The Right Kind Of Wrong Girl. A. C. Meyer

don’t choose favorites, but, in this case, I thought I better call you first. Check your email.”

      She waits for a couple of minutes, and, suddenly, she’s speaking again.

      “Isn’t it? It’s even more wonderful in person. Do you want to make an offer? How much? Oh, Nuno. Well, let’s wait for the exhibition then. No, my dear, this is definitely one of the names of the new generation of visual artists we’re talking about. What you’re offering me is dirt-cheap. We can start talking on twelve. But you know that in the exhibition, that would be at least eighteen.

      Hellen proceeds to an intense discussion until, finally, the man gives in and she hangs up looking satisfied.

      “Well, first sold painting.”

      “Already?” Rafa and I ask at the same time.

      “Sure, pumpkins. I’m not here to play!” She smiles and gives gentle pats on my cheek. “My commission is twenty percent. We’ve sold Drop for sixteen thousand and five hundred. Nuno is a regular client, and, by the end of the day, the money will be at the gallery’s bank account and I’ll transfer you share.

      She keeps talking and I feel dizzy.

      “You said sixteen thousand?”

      “That’s right. Jacques must be almost here, he’ll bring a contract and take your information, including your bank data. It’s a good thing your lawyer is here” she says with a smile and goes back to her inventory.

      I leave the room and go back to the balcony, reaching for a cigarette pack in my pocket. I’m about to light it when Rafa comes closer, takes the cigarette out of my lips and throw it away.

      “Are you okay?”

      “Sixteen thousand?” I ask, to which he nods smiling.

      “Yes. You do have a bank account, right?”

      “Just a joint account with the Judge” I reply, still dizzy.

      “Well, after I check that contract and they’re done here, I’m taking you to a bank to get you one. This amount of money will be enough to rent an apartment and pay your bills for some time. With an exhibition in the horizon, I don’t see any reason to be worried, for now.”

      I’m sitting down, facing the view from the balcony, looking ahead without actually seeing anything.

      “Sixteen thousand?” I ask again, making Rafa laugh.

      “Congrats, miss Artist. I’m proud of you” he says, taking me to sit on his lap, holding my body in a tight hug.

      Here, with my body next to his, I come to the conclusion that, even when it seems that it’s better to just give up, moving forward might be the best option.

      Chapter six

      “Being happy is to stop being a victim of problems but become an actor in history itself.”

      Charles Chaplin

      Malu

      Only one hour left until the exhibition opening. Even now I can’t believe that time has passed so quickly. During this period, with Rafa and Helen’s support, I managed to get my life back on track.

      I walk through the living room in my new apartment, going towards the balcony. I don’t know how, but Rafa’s found me this furnished apartment to rent, close to his place, for a bargain. According to him, the rental housing market was facing a slowdown and the landlord was happy to get rid of that condo.

      The place was beautiful, well-lit and ventilated, in a quiet section of that neighborhood, where I could paint peacefully. My favorite room was the balcony. There, I could sit on a chaise, smoke a cigarette and watch the sunset. This apartment isn’t as close to the beach as the previous one, but I could still see a little bit of the sea through the buildings, and that’s enough for me.

      The apartment itself is not big. There’s a small living room, decorated with one of my paintings, which I hung there right after I moved in. The master bedroom was turned into an atelier, with the landlord’s permission, where I keep my paintings, paints, thinners and brushes. I sleep in another room that, technically, is the guest room.

      I look at my own reflection in the glass door which separates the balcony from the living room and smile with satisfaction. Hellen has been helping me to find myself. She took me to a hairdresser to have my hair properly cut and we talked about dyes and colors, reaching the conclusion that we should go back to my natural hair color. Then, right in front of me, I see a woman with beautiful dark hair in a Chanel haircut style with layers and side fringe, eyeliner in her eyes, and burgundy lipstick highlighting her lips. I was wearing a beautiful one-shoulder black dress, showing the colorful flowers on my bare shoulder, and a nice pair of killer sandals, which were oddly comfortable considering their looks.

      I had my nails painted blood red for the first time. I tried to warn Hellen that it wouldn’t last, though. After two days dealing with paints and thinners, my beautiful nails would soon be nothing but smudges on a cotton rag. But she insisted nonetheless that, today of all days, I should look flawless. Tonight, nobody is going to see the hard-working painter, but one of the names of the new generation of visual artists. Whatever that means.

      I sit down on a chaise holding a cigarette. I’d promised Rafa that I wouldn’t smoke. At least not until the reception. But there’s no harm in just holding a cigarette between your fingers, am I right? It’s almost supportive therapy. Just the thought of having a cigarette within my reach makes me feel better.

      I hear some noise, and the living room, which was completely dark until seconds ago, suddenly lights up. The smell of perfume lets me know who it is before he can say something. I don’t know what I’d have done without Rafa. He was my foundation, the one I could blindly trust, and I’ve felt grateful for that every day since the moment I met him. I hear footsteps coming closer until he stops at the balcony door. I can see that the way he looks at me now is completely different.

      “Hello, stranger. Do you know where I can find Malu? She has self-inflicted weird hair, of a washed color I can’t find words to define” he teases me, laughing. I start to scold him, but he lifts me up. “You should…” he begins but stops when he sees me standing up. Some seconds pass by until he’s able to finish his thoughts. “… swear less.”

      “And you should be a gentleman and shouldn’t call my hair weird.” I approach him. With one hand, he takes off the cigarette from my fingers, while let other linger on my hips.

      “You look beautiful,” he smiles and smack me on my lips.

      “You don’t look bad yourself.” I wrap my arms around his black suit, embracing his broad shoulders.

      “Are you okay?”

      “A little nervous, but okay.”

      “Everything’s going to be alright. I’ll be by your side all night long. Don’t worry.” These things he says make me smile and I feel deeply grateful for his affection towards me. My feelings for Rafa are the closest thing I can define as love for someone. I’d never been loved, so I wouldn’t be able to identify such a feeling. People usually talk about parental love, love between man and woman, family love… I know none of those things. The only thing I know is that, if there really were such a feeling and if I were worthy of feeling it, even though I believe I’m not, whatever this is – what I feel for Rafa – it may be my own way of loving.

      “Shall we? We must arrive a bit early.”

      “Sure, let me just take my purse.” I go to my bedroom and grab the tiny purse lying on my bed. When I come back, I meet Rafa again. He lets his hand lie on the bottom of my spine and follows me towards the hallway.

      ****

      Rafa

      I’ve