Page 48 of Head Over Skis

‘You’re an artist too? I thought you were drawing at the chalet.’

I continue staring at the blankets as I ponder how to answer, because it’s not a simple yes or no. I think about how as a teenager that was my identity. ‘This is my friend Lottie, she’s an artist’ is how my high school friends would introduce me. Above all else, my favourite thing to do was paint. Give me a canvas, a palette, an assortment of colours and endless time, and I’d be content. But then dreams gave way to practicalities.

Practicalities meant art turned from a career path into a hobby. Painting gave way to pencil sketches, because I didn’t have the space or spare money to spend on proper equipment, and the view from my London flat of a dark alleyway people frequently stopped to piss in didn’t do much for my creativity.

‘Not any more,’ I settle on, smiling as I think back to older times, ‘but maybe once.’

I quickly change the subject by picking up one of the photo frames from the coffee table and holding it up.

‘Is this her?’ I ask, although the resemblance is so strong I know it must be his mum.

It’s quite shocking how many of the same features they share – from the colour of his hair to the sharp line of his jaw. And if not for those, the eyes would be enough of a giveaway. The same deep shade of brown, like the bark of the trees I was just admiring.

‘She’s beautiful,’ I say, seeing now where her son got his looks from.

No offence to his dad, who I can’t see in any of the photos, but his mum’s beautiful in such a carefree way.

‘She was,’ Rory says back, voice quiet as he stares at the photo too.

‘Oh god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t…’ I try to think of something to say, but I feel like I’ve put my foot in it and it’s properly wedged in.

‘It’s fine,’ he says, finally looking away from the frame and batting his hand through the air like he’s trying to downplay it. ‘She died nearly ten years ago now, not that it’s gotten any easier, but it’s gotten more normal to be without her, I guess,’ he says, and I think I get what he means although I can’t possibly imagine how hard that must’ve been to go through.

‘Fancy a hot chocolate?’ he asks, pushing away from the countertop, and I’m thankful for the change of subject.

I wander over to the kitchen where a row of mugs hang in a line and select one which is white and covered with little paintings of skiers. We’re both quiet while Rory boils the kettle, and I head out to the balcony where two metal chairs are positioned facing the view. When the drinks are ready, he brings a throw from inside and the hot chocolates out to us, a swirl of whipped cream on top of both, and I thank him as I take mine.

‘Sometimes in my dreams, I imagine I did it. That I became an artist,’ I say, ready to elaborate on the short answer I gave him earlier.

I don’t normally talk about it, not even to my friends. Revisiting the reasons why I chose finance are never fun, and it always leaves me with so many ‘what ifs’, so I try not to think or speak about it. I don’t want to see it as a regret.

But Rory has shared something difficult and personal about his life, and I want to offer him a piece of mine in return.

‘So, why didn’t you go for it?’ he asks.

I take a sip from my mug, staring through the steam into the peaceful landscape beyond.

‘There were a few reasons,’ I say, deciding where to begin. ‘I guess a lot of it was because of my parents.’

I’m hesitant to bring them up again, but there’s also no way to explain the full story without them.

‘I saw what it was like trying to make a living working in the creative arts, and I was…’

I trail off, trying to think of the right word to describe how watching Mum and Dad struggle over the years had affected me. I’d always admired their passion and love for their work. When I’d watch Mum on stage, I’d never been able to take my eyes off her. She was magical. And seeing Dad bent over pages and pages of writing at the kitchen table, and the way his face would light up when a story or a script clicked into place – I wanted to know what it felt like to get that moment of euphoria. To feel like anything was possible.

And art gave me that.

But I also remember the hushed conversations they would have when they didn’t think I could hear. It didn’t take me long to realise that the joy their careers brought them was only one side of the coin, and on the other lay a lot of stress and hardships that they tried to keep away from me.

‘Afraid.’

It’s the word I settle on, and one I’ve never been honest enough to admit to anyone else. ‘I know how hard it can be to try and go for a dream, and that it doesn’t always work out. I’ve witnessed the stress, the joy, all of it, and I guess I decided I wasn’t cut out for the risk.’

What I’ve told Rory is only part of the truth though.

What I don’t say is that, although it’s true that I was afraid my own art wouldn’t succeed, what I was more afraid of was the fact that if it didn’t, I’d have to keep relying on Mum and Dad to support me when I knew they were barely supporting themselves.

I turn away from the pristine scene in front of me and look at Rory, whose eyebrows are knitted together.