Ruby

Chapter 1

‘Art can never exist without naked beauty displayed’—William Blake

18th of May

The sun’s brilliant rays pierce the window, igniting a slow-motion ballet on the polished oak floor beneath my feet. Mesmerized, I’m transported back to the wild night Lisa dragged me to a bachelor party after a psychedelic rave—her idea of a ‘welcome to the team’ event.

The night ended up with Lisa making out with a guy dressed as a hotdog, and the both of us getting our belly buttons pierced. I sigh at the memory and drop my paint palette onto the counter, taking a step back to inspect my latest oil painting.

Focus Ruby!

I can’t afford distractions right now, even if the flashback of Lisa screaming at the guy to ‘mustard her up’ is hilarious. No, I need to stay serious and professional.

Oil painting is a new medium for me. I’ve built a solid reputation with charcoals and chalks, and I can’t afford to mess this up. The gallery owner’s commission is a golden opportunity—creating a piece for his wife and extending my contract on an executive art studio is a dream come true. There is no time for reminiscing about drunken escapades with Lisa.

I stand on my tiptoes, groaning as the pain in my lower back flares up—a reminder that sitting down occasionally wouldn’t kill me. My messy bun reeks of turpentine, and specks of paint pepper my hair. I step back to inspect my work: a chaotic mess of colours. After four hours, it’s nowhere near finished and seems to mock my efforts. I sigh, frustration bubbling in my chest, threatening to overflow.

“Shit! Shit! Fuck!”

My eyes twitch, and I can feel the burn behind them. I wipe my sweaty hands down my apron, which clings to my body. Scratching my head in annoyance, I examine the colour of the orchids. They’re too damned dark, driving me crazy. I hate painting orchids. They always remind me of the tattoo on the woman who murdered my mother, and I’ve loathed them ever since. Maybe that’s why the painting feels lifeless and bleak. I just can’t connect to it, and I hate painting things that don’t inspire me or hold personal meaning.

The words of Aristotle, shared by my favourite lecturer in college, come back to me: “No great artist ever sees things as they really are. If he did, he would cease to be an artist.” I reflect on this as I stare at my painting. It feels cheap, not my best work. But I only have two months left to complete it.

Maybe it isn't as bad as I think?

Reluctantly, I pick up my painting blade the moment Lisa, a fashion—conscious, loud—mouthed New Yorker, bounds through the door with two coffees in hand and a tray of bagels held aloft like a waiter. The aromatic smell assaults my senses making me realise I have missed breakfast.

“Need to take a break?” she says, reading my mind.

“Like you wouldn’t believe! Are they cream cheese with salmon?” I salivate, dropping my tools down on the counter beside my canvass and skipping over to the sofa beside the open window.

I love the view from my studio. The light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the high ceilings that give me room to breathe and think—I just love everything about it. The space itself is a sanctuary, filled with the scent of fresh paint and the comforting clutter of brushes and canvases. The exposed brick walls add a rustic charm, and the polished wooden floors creak softly underfoot, reminding me of the building’s rich history. Every corner of this studio speaks to my soul, from the cozy reading nook where I escape with art books to the industrial-style lighting that casts inspiring shadows on my work. This studio isn’t just a place to paint; it’s where my creativity comes alive.

Situated on the top floor of the Mint Museum in Charlotte, NC, my studio offers a breathtaking vista of St. Peter’s Church. The majestic church spire pierces the skyline, providing a stunning focal point. From this vantage point, I enjoy a privileged bird's—eye view of the bustling intersection below, indulging in one of my favourite pastimes: people—watching.

Instinctively, I peer over the ledge and pop my nose outside the window. Below me, the streets are alive with activity. Round metal tables are scattered about, occupied by patrons savouring coffee and ice creams, while others engage in animated conversations, perhaps catching up over Spring Break.

“Morning sugar”, Lisa croons flashing me a huge grin that warms my heart, instantly making me forget about my crappy painting.

Lisa, is more than just a colleague; she's my trusted confidant and closest friend in Charlotte. We've worked together at the Mint Museum Uptown for the past three years, navigating the art world side by side. Her astute eye for art and quick wit have been a lifesaver on many occasions. She is two years older than me, although you wouldn’t think it to look at her and from her unique and spirited outlook on life. Lisa’s slight build and larger—than—life personality exudes sass, youth, and confidence. Affectionately nicknamed 'Lee-Lee', she's a perpetual child, always brimming with energy and life. Not only is she generous to a fault, but she's also unfailingly honest, she never sugar-coats anything. Some might call her brutal honesty a flaw; I, on the other hand, find it admirable and by far her greatest quality.

“Looking good girl, brought you something sugary and fatty to spoil it”, Lisa laughs as I pat the seat next to me.

“Thanks. Hey, nice kicks,” I tease, noticing the cerise Vans that I bought her for her 26th birthday, the memory of the festivities, which led to a spontaneous flight to Vegas at 2 a.m., rushes back to me—a weekend binge I still haven’t fully recuperated from.

“You like? My BFF bought them for me,” she chuckles, breaking out into a spontaneous tap—dance that threatens to spill my precious cup of coffee.

As Lisa's laughter fills the room, I often find myself marvelling at her boundless energy and positivity. But beyond the surface, I know there's more to her story. When I first met Lisa Fleming, I secretly suspected that she must be constantly high, because no one could naturally have that amount of positivity and energy day in and day out. But once I was fortunate to get to really know her, and we bonded over our love of Anastassia Elias and her toilet paper roll artwork, I soon learnt that she came from a home of drug abuse. As a result, she had vowed early on to live life to the fullest in memory of her late father, sans illegal mind—altering substances and I immediately felt like a bitch for judging her.

Lisa clears her throat and ruffles her new mint green pixie cut, setting down the coffees and bagels onto the table beside me, not before giving me a long hard look. I take the cup that has ‘Dooby’ scrawled on it in black ink, Lisa’s nickname for me, and grab the fattest bagel in the tray. As soon as it hits my lips, I groan in pleasure.

When did I last eat?

“So, Ruby Dooby, how is it coming along?” Lisa's voice carries a note of curiosity as she pauses, her gaze flickering over the canvas. Despite her ever—supportive nature, I know that her critique will be honest and insightful. As a respected art curator, Lisa's opinion holds weight in the industry, and I know she won’t hold back in telling me if it is as shit as I think it is.

“It looks …”, she hesitates, her expression thoughtful as she chooses her words carefully. I hold my breath, waiting for her assessment.

“I know. I am not in love with it either.” I whine, taking a large bite of my bagel. “I just can’t get past the orchids, every time I look at them, I want to smash the bloody thing up.” I answer, not letting her finish.

“So, start again.” Lisa says blowing into the tiny hole on her coffee cup, making it whistle.

“I can’t. It’s due in 8 weeks, and Barry will throw a fit if I don’t get it done in time. He's already been so nice letting me lease this space above the museum,” I explain, though I know Lisa's disdain for Barry McGee, our 'boss', is at an all—time high.

Ever since he rejected her pitch for a psychedelic art exhibition in favour of a Tribal—inspired collection, tensions between them have been palpable.

Lisa snorts in response, “Barry McGee can suck a dick! You need to remember that it was he who sought you out. Top of your class, Rising Artist of the year, he couldn’t get you here fast enough. You are doing him a favour and don’t let him make you think otherwise.” She barks.

I shrink at her praise and compliment; try as I might to shake it, three years later and I am still suffering from a heavy case of imposter syndrome.

It just all happened so fast. One minute I was graduating, the next I was submitting my work through an open call at a gallery on a whim. That snowballed into my being nominated, and then actually winning, the coveted award. I gave it to my father the day I received it; I can’t look at it. Instead, it sits proudly on my father’s fireplace back home.

Then, remarkably, the next thing I knew I was given an art residency at the Mint Museum Uptown in Charlotte, North Carolina. I grabbed the opportunity with both hands, relocated, and uprooted my life three years ago with a boyfriend in tow.

While I don’t regret it for a single second, I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that it all happened to me.   

“Listen, you should be focusing on your exhibition, not doing favours for Barry and his sourpuss wife. Your contract states that you need to turn out one exhibition a year containing a minimum of 10 pieces. So far for this year’s exhibition how many have you have completed? Do you even have your theme yet?”

I open my mouth to make an excuse, but then clamp it shut when I see her stern expression.

“Zero, that is how many. You haven’t started your collection and it’s just turned May!” Lisa scoffs and I hear the panic in her voice. 

“Shit. I know!” I cry, cramming the remaining chunk of bagel into my mouth in frustration.

“But I have until September to present my proposal for the collection and then I will really knuckle down and get it done.” I mumble, wiping my mouth on a napkin. “Besides, I can’t turn down “$10,000 Lisa. Noah and I just moved into the Condo.”

Lisa raises an eyebrow sceptically. “No one made you move into a condo with concierge, a pool, and a fitness centre. What was wrong with your old place?”

I shift in my seat, my fidgeting with the Tiffany’s necklace Noah bought me on our first anniversary. “Okay, fair point. But it’s so much closer to Noah’s work, and it's such a beautiful building. Did you see the exposed authentic brickwork and wooden floors? Don’t forget the size of my open—plan kitchen and living room. I have floor—to—ceiling windows, for god’s sake, Lisa. That shit doesn’t come cheap in Charlotte!”

As I finish my sentence, I take a swig of my cappuccino, a delicious dollop of caramel sauce hits the back of my tongue.

“I did see it yes. It’s all very lovely. But I kind of liked your old place. It was warm and cosy and $1000 a month cheaper!”

Lisa is right. My old one—bedroom apartment might have been cramped, but it held a special place in my heart. It was my first proper grown—up home after I moved to North Carolina. Noah and I worked tirelessly to make it our own. Every weekend, I would spend hours scouring pop—up flea markets for vintage furniture to get it just right. I've lost count of the many road trips I dragged Lisa along with me to some little town to hunt for unique pieces, but no doubt she remembers every single trip.

My stomach flips, and for a moment, I fear my bagel might come back up. The thought of my beloved vintage pieces now sitting abandoned in a downtown storage unit makes me uneasy. The truth is that they just don't fit with the clean, airy, modern aesthetic of the condo, and I miss them dearly.

“Ugh! I know. I miss my old place too.” I moan into my hands. “Hell, I even miss the leaky faucet and the noisy couple above me who would argue every Friday night for hours on end before having obnoxiously loud sex until the early hours of the morning”, I shake off the feelings of guilt and try to remain positive, even though a tiny inkling of doubt is gnawing away at my insides.

“The condo is beautiful too. It’s a grown—up space. At least now I can have more than one person over at any given time without feeling like we're playing a never—ending game of Twister.” I laugh, finishing the last of my cappuccino. “I just need to make it my own, like this freaking art piece!” I spring to my feet and plod over to my workstation.

“Fine!” Lisa concedes with a playful grin. “Just don't go changing for no man. Even if he does have a cute butt.”

With a dramatic wave of her hand, Lisa brushes the crumbs from her canary yellow overalls and stretches dramatically, rising from the sofa, resembling a giant—sized Tweety Bird. Despite her reputation as a renowned art curator, Lisa eschews formalities in favour of comfort and self—expression. Some might describe her as a rogue fashion icon, others however, namely Barry, would liken them to 'bohemia on acid.' I however think she looks awesome, and I envy her confidence and boldness, as well as her artistic eye.

“Noah does have a cute butt, but I was thinking, do you think I should become a lesbian like you?” I joke, picking up my brushes and palette, with a groan as I take in my shameful piece of so—called art.

“No! We don’t want you. Real lesbians don’t like cock. We need committed women to join our gang of domination,” Lisa laughs, tossing our discarded coffee cups into the overflowing trashcan.

“Rubes, this is gross, by the way,” Lisa sniffs, turning up her nose at the garbage spilling out. “Wait … Erm, hello! What is this?”

I watch from the corner of my eye as Lisa picks up a crumpled piece of paper that has tumbled onto the floor. Before I can grab it, she sidesteps me and sprints to the other side of the studio, almost colliding with Barry’s painting.

“Watch it!” I yell in panic, but she ignores me, her skilful eyes already examining the parchment which is a drawing inspired by me ex-boyfriend Isaac.

My heart races as I swallow hard, turning my back on her and pretending not to be bothered. Inside, embarrassment gnaws at me like a relentless beast, my cheeks burning with shame.

“It's just a doodle,” I whisper, recalling how I had drawn it frantically late last night. Isaac’s memory surged through my mind, compelling me to capture it on paper. I hadn’t experienced his memories in months, until last night. His face materialized, shifting and blurring like a fast—forwarded movie reel. I found myself back in that cold diner, the broken strobe light flickering above. Isaac lay before me, wounded by his vampire sire, Clarabelle. Fear and sadness filled his eyes as he struggled to hold on, while Clarabelle’s lifeless body was dragged away by Jay. It was finally over, the vampire that had brutally taken my mother's life years ago, was dead, I had closure. 

Isaac had fought fiercely against his sire, driven by vengeance for my mother's death. His bravery nearly cost him his life. That's when I made the choice to offer my blood to save him, I needed to keep him alive at any cost. That is when the switching happened and led me to getting all of Isaac’s memories. They usually don’t last long; they come and go and feel pretty much just like déjà vu, but they can catch me off guard and hit me without warning. Over the years I have gotten quite good at breathing through them and shutting them off. They appear like silent movies; I see the images in my mind, but there isn’t any sound. Yet each time a memory surfaces, it feels like a betrayal to Noah, a disruption to the stable life I’ve built, pulling me back into a world I no longer belong to.

“You drew this?” Lisa asks, almost in disbelief.

“Yes,” I whisper quietly, hoping that if I don’t make a big deal of it, she’ll drop it.

I turn away to avoid looking at the drawing for a minute longer. I hate being reminded of that period in my life. I don’t recognize the girl in the drawing. I’ve fought so hard to put her behind me, so having it scrutinized by Lisa right now is unbearable.

“Wow, Ruby. It’s beautiful. Is it for your exhibition?” She pushes further, curiosity evident in her voice.

“No, I’m not using it,” I say quickly turning back to her impatiently. "Lisa, I don’t even have a theme and focus—”

“Why? There is so much beauty and pain in this. Could that not be your focus? I mean, look. I don’t want to pry, well actually scratch that, I do, but I won’t. But whatever this is a drawing of, it feels very real. I can feel the pain, but also the love and fear.” Lisa says, her trained eyes not leaving the drawing for one second.

I don’t respond. I can’t. It is an ugly can of worms that I was not expecting to unpack today, or ever if I am honest. I have buried him and that time in my life deep within, in my metaphorical storage box, much like my beloved vintage furniture, these memories are tucked away, unseen but not forgotten.

I haven’t told Lisa much about Isaac, at least not the obvious part. ‘Hey Lisa, remember that dude I told you about who was my first love and broke my heart? He was a 225—year—old vampire. Yes, vampires are actually real and coexist, for the most part, peacefully with humans. Oh, and he was also involved in my mother’s death’—Nope! Not the kind of casual conversation starter you bring up over brunch.

I doubt she would believe vampires are real and coexist peacefully with humans in secret. Although, this is Lisa, so perhaps she would. The farthest I’ve gone is to let her meet Eleanor and Anthony, Isaac’s sired daughter and her husband. I trust them with my life, and the fact that they don’t drink human blood is a huge bonus, so I knew she would be safe around them.

“No Lisa”, I repeat. “I am not using it. Can I have it back now, please?” I huff, tapping my foot impatiently, feeling a pang of guilt like I’m betraying Noah in some way.

Noah is reliable, funny, and safe. He deserves a medal for putting up with the colossal amount of baggage and skeletons I have hidden in my closet. Night terrors, commitment issues, the whole nine yards. And still, he has stayed with me.

Let’s not forget that he gets bonus points for being human and not a literal threat at any given moment to my life.

“Lisa?” I snap, a hint of desperation in my voice. “The drawing.”

“No. You threw it in the trash. Wait…” Lisa pauses, chewing her bottom lip deep in thought. “This is you, isn’t it? Wow, Ruby. You look so … So… Different.”

I nod and busy myself with squeezing periwinkle blue paint from a stubborn half—empty tube to add to my pallet.

“Is this you when you were younger? How old are you here?” Finally, she places it down on the counter beside the tubs of paints and brushes, smoothing it out.

“I was 18,” I say, my voice clipped, hoping she senses my tone.

The drawing is of me, but from Isaac’s eyes the night I offered to save him by letting him feed on me. I pick up my brush, pretending to examine the unfinished oil painting, even though I can still see the drawing from the corner of my eye.

“What’cha thinking about?” Lisa says, pointing at me with suspicion. “You have a weird, dreamy face going on.”

“Nothing,” I say, breaking from my daydream of the first time I ever met Isaac, to add a dollop of flake white paint onto the canvas.

“Aww, you’re making puppy eyes. Are you thinking about Noah? Isn’t it your anniversary in a couple of days?” Lisa teases, collapsing into my swivel chair, she kicks off the ground, causing the chair to do a 360.

“Erm … It is, yes,” I admit, desperately trying to get my mind off Isaac and back to the present. Isaac is history and thank God he has stayed true to his word and disappeared off the face of the Earth,  because I don’t know how the new, grown me would react to seeing him again.

“Hey, fancy getting some dinner and margaritas at Mariposa with me and Diana after work?” Lisa stops abruptly mid—spin to check the time on her watch. “Shall we say about 5pm?”

The idea of cocktails at our favourite restaurant, conveniently located right below our building, instantly lifts my spirits. So does the thought of hanging out with Diana, Lisa’s girlfriend. Diana, a 32—year—old waitress from San Diego, tells the funniest and dirtiest jokes I've ever heard. She's exactly the kind of energy I need to pull me out of my depressing funk.

“Sure, but can I bring Noah?”

“Is this like a keys-in-the-bowl kind of moment? Because I thought we had established that I don’t like—”

“Cock! I know! Now, please go. Some of us have actual work to do!”

I toss my paintbrush after her, but she manages to slink out of the door before it hits her square in the back of the head.

I sigh and turn back to the painting in front of me, but my eyes can’t help but sneak another glance at the crumpled portrait. The weight of the past presses down on me, a relentless reminder of everything I've tried to leave behind.

A bolt of frustration floods through me. I lift the canvas from the easel and hurl it at the wall. As it crashes to the ground, splintering into chaos, I count to ten aloud, my voice trembling with each number. I crack my knuckles and let out a deep breath, the sound echoing in the silence of the studio.

Taking a fresh canvas from beneath the counter, I place it on the easel. It’s time to start again, to paint a new story, one that belongs to me and not the ghosts of my past.