Page 92 of In the Frame

Taking a ruler, I measure out each line, sketch out the letters. I use Ellie’s purple acrylic paint and carefully paint the letters and add a rainbow for good measure. Staring at the finished sign, I feel close to tears.

Ellie claps me on the shoulder. “Good job. Want to do another? We need a hundred signs for next Saturday.”

Which is when—to my shock—I say no and make a beeline for outside, overwhelmed. I rake my hands through my hair. I try to suck back air, look across the crowds making their way through the Laines on a gorgeous September day. Noah’s supposed to be here soon. Yet all I want to do is call Florian. My mind races in circles, my throat tight.

I pull my phone out to call him, flustered. Which is when Raheem turns up. “Let’s go meet Noah at the pub. He’s buying,” Raheem says cheerfully, linking my arm with his and sweeping me off. My friends have booked a room at the back of the pub for all of us to meet, since Ellie’s studio isn’t big enough for us and the galleries are full of visitors. Sun floods the back room, and everyone’s excitedly coming up with plans and chants and strategies. I help someone write a press release. I feel like I’m watching it from outside of my body.

Noah asks me a couple of times if I’m alright, and I tell him I’m fine. Not to worry.

And next Saturday is the rally.

On the day of the rally, the Rose is buzzing. All the artists are there. The studios and galleries are open by donation to entice supporters. By the time 5:00 p.m. rolls around, we’re at full capacity inside. There’s a spill of people out front, across the pavement, and into the street. The police come to help direct traffic.

There are hundreds of people here.

I haven’t eaten all day or slept the last two nights, too rattled by my nerves. My dad sent me home early from the pub yesterday after one look at me and told me to get some rest. I felt like I was being fired all over again from Ivan’s. I stopped short of calling him Alexander, but I didn’t take it well.

Several times, I’ve come close to calling Florian.

And tonight, I’m lightheaded. Have I eaten? I can’t remember.

“Hey,” says a familiar voice beside me. “This is incredible.”

I glance over in a daze, feeling shaky. “Michael?”

It doesn’t make any sense why he’s here. I must be staring at him like he’s some kind of mirage because he touches my shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah. What’re you even doing here?”

Michael shrugs. “I was home and heard about the rally to save the Rose. So I came. And you don’t look so good.”

“I just need fresh air. I’m supposed to be meeting people. I think.” I glance around, but it’s impossible to see Noah with all these people. There must be a hundred signs, as Ellie wanted. There are media vans pulled up, and cameras are rolling, and people are starting to chant. My face burns as someone streams the whole debacle live on social media.

Michael gives me a wry smile. “We’re outside. The air’s as fresh as it gets.”

“Oh.” I fall quiet. Yet I still can’t get a proper breath in.

Around us, crowds are gathering. The road’s been closed, and the crowd spills across to the pub across the street, where people are seated at picnic tables out front beneath overflowing hanging baskets with vibrant flowers. They seem to have commandeered a table and put it in the middle of the street in the thick of the crowd. Ellie climbs on top of the picnic table with her megaphone and starts whipping everyone up into a frenzy with the chants.

Which is about when I feel like I’m about to die, my chest tight. Panic’s choking me. I suck back air, but it’s too much. Too many people, too much commotion.

Someone’s saying something to me, but the words don’t make any sense. I’m staring at Michael and Noah, and they both look at me with concern. And I’m sobbing—to my great embarrassment—and everything’s too much. Complete crap is coming out of my mouth. When my legs give out, Michael grabs me with his fast dancer’s reflexes before I hit asphalt.

I’m hysterical on his shoulder, and everything’s too hot. Darkness creeps into the edges of my vision, and I hear Michael saying urgently to Noah he’s going to call his mum to call my parents—and everything goes black.

Chapter Fifty-One

It turns out I end up having my own mental health crisis. Mum takes me to A&E in Brighton, and I’m admitted into the psych ward as an outpatient for depression and anxiety after my breakdown.

I begin meds and therapy and start to talk about how lost I am. The medication makes the days hazy at first. My parents watch me even more closely than the twins, who, in turn, decide they will take care of me when they’re home from school. It’s awkward and charming to have their focused attention. I don’t know how helpful they are, but knowing they love me does help. Leila’s more sensible company. It feels grounding to be surrounded by my family.

Every weekday, I go through a carefully structured routine to head to the day’s therapy session. And gradually, I start to feel like myself again, rather than like I’ve been going around in a borrowed body.

Soon, I start working again at the pub. Simple tasks at first, like bussing dishes and restocking the kitchen. Helping clean at night. Then I gradually move to work behind the bar.

It’s the middle of October before I can go into my studio again. Before I start sketching again. After a few weeks of medication adjustments and therapy, I’m finding my legs once more. And soon, I want to paint, in a way I haven’t felt since I was at uni. I return to painting summer in Brighton. And I begin to work to make a collection of paintings in a series, like Noah told me in the past.

In November, I’m back to feeling more like myself. I visit with my Brighton friends again, and I start looking for work once more in London. But this time, on a much sturdier foundation and with a much better bank balance after a few months of working at the pub, the sale of the paintings to Florian, and a portrait commission for a family friend.