Page 23 of The Painter and His Poet

“There must’ve been some kind of update and these are just a load of spam, or perverts sending dick pics,” I mumble, clicking on the first message.

“Do I want help with social media advertising?” I read, rolling my eyes, then deleting the message and moving onto the next.

Want more followers, the next one reads and I groan, deleting that too. I keep opening the messages finding nothing more than sales pitches or marketing companies offering me help.

When I open the next message on the list, I’m surprised to find something altogether different.

Your voice is stunning. Why haven’t you posted in such a long time?

Stunning? I stare at the screen, the message blinking back at me as I frown. A surprising feeling of warmth unfurls in my chest at the compliment, and I consider responding to the message that was only sent a few days back, but what would be the use? I don’t use this account anymore, and frankly I should’ve deleted it ages ago. Still, I chew on my lip, debating whether to reply. In the end I simply respond with a thank you, then click out of the app, throw my phone onto the bed and head into the shower.

Twenty minutes later I’m clean and wearing a pair of soft cashmere joggers and hoodie, standing barefoot in the kitchen, eating the last bite of my grilled cheese sandwich. My still damp hair is hanging loosely around my face as I pick up my generous glass of chilled white wine and head into our living area, wandering over to the record player in the corner of the room.

I’ve always loved the scratchy sound that a track makes when played through a record player. It reminds me of the days when my mother showered me with affection, singing and dancing with me in the living room when I was a kid. It’s those memories that I cling on to every time she does something to disappoint me.

We loved each other fiercely once.

That seems like a lifetime ago now. When I look at her now, I don’t even recognise the person staring back at me. Where has the woman gone who used to care about my happiness, who would watch me dance and sing, often joining in as we pranced around our living room, filled with joy and love for one another?

My fingers linger on the LP ofYou Are The Sunshine Of My Lifeby Stevie Wonder, and the memory of us singing this song to each other fills me with a hopeless kind of longing. Taking a sip of my wine, I place the glass on the side cabinet, pull the LP from the sleeve and place it on the turntable, hovering the needle above it, before pressing the play button. Within moments the music begins to sound through the speakers, and I close my eyes letting the memories of that time wash over me.

I don’t even realise that I’ve been singing along to the track until I hear someone behind me clear their throat. Heat rises up my chest as my hands drop to my sides, and I turn to find Robert and my mother standing in the entranceway staring at me. My mother is scowling, but Robert…? His eyes are wide, mouth open in… Shock? Surprise? Appreciation?

“Harlow, what on earth are you doing? We could hear you halfway down the drive!” my mother admonishes, flicking her gaze to Robert who is still gaping at me.

“Just remembering,” I reply softly, my heart pounding in my chest.

Please mom, just remember who we were, I find myself thinking.

“Remembering?” Robert asks, swallowing hard, his throat bobbing up and down as he looks between us, sensing the tension, not understanding it.

I’m not sure I do either. When did it all go so wrong?

“Mom and I used to–” I begin, but my mother interrupts.

“Harlow fancies herself a singer, don’t you? I’ve told her time and again that her voice isn’t up to scratch,” she says, her nasty comment like a knife straight to my gut.

I reach for my glass of wine, gulping back a mouthful before shaking my head. “I don’t fancy myself as anything. I just sing sometimes, that’s all.”

“Your efforts would be far better focused on organising my wedding. I take it you’ve not even read the email I sent you?”

“I have actually–”

“Focus on that, not this…” she waves her hand in the air, “Thisfantasyof yours.”

“That’s enough, Melody,” Robert scolds, his voice cold as he glances down at my mother.

If she’s taken aback by his remark, then I’m even more so.

“I just meant–” she begins, but he cuts her off.

“Harlow, you have abeautifulvoice,” he says, and I hear his sincerity, see it in the warmth of his eyes.

“Th-thank you,” I stammer, not sure how I feel about his compliment if I’m honest.

Part of me is grateful for his kindness, the other part knows only too well that my mother will hate me for it. I glance at her, and she narrows her eyes at me. God, I’ll never live this down. “I should go to bed, leave you both to continue with your celebrations.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that Harlow could sing?” Robert asks, casting a look over his shoulder at my mother as he strides into the living room and takes a seat on the sofa. I watch as he unbuttons his suit jacket, flipping the material aside to make himself comfortable.

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