Thirty Days

Suzie didn't look back.

She kept walking along the riverside path, her footsteps quicker than usual despite the ache settling heavily in her chest. Around her, couples wandered hand in hand, tourists paused to photograph the skyline and cyclists wove between pedestrians, yet everything felt strangely distant.

She could still hear Adrian's voice.

Would you pretend to be my girlfriend?

She had spent years wondering what it might be like to see him again.

Never once had she imagined becoming part of a publicity campaign.

By the time she reached her studio, the initial shock had given way to disappointment.

She wasn't angry that he'd needed help.

She understood pressure.

She understood desperation.

What hurt was believing, if only for a little while, that he'd wanted to find her because he'd missed her too.

Instead, she'd become the answer to a problem.

She unlocked the studio door and stepped inside.

The familiar scent of oil paint and white spirit greeted her immediately. Usually it settled her. Today it only reminded her that this little room had become the one place in the world where nobody expected anything from her.

She crossed to the easel.

The unfinished landscape she'd been working on sat exactly where she'd left it that morning, the blues and greens still waiting to be blended together.

She picked up a brush.

Nothing came.

She stared at the canvas, willing inspiration to appear.

Instead all she could picture was Adrian sitting opposite her in the café, laughing about their collapsed treehouse.

For one perfect hour he'd just been Adrian.

Not a celebrity.

Not the face on magazine covers.

Just the boy who used to insist that adding glitter made every painting better.

A reluctant smile touched her lips.

"You were wrong about that."

The smile faded almost as quickly as it arrived.

She set the brush down again.

The studio suddenly felt quieter than it ever had before.

Her eyes wandered slowly around the room.

The shelves lined with jars of brushes she'd collected one at a time because she could never afford to replace them all together.

The old wooden stool she'd rescued from a charity shop and painted three different colours before deciding she preferred the original wood.

The tiny kettle balanced on a filing cabinet because there wasn't enough room for a proper kitchen.

None of it was impressive.

It didn't need to be.

It was where she'd built the life she'd always wanted.

Maybe not the successful version she'd imagined at twelve years old.

But a version that belonged entirely to her.

Her phone rang.

The screen displayed Martin Hughes.

Her landlord.

Her stomach tightened.

Martin never phoned unless something needed fixing.

"Hello?"

"Afternoon, Suzie."

His voice sounded unusually hesitant.

"Have you got a minute?"

"Of course."

"There isn't an easy way to say this."

She sat down slowly on the wooden stool.

"What is it?"

"I've decided to sell the building."

She frowned.

"What building?"

"The whole warehouse."

Her eyes slowly travelled around the studio.

The cracked brick walls.

The skylight she'd painted beneath for nearly four years.

The corner where completed canvases leaned against each other waiting for buyers.

"You mean... this building?"

"I'm afraid so."

"But what about everyone renting here?"

"The developers want vacant possession."

Her grip tightened around the phone.

"When?"

"They're hoping to complete next month."

Her heart began beating a little faster.

"I've always paid my rent."

"I know."

"I've never missed a payment."

"I know you haven't."

"I'm not asking you to leave because you've done anything wrong."

She closed her eyes.

"So I have to move."

"I'm serving formal notice tomorrow."

"How long have I got?"

There was a pause.

"Thirty days."

Thirty days.

The words echoed through the silent studio.

"I wish I could give you longer," Martin said quietly.

"But they're paying cash."

Of course they were.

"I'm sorry, Suzie."

"So am I."

She ended the call before he could hear the tremble in her voice.

For several moments she remained completely still.

Thirty days.

Finding somewhere affordable to live was difficult enough.

Finding somewhere she could both live and paint felt almost impossible.

She wandered slowly around the studio, trailing her fingertips across the edge of the workbench.

Every corner held a memory.

Her first commissioned painting.

The bottle of champagne she'd opened after her first exhibition.

The pencil marks on the wall where she'd measured oversized canvases because she'd never owned a proper tape measure.

It had never been glamorous.

But it had been hers.

The notification sound from her laptop broke the silence.

She almost ignored it.

Almost.

The subject line made her stop.

Riverside Hotel Commission

A flicker of hope returned.

The hotel had approached her weeks earlier about creating a collection of paintings for the refurbishment of their executive suites.

It was the biggest commission she'd ever been offered.

If it went ahead, it would cover months of rent and finally give her enough breathing room to paint full-time.

She opened the email.

The first sentence was enough.

Unfortunately...

Her heart sank.

She forced herself to keep reading.

Budget cuts.

Project postponed indefinitely.

Unable to proceed.

Hope to work together in the future.

The words blurred together.

She read the email again.

Then once more.

Nothing changed.

The commission was gone.

Within twenty minutes she'd lost both the future of her studio and the income that might have saved it.

She opened her banking app.

Available balance: £1,842.17

It looked painfully small.

She grabbed the notebook she used for expenses and began writing.

Rent.

Utilities.

Food.

Insurance.

Paint.

Canvas.

Petrol.

The figures climbed steadily until there was almost nothing left.

She stared at the total.

If she sold several paintings quickly...

If she picked up more café shifts...

If another commission appeared...

She might just scrape through.

If none of those things happened...

Her phone buzzed.

Emma

How did seeing Adrian go?

Suzie stared at the message.

How could she possibly explain it?

That she'd spent an hour reconnecting with the boy she'd once thought would always be part of her life.

That by the afternoon he'd asked her to become his fake girlfriend.

That she'd walked away.

Instead she typed:

Complicated.

Emma replied almost instantly.

Good complicated?

Suzie smiled sadly.

Not really. Long story.

Three dots appeared again.

Wine tonight?

For the first time all afternoon, Suzie smiled properly.

Please.

She placed the phone on the workbench and looked around the studio one last time.

Only this morning she'd thought life might finally be settling into place.

Now she had thirty days before she lost the space she'd poured four years of her life into.

Against her will, Adrian's proposal drifted back into her thoughts.

Six months.

A contract.

Money.

She pushed the idea away immediately.

No amount of financial trouble was worth selling her dignity.

At least...

That was what she kept telling herself.

Yet standing alone in the studio she was about to lose, she couldn't stop wondering how many choices she would have left if life took one more thing away.