Page 136 of The Substitute Fiancée

Her jaw tightens. Her fingers clench around the armrest of her chair. I wait, hoping for a spark of pride, a crack. Nothing.

“I just came to get a few things from my room,” I say at last. “I’m leaving. Goodbye, Mom.”

“Take whatever you want,” she replies in a flat voice. “And come get the rest soon. We’re turning the room into a guest bedroom for your sister’s visitors.”

The message is crystal clear. There’s no longer a place for me here.

I go upstairs, my heart heavy. My room is exactly as I left it: overrun with sketch pads and canvases. On the walls, posters from exhibitions visited with Andrew and Alexander, then others, more recent ones, with Alexander alone.

My gaze lingers on the poster from the Turner exhibition in Paris. I remember that day with painful clarity. We spent hours standing in front of the paintings, fascinated by the light, by the way Turner captured the ephemeral. Then we had dinner at a small bistro, talked late into the night. About everything. About nothing.

It’s one of the most beautiful memories of my life.

I shake my head to chase away the nostalgia and examine my canvases. There are about twenty of them, some dating back to my early days. I look at them with a more critical eye, measuring how far I’ve come.

Among them is the first blank canvas Alexander gave me. I had painted his parents’ château at sunset on it. The composition is naïve, imperfect, but it radiates something warm. Something sincere. I set it aside.

Then I choose my two best paintings—the ones where I feel I truly found my voice.

I wrap all three in kraft paper, make handles with hemp rope, and leave the house without seeing my mother again.

In the subway, I bump into a few passengers with my bulky load. Annoyed looks, a sigh. I murmur an apology and press myself against the wall.

At the gallery, Cédric Levasseur studies the two paintings at length, stepping closer, stepping back, squinting.

“They’re perfect,” he finally says. “I’ll keep both of them.”

He then hands me the receipt for the sale of my first piece.

I freeze when I see the amount: €1,800!

I know I’ll have to set some aside for social contributions, but I’ll still be left with an unexpected sum, far more than I ever dared imagine.

“That’s it, I’m rich!” I laugh that evening to Mara and Emelyne.

To celebrate, we open a bottle of Norman cider that cost €7.90. Absolute luxury.

We dig out the ceramic bowls from the back of the cupboard and toast together.

I’m so happy to share this moment with them.

And yet, someone is missing.

Alexander.

I would have loved so much to celebrate this moment with him too.

But it’s better this way.

*

That night, I slide my very first painting behind the others without unwrapping it. Then I take a blank canvas from the ones Alexander gave me after the burglary and settle into the living room to paint.

The months fly by at an incredible pace.

Early April: I’ve made good progress on my graduation project, but I’m still far from the thirty pieces required. In other words, I barely see daylight anymore.

My days boil down to painting, eating, sleeping. Repeat.