Let Me Be Your Truth (Music and Letters Series Book 3)

by Lynsey M. Stewart

  ‘Did I scare you?’

  ‘Can you tell?’ I smiled.

  ‘You’re breathing pattern gave you away,’ he replied as he dropped his bag on the table. ‘You’re new. I haven’t seen you before.’

  ‘My first time. I wanted to see what the art classes were like.’

  ‘You paint?’ he asked. I wanted to hold my hands out to the canvas behind me like a prize on a game show trying to point out the obvious, but something told me he wasn’t a man for jokes. ‘I like to try.’

  ‘I like what you’ve done with my…chest. Particularly defined. In fact, my chest is the only thing you’ve painted,’ he smirked.

  ‘I like chests. I mean I like your chest. No. I mean the tattoos. I like the birds. On your chest.’ I highlighted the words by circling my hands across my own. His eyes followed. His smirk reappeared as I felt around for the dignity I had lost way before I started circling my boobs with my hands.

  He leant against the table, still smirking. ‘If you want to finish the painting, I can make myself available for a private sitting.’

  ‘Oh. Right…Thanks,’ I stuttered, moving backwards away from Danny, creating space between us until I bumped into the painting and felt it clatter from side to side.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, hiding his smile behind his fist.

  ‘My name? Erm…Kate.’

  ‘You’re fucking adorable, Kate,’ he said.

  ‘I am?’

  ‘You don’t think you are?’ he asked, folding his arms. Those arms. Ouch.

  ‘Adorable isn’t a word I would use—’

  ‘I’d use fucking beautiful if I knew you better.’

  I felt my body take a deep breath. A shiver ran down my spine.

  ‘Tell me your story, adorable Kate.’ His words were soft like he knew the struggle was too much, but at the same time, didn’t want to push for the truth. In some ways, his tone was such a stark contrast to the sharp edges of his folded arms.

  ‘My story?’

  ‘We all have them. Our stories are what bring us here,’ he replied.

  Suddenly his words started to click into place. ‘Oh, I’m not here because—’

  ‘Hey, I was just looking for you.’ Ruth came through carrying a vase full of water. ‘I wanted to introduce you to our newest recruit, Kate, but I see you’ve already met.’ Danny looked from Ruth to me with a quick look of confusion.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Kate,’ he said without offering his hand. They were now firmly planted inside the pockets of his jeans as he started to look at me with full suspicion, raised eyebrows and all. ‘So, what does bring you here?’

  ‘I’m hopefully going to do some volunteer work.’

  ‘She is definitely going to do some volunteer work,’ Ruth confirmed with a smile. ‘Maybe we could start with art therapy, and if you want to, we can look into some support sessions. Jamie told me that alongside your social work qualification, you have basic counselling training too.’ Ruth said.

  ‘Social work?’ Danny repeated. His eyebrows shot up as the penny dropped that I wasn’t using the centre as therapy for an addiction. ‘You’re a social worker?’ he asked with a look of disgust.

  ‘Yes, have been for four years now. I love it,’ I smiled tentatively, unsure of how to take the sneer he was giving to the floor but was quite obviously aimed at me.

  ‘That’s great. Another fucking do-gooder around the place. Just what we need.’

  ‘We need someone who has the skills and talents to work here, and Kate fits the bill.’ Ruth’s voice got louder before her smile returned. ‘Take no notice of him, Kate. He takes a while to warm up. Unfortunately.’

  ‘From the painting she’s done tonight, I question your take on skills and talents,’ he replied. ‘But who am I to judge?’ he shrugged.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Ruth chastised. ‘I think you’ve done a beautiful representation, sweetheart. Gorgeous, but I’ll be right back. I just need to make sure everyone has left. Be nice,’ Ruth pointed at Danny as she squeezed my shoulder.

  ‘Why does this place need another social worker? Isn’t one enough?’ he asked as he cocked his head to the door where Ruth had just left.

  ‘You don’t like social workers?’ I replied.

  ‘I don’t like people who think they’re better than everyone else.’

  ‘I don’t think that.’

  ‘Really? OK,’ he huffed sarcastically.

  ‘What’s that for?’ I smiled to cover my nerves.

  ‘You’re wearing heels, your nails are manicured, and your designer handbag is sitting under your easel. You stick out quite a bit here,’ he replied.

  ‘Are you always this rude?’ I self-consciously hid my hands behind my back as Danny stepped away, putting his hands in his back pockets before cocking his head as he viewed my painting. ‘I tried to focus on your sleeve; the shadows in the artwork are breathtaking—’

  ‘Your art is very one-dimensional,’ he said, cutting me off. ‘You need to bring more fire into it. It’s flat. Just sits there. Give it some life and you’d be great.’

  ‘Thanks. I think,’ I smiled before intentionally busying myself by clearing away…nothing.

  ‘I guess you don’t have any fire to put into it?’ he asked. ‘No traumatic stories or past regrets that can inform your work more deeply like the rest of us? Chipping a nail isn’t quite the same, is it?’

  ‘Why are you obsessed with my nails?’ I smiled, trying to break the tension.

  ‘Are you going to be here every week?’ he asked, completely ignoring my attempt to ease the atmosphere around us.

  ‘I’d like to be.’

  ‘Great. Can’t wait,’ he replied, picking his bag off the floor and walking through the doors of the art room, leaving me alone and questioning what on earth had just happened. I felt a familiar twinge of hurt rushing my insecurities to the front of everything, superseding all of the positive experiences from the night.

  Why didn’t he like my painting? Why didn’t he appear to like me?

  ‘Take no notice. He’s a hard nut to crack; believe me. It’s taken me years to get to where I am with him. Don’t take it personally. He called me a fucking cretin when we first met.’ Ruth was leaning up against the doorway. ‘He’s had experiences that have led to him to find it hard to trust. Particularly with social workers.’

  ‘Does he trust you now?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can answer that question. All I can say is that I hope so. But what I do know is that I would love to have you here, Kate. I’ll take anything you can give me. I know you work full time and I don’t want to add any more stress or to the demands that can prove too much sometimes. You tell me what you’re willing to offer and we’ll work things out from there.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I’d love to help out with the art therapy; that’s a big pull for me. But I’d also like to offer some support sessions once a week,’ I offered, crossing my fingers behind my back in the hope that she would agree.

  ‘Art therapy would be a huge help. Counselling support and mentoring we could build up to. Once we know each other a little better, I can think about some clients that I feel you’d gel with. How about that?’ she asked.

  ‘Sounds perfect.’

  I collected my bags and walked out of the front entrance to the car park, but not before walking straight into Danny as he smoked a cigarette, propping himself up with his back against the wall.

  ‘Oh goodness, you scared me,’ I said as I sidestepped him and got a clear amount of space between us.

  ‘Having a smoke,’ he said as he lifted his cigarette. ‘That OK with you?’

  ‘That’s a bad habit. You should think about giving up.’

  ‘It’s an addiction, not a habit,’ he replied firmly as I stepped backwards, even further away from him when I realised what I’d said. He sucked harder on the cigarette.

  ‘I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t think,’ I said.

  ‘You know, I’m be
ginning to wonder what you’re doing here, especially as you don’t engage your brain before you speak. You realise qualifying as a social worker doesn’t make you an art therapist, don’t you?’ He took another drag, the cigarette balancing skilfully between his fingers.

  ‘I’m not trying to be an art therapist.’

  ‘Picking up a paintbrush as a hobby doesn’t turn you into an expert,’ he replied, dragging his gaze down my body.

  ‘I’m well aware of that. I’ll just be helping out with the class next week. I guess I’ll see you then,’ I said, unsure as to why I was announcing my schedule to a man who apparently hated me but appeared to love my bum in this skirt.

  ‘What makes you think I come here for art therapy?’ he asked.

  ‘I just assumed—’

  ‘Fucking hell, you’ve made some pretty big assumptions tonight,’ he said, throwing his cigarette to the floor and stamping on it angrily.

  ‘Ruth may have said something about you being an artist, that’s all, and I know you designed your tattoos yourself. You’re very talented. I think they’re just breathtaking—’

  ‘You don’t know anything about me. Just because you’re some counselling fucking social worker with a painting hobby who thinks that gives them all the answers doesn’t mean you can start making judgements.’ He picked up the rucksack that was leaning on the bench and threw it over his shoulder before striding off down the path without another word or glance, leaving me open mouthed and unsure of what to say or do next.

  Chapter Five

  The driveway seemed to get longer every time I visited my family home. The gravel clattered underneath the tyres of my car, and as the house got bigger, I settled into the familiar feeling of belonging and warmth as I parked the car and saw my mum standing at the door waiting for me.

  ‘Kate!’ She never stopped showing her excitement when I visited, and as she wrapped her arms around me, her smiles and laughter became infectious. ‘You look beautiful; look at that face. I love your jacket.’

  Julie had been destined to be my mother. I felt confident that we were always meant to be part of each other’s lives. That gave me a wonderful sense of security growing up. She was always open with me, even from being the shy one-year-old that she immediately adored and cherished. My adoption wasn’t something to be brushed aside and never to be spoken of again. We talked about it whenever we needed to. It wasn’t awkward. It never felt like it was difficult for her or my adopted father, Alan. It was just part of us.

  My life storybook would sit on the bookshelves in my bedroom. Always accessible. Always seen. As a child, if I wanted to read it to look at the stickers, bright colours and photos, Mum would sit me on her lap and tell me how lovely my tummy mummy looked and how my brown hair was shiny just like hers.

  ‘How are you, Mum?’ I asked as we sat down together in the conservatory. A large table and chairs had appeared since my last visit. Everything was always new.

  ‘I’m all the better for seeing you.’ She pushed my long wavy hair behind my ear and smiled as she took me in. ‘Have you lost weight? You look like you could do with adding a few pounds. I’ll get some cake.’ I looked down my body to make an assessment. I’d always been slim. My legs were long and toned. I liked looking after myself and exercised regularly because it allowed me to eat what I wanted. My boobs were always in the just a handful range, which suited me fine. The push up bra was my favourite invention as it gave me a little help to define what little I’d got.

  ‘How are things going at the centre?’ Her voice carried as she came back with a tray of muffins, probably delivered fresh that morning. ‘Tell me all about it,’ she said, taking my hands in hers.

  I talked to Mum about pretty much everything, so when I started at Goldenwell’s, she was the first person I called when I began doubting myself. She always saw the light in every situation and encouraged me to give it a try before letting my anxieties creep in. She was still holding onto my hands as I told her about the art class and the bad start with Danny.

  ‘Try not to take it personally. From what you’ve said about him, it seems he’s had a rough start. I guess that his experience with social workers in the past hasn’t always been positive, and sometimes it’s hard for people to change their perceptions. I’m sure once he gets to know you, he’ll see what a lovely, genuine person you are. Give him time.’ Mum was my biggest fan; she had my paintings hanging in every room in the house and would always point them out to her friends. One Christmas, I was commissioned to do a painting for her great aunt. She never let me forget it.

  Mum and Dad had worked for everything. The house, the cars, clothes to last them for the rest of their lives, and a pretty impressive jewellery collection consisting of Chanel brooches and Cartier leopards. Mum alternated them on jumpers she bought on eBay. ‘So cheap, darling, but such good quality.’ Mum had been a designer working for a well-known Nottingham fashion house, and Dad was an engineer at Rolls Royce. Mum would always say that they had the money to buy everything but little of anything that mattered. The designer lifestyle meant nothing to them when they couldn’t have their own child. Mum would have happily shipped off the contents of their house to the local charity shop if she could exchange them for working fallopian tubes.

  ‘Have you tried talking to Danny?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s not really a talker,’ I mumbled.

  ‘He must be if he’s having counselling.’

  ‘Maybe it’s just me he doesn’t talk to.’

  She traced her thumb down my forehead. ‘Tell me what’s causing that deep worry line to scream out at me.’

  I smiled because she only had to take one look at my face to be able to assess my mood. In fact, she could do it over the phone. ‘I guess I’m just anxious. I want to prove myself. I want to do well.’

  ‘Kate, you’ve always doubted yourself. For as long as I can remember, you’ve always wanted people to like you, accept you. Not everyone will.’ She reached for a glass and poured out some water from a large jug. ‘When you chose social work as a profession, I was so worried.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I knew that your title would immediately make people either wary of you or hate you. I worried about how you would cope with that,’ she replied.

  ‘I’m fine. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘You try to hide your feelings. Always have. Even that very first night when we brought you home. You smiled constantly and made us laugh by falling back onto your bottom and clapping your hands along to nursery rhymes. You must have been terrified, brand new house, new people looking after you, still, you put on that smile. I’ve known you long enough now to know it masks a lot.’ She took my hand. ‘There are parts of you that we would never be able to change. Your birth family and your early life experiences have left a fingerprint, and although it wasn’t always positive, they have had a hand in making you you.’ She sighed deeply. ‘I’m not explaining this well. When we went through our preparation to become adoptive parents, they told us that some children display their hurt and frustration through challenging behaviour, but others can become quiet and withdrawn. People pleasers. That was and still is you. You were always an angel. Never did or said anything wrong but you were desperate for people to like you. Your anxiety bubbled, and you learned to tame your opinions until they just didn’t seem to matter to you anymore.’ She took my chin in her fingers. ‘But they matter, Kate. So much.’

  I swallowed a hard sob and brought my fingers up to cover my eyes. ‘Thank you.’ Mum always had a way of making me feel like I mattered, but as soon as I left her side, those feelings gently started to slip away and trail behind me, no matter how hard I tried to hold onto them with my fingertips.

  ‘How are the girls?’ Mum was never more alive than when she was with people. She loved my friends, quickly welcoming Abi, Elle and Gem into the family, and later welcoming Ben, and Jamie.

  ‘They’re good. Everyone apart from Gem is loved up and happy. It’s sickening.’


  ‘And what about you? Tell me how things are with Steve. Can I buy a hat yet? Order the wedding invites?’ Her attempt at sarcasm didn’t go unnoticed.

  ‘No, don’t get ahead of yourself.’

  ‘I can’t help it; the excitement’s rolling off you in waves. When you talk about him, you get this faraway look in your eyes. I’m not sure if it’s love or boredom.’ She winked as I tried to hold in a smile. Mum knew that I wasn’t in a relationship that shook the earth off its axis.

  When I was eighteen and my first relationship fizzled out quicker than a dodgy Catherine wheel on a rainy bonfire night, Mum gave me a photo album filled with letters and notes that my dad had written to her when they first started seeing each other. They were beautifully written, heartfelt, sentimental and a wonderful way of highlighting their journey together from the very beginning. In the front of the album, she had written: Dear Kate, May you find your own soulmate. You deserve everything that I’ve had and more. Never settle for second best. Yours, Mum. I keep it at the back of my wardrobe. After numerous relationships that could only be described as ‘an OK way to pass the time’, I viewed that album as casting a curse on every relationship I’d ever had, zapping them of all passion and desire and leaving me gasping for excitement.

  ‘I’m going to say two words to you and leave it there.’ I snorted into my hand as I rested it on my chin. Mum had never just said two words and left it there. ‘Never settle, Kate. You’re worth more than that.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Steve was bearing down on me but looking into the duvet to avoid my face. This had become an all too familiar disappointment, but tonight I didn’t feel anything but relief. ‘I don’t know what’s happening to me,’ he said as I pushed my hands against his shoulders. He rolled off, allowing me to grab my dressing gown and quickly cover myself. I wasn’t familiar with the feelings of guilt sitting heavy at the bottom of my stomach. They had been increasing in number and size every day until I was at the point where I wasn’t able to ignore them anymore. I was leading him on. My love for him was nothing but convenient and practical, but who the hell wants practical when it comes to love?