Page 137 of Muddy Messy Love

If I’m honest, driving isn’t my strong suit. Slow and steady is my motto, much to the annoyance of fellow motorists. It’s funny how everyone seems to morph into an aggressive shithead behind the wheel. Apparently, sitting in a tin box on four wheels makes such behaviour acceptable. Who knew?

Within five minutes, impatience vibrates off Beth in sonic waves. “Aves, put some lead on it, would you?”

“Do you want me to crash?” I ask.

Beth scoffs. “Fat chance, you’re going too slow for that. Everyone’s overtaking you. Hit the accelerator and move away from the gutter. They think you’re pulling over.”

I grit my teeth and do as I’m told, slowly picking up speed. “This better?”

When no answer comes, I glance in Beth’s direction to find her staring at me.

“What?” I hiss, refocusing on the road.

“The speed limit is sixty kilometres per hour. You’re doing forty. Do you want me to phone Jen and tell her we’ll be twenty minutes late?”

I shake my head. “Don’t bother. She knows how I drive. They’ll wait.”

Beth chuckles at that and drops her head back against the headrest. “I’m impressed, you know,” she says a few moments later. “You’re very brave.”

I throw her a smile, knowing she definitely isn’t referring to my driving. “Thanks, sis.” I only hope she’s still impressed when she sees the place. “Rundown” is a generous description, but it’s the best I could afford this close to the city with living quartersand studio space. Besides, I have free rein to renovate, money set aside, and a vision. One that will embrace and capitalise on the local hipster vibe.

I’ve connected with a few home-grown artists—a modernist painter, a welder who creates amazing abstract sculptures from scrap metal, and an eccentric restorer who turns mid-century furniture into one-off masterpieces. They all fit the vision, and they’ve all agreed to consign their work into my shop. So along with my own, opening stock is sorted. All I need to do now is arrange the fit-out, order signage, finalise the website, beg theHerald Sunto feature us, and a million other things. I’m in way over my head, but every morning, I spring from bed with purpose pumping through my veins. I promised Jen I’d fight, and I am. I’m fighting for my future and against the endless loop of negativity that plagues my head. I’m planting new fucking seeds if it’s the last thing I do.

Thirty minutes later, I carefully park a few shops down from mine.Myshop. I never thought I’d be able to say that. I cut the engine and gather my wits as a whirlwind of butterflies and glitter dances in my chest. “Now I gotta warn you—”

“I know, I know.” Beth waves me off. “Look beyond aesthetics. See the vision. Blah, blah, blah. Don’t worry, the way you’ve been carrying on, if the building doesn’t collapse on our heads, I’ll be impressed.”

It very well might, but it’s her reaction to the cockroaches, peeling paint, and antique dirt that truly worries me. Beth is the epitome of pristine. The fact she’s wearing four-inch stilettos to help me move says it all, really.

I climb out of the car and throw Beth her keys, then dig mine out my pocket as we reach the red brick footpath lined with wonky vintage shops and frilly bullnose verandahs with fancy posts.

“Did you detour through Adelaide to get here or somethin’?” Liam yells up the street.

Jen elbows him. “Leave her alone. She’slearning.”

I huff a laugh at Jen. “You can talk. You were only too happy to give me endless shit after my lesson last week.”

“Ha!” Liam says. “Hypocrite.”

Hypocrite.

That singular word is enough for Cole’s smile and section 3.1 of Benedict’s dumb company manual to resurface, but I bury it deep down in the dark to deal with later when I’m in bed all alone. Nothing is ruining this moment, and tonight, the demons will descend no matter what. They always do.

Jen rubs her hands together as we approach, and I jingle my keys in the air, stopping outside the grubby white roller shutter. The shop frontage is narrower than a one-way street, but the building runs deep, comprising two long rooms, a retro kitchen, a teeny bathroom, and a creaky staircase that leads up to my new bedroom. It’s perfect, and my home for the next six months. If all goes well—longer.

I unbolt the roller shutter and hoist it up, then turn to face my three favourite people on earth. They all grin with genuine excitement, and I silently thank the universe for their presence in my life. Holding out my hand towards the entrance, I take a small bow. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Mud Mash Studio.”

Beth flashes a megawatt smile. “Love the name. It’s perfect.”

I throw her a wink. We lay on her bed for hours, throwing around ideas. The suggestions grew funnier the more champagne that flowed, and in the end, we were in hysterics, rolling around cry-laughing. “Yeah, as much as I liked Shitbox Studio, this sounds a smidge more professional,” I say, holding up my thumb and finger an inch apart.

Liam shakes his head. “Oh, Shitbox would’ve had my vote, for sure.”

“No surprises there.” Smirking, I unlock the glazed timber door and eye the big Georgian-style window attached with its grid of glass panes and chipped cream paint.Black. The whole lot will be painted gloss black by next week, and it’ll look amazing. The frames will disappear into the view rather than obscure it, and by the time I’m done window dressing, the view inside will be enticing as fuck.

A tarnished brass bell chimes when the door opens. I step over the battered timber threshold and usher everyone in. The damp, musty scent hits the back of my throat, and I shudder, mentally adding bleach and scented candles to my endless list.

Beth stops in the centre of the first long room and twirls on her heels. “This is great.” I side-eye her, scanning for sarcasm, but she doubles down and taps her foot. “The old hardwood floors, high ceilings, and decorative mouldings—it oozes character. I like it.”

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