but it persisted.

Mandy clenched her jaw and attempted to ignore it. A littlemore white would do the trick—everything was still well in hand. She mixed the color and applied it to her canvas, but now it was too light. What the heck? She stepped back and swiped at her face again—to remove the annoying tickle—before she picked up her canvas and shifted it ninety degrees. It had to be the lighting where she was.

From this angle she got a little natural light from a high window. It was what she needed to get the color just right. Everything was going to work out now. She took a deep breath and once again she mixed, this time adding a little purple but also a drop of black. She almost laughed at how much of a genius she was for doing that. The color was perfect, and she proceeded to apply a nice thick coat so none of the natural canvas texture came through. Sometimes it was nice, but not for this project. By the time Mandy finished covering the middle, she realized her error. In her haste to get the ideal color, she hadn’t mixed enough to cover the entire canvas.

No. This was not how this was supposed to go. She was not supposed to fail at this assignment like she had her last one. This time it was all going to work out.

Mandy quickly mixed some more—adding a little purple and a drop of black, just like she had done before, but as she swept it across her canvas, it didn’t match. No. This could not be happening. And that damn hair was still tickling her nose! She swiped at her face again—forgetting she still had her brush in her hand—and smeared paint across her cheek and into her hair.

Mandy allowed her head to fall back and let out a deep breath, which was much better than the scream she really wanted to let fly from her lungs—but getting kicked out wasn’t an option. She really needed to get a good start on this project.She really needed something to go right in her life since coming to London.

And to make everything worse, that damn hair was still tickling her nose.

Five hours later, Mandy stood at the sink in her bathroom with steam filling the room. She slid her hand across the mirror and stared at herself. Cyan paint was smeared against her right cheek onto her ear and trailed off into her hair. She hadn’t even attempted to clean it off, not wanting to break her concentration from her project, but it didn’t matter. By the time she gave up, she was covered in paint and had sore feet, and all she had to show for her effort was a multitone blue canvas, which was not at all what she had wanted.

She attempted to drown her sorrows at the local cantina in a large basket of chips and a small bowl of what they called salsa, but was about as flavorful as ketchup. Mexican food in London was a rarity, so she was lucky there was at least something within walking distance of where she was staying. She allowed herself to think it would somehow magically make her feel better like it used to when she was home. She had been in Europe for weeks, and nothing was going right. Every painting she attempted never got to where she wanted. This was supposed to be her time to prove to her parents that she could be a successful artist—it was something she needed to prove to herself too—and she was failing miserably. The constant crunch between her teeth and the delectable salt of the tortilla chips did little to ease her aching soul. She brushed the elusive hair that had been annoying her all day back again with no success.

Today had ended in yet another epic disaster.

Now, as her fingers curled around the edges of the sink sohard her knuckles turned white, with enough paint speckled in her hair it looked like confetti, she wanted to scream. She yanked the hair band from her hair, and gold locks tumbled down past her shoulders. Her puffy red eyes with bags so dark underneath from too many nights of restless sleep stared back at her.

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