“Liv, you finishing up yet?” Pete shouted from the door, hovering around to lock up.

He’d owned this studio about 10 years and was still the only one with a key, despite the four other artists he allowed inside. Once, I nearly convinced him to give me the spare, but he failed to find it in his bag and he never mentioned the conversation again. So, no matter how long I needed, we had to finish when he said.

My painting was still only a few hours from done, a few more brush strokes and I could finally work out what needs to be adjusted. “It’s only two in the afternoon, you’re meant to be open until five.” I shout back, heading into the main room. “I’m willing to beg, I need to finish today. This woman isn’t just in my head anymore.”

“She’s not real, she never will be. Painting what your head tells you to won’t bring her to life.” Pete scoffed, slumping against the wall.

He was right, painting something didn’t mean it was a real, but something about my painting felt more than a fantasy. I’d dreamt of this woman, that she would be important someday. Memory isn’t meant to last a lifetime, but in my twenty years on earth, I’d spent almost half of it with her face on my mind. From each year since seeing her in my dreams, I’d painted her portrait at least once. She would also be painted in works that involved people, even when I didn’t intend to.

It felt like, somehow, I knew her. I had no idea if she was actually real, or if I’d created her in my head and just felt connected in some way. But I was determined to put the reality or fantasy debate to rest.

“Look, Liv, the studio is open from seven til’ ten tonight. You must be there, well-rested.” He grabbed my bag from the hanger and held it out. “You can continue tomorrow, now let’s go.”

Pete was never going to give in to my constant pushing, but I didn’t intend to give up trying. My frame sunk and I joined him by the door.

-

Gallery viewings were never a favourite of mine and Pete never wanted to hire one out, so instead he would hold his own in the studio. Tickets cost $30 and only 100 were available, all time slotted as well. He oversold it once and no one was able to move. It was the only nights I’d ever see him wearing a suit. He would demand I dress up nice and even take me to shops to ensure I looked the part. One of the guys last near rocked up in a tracksuit and he was never seen again, Pete refused us from mentioning him.

“Brilliant turn out tonight, I’ve already sold half of my goal.” Pete chimed, checking the notes in his hands. “Any luck?”

Like every year, I’d done pretty well for myself and reached three-fourths of my goal. I’d reach to a decent point where I could float and sell the rest later.

I sighed, “I saw something the other day.” His eyes rolled into the back of his head, coming back round to land a glare in my direction. “Mystery man from someone’s writing turned up to his book shop. Imagine if that happened to me?”

He cackled, for a moment I debated if I was face to face with a witch just from the spiteful sound he made. “Olivia, you think too much. You’re not in college, do yourself a favour and forget. You’re going to hit a wall one day and your career will take the toll of it.” He snatched a martini from one of the servers, “Believe me, you will go far if you actually put your mind to it. I’m going to socialise, I suggest you do the same.”

He wanders off into the swarm of people, disappearing within seconds. I didn’t want to socialise, I didn’t even want to spend time here; it was only the promise of free use of the studio that made me attend these things in the first place.

A few people were looking around my section and I decided to return to my corner, hoping my goal would be reached in the next hour and I could go home early.

-

The hour went by fast and as predicted, I’d reached my goal. I grabbed my bag and phone, swiping the studio group chat open. ‘Hey Pete. Hit my goal, heading off. Speak tomorrow.’

There was still an hour of the viewing open and it was still as rammed as it had been from opening. My corner had grown empty and I used it as my time to sneak off. As much as I enjoyed painting, I needed time to myself. Collecting all my things, I just had the clearing to head off.

Suddenly, a female voice came from behind me. “Pardon me, can I ask a question?”

“Of course, how can I help?” I responded, before spinning myself to face the woman.

My jaw dropped. I looked around, her face filled every wall my work was occupying. I was confused, had I imagined a painting was speaking to me? But I couldn’t have, others were reacting to her presence when walking past. She was real.

She looked around then back to me, a small smile grew on her thin lips. “I understand we haven’t met, I’m Heather Ingrid. I’ve seen your paintings, fantastic work. But, I’m curious as to how you’ve been painting my face when we haven’t ever met. Can we talk?”

A lump grew in my throat. I couldn’t even process what was happening. All I could think of was that she was real. She was real and she was stood in a room filled with her face.

She gestured to the chairs in the corner, “Shall we?”