Page 28 of Good Girl
He says this curtly and it’s clear he’s struggling with his pride, uncomfortable with admitting his perceived weakness to me.
‘You know, it’s not necessarily about being smart, it’s more about being able to manage your concentration levels so you can stay focussed long enough on tasks in order to finish them.’ I take a breath. ‘Have you ever been tested for ADHD?’
‘What the hell is ADHD?’ He scowls at me as if I’ve just suggested he might have a horrible disease.
‘Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. It would explain why you find it so hard to focus on certain tasks, like involved paperwork, or anything that doesn’t really interest you. There are ways to manage it if it’s affecting your life.’
I think I can actually feel him retreating into himself.
‘I’ve never been tested for anything,’ he says roughly. ‘My teachers said I was just lazy and not cut out for learning.’ He lets out a snort. ‘And there’s no way my father would publicly admit to one of his sons having any kind of learning disability.’
‘That’s a shame. It could have made a real difference to your time at school.’
He shrugs. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with me, though, I just never enjoyed learning at school.’
I give him an acquiescing smile. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest there was anything wrong with you.’ My face is hot with dismay at having offended him. ‘Anyway, you’ve clearly found a great outlet for all that energy you have.’
This seems to break the tension and he raises his eyebrows and gives me a provocative smile. ‘Yes, fucking is a great way to expend some energy.’
‘I was actually talking about your sculpting,’ I correct him with a self-conscious grin. ‘You know, I’d love to see some of it sometime.’
He assesses me for a moment, as if trying to decide something. Such as whether I’m serious, or just saying that to be nice.
‘Really. I’d genuinely like to see it,’ I say.
After another moment’s hesitation, where I’m sure he’s going to refuse, he finally gives me a nod.
‘Okay. I have some of them here.’ He still looks a bit unsure, though.
‘They’re here? In the apartment?’
‘Sì. I keep some of my work here. Maria lets me use one of her spare rooms as a studio.’
‘Okay, great,’ I say, jumping off my stool. ‘Then let me see it.’
Sandro
My hands shake a little as I unlock the door to the room at the back of the apartment that I use as a temporary studio when I need to get the hell out of London and find some peace.
I usher her inside. I’ve not shown my sculptures to anyone but Maria and I’m nervous about how Juno’s going to react. I have a nagging desire for her to like them. To think I have talent. It matters to me that she does. Especially after the conversation we just had about my struggles with learning. Her implication that it could be down to more than a lack of smarts needles at my mind. But I can’t think about that right now. I’ll give it some brain space later, when I’m alone. As much as I’d like it to be true, I’m afraid that it’ll turn out not to be the case and I’ll end up looking like an idiot for even suggesting it to anyone else.
The room my studio’s in is small compared to the rest of the apartment but there’s enough space for a work bench, which is pushed up against the wall, and for five of my sculptures, which sit on the floor so you can walk around them.
Three are of abstract shapes that change as you move round them, as if they flow into themselves like waves. One starts out as a bunch of different-sized curvy fronds at the head of the sculpture, like reeds in a pond, and becomes the body of a woman lying on her back as you move round to view the side of it. Another is a collection of arms reaching towards the sky as if waving at the sun, which then becomes a gnarly-looking oak tree as you walk around it. The majority of the things I make are made from interesting bits of wood I’ve found on beaches or in forests and then whittled or carved to make the shapes I need. Others are built from bits of scrap material and wire.
‘You have to walk around them,’ I say, bending down to turn on the floor lamps so she can see how the light transforms them.
She nods and begins to circle them, peering intently at each one as she does so. I can’t read the expression on her face and the nerves jumping in my stomach make me queasy.
After she’s studied every single one, she finally looks at me. To my relief she gives me a huge smile, her face lighting up with pleasure. ‘Oh, Sandro, these are beautiful. You have to get them shown in a gallery. People will go wild for them.’ Tears glint in her eyes and she blinks them back, seemingly embarrassed by her visceral reaction.
I love it, though, more than I can express. It’s exactly the type of response I’d hoped for and it means a hell of a lot to me, coming from her.
Truth be told, I’m terrified to show them to anyone in the art trade for fear of being laughed out of the building for how amateurish they are. ‘It’s not easy. As I said before, there’s a lot of competition, and you need good business skills as well as artistic talent to sell your work.’
‘You know, I could help you with that,’ she says, her expression deadly serious. ‘If you’d like me to?’ She peers at me from behind her fringe. ‘Perhaps it can be my way of paying you back for helping me out.’
I try to ignore the sting of shame that reminds me she’s already helping me out, only without her knowledge, and bend down to turn the lamps off again to give me a reason to break eye contact with her. ‘You don’t need to pay me back,’ I mutter, glad she can’t see my face now.
