Flick by Abigail Tarttelin

in a beach hut in Montauk, New York, and paint and sculpt like Margaret Kilgallen and Jo Jackson), our favorite Green Day CD ( International Superhits! ) and also how we both have a secret jones for Gregory Peck after watching The Big Country . Then, of course, the most obvious but also most important question, and I’ve been asking everyone this since I was five with no clue as to how I would answer it: “What d’you want to be when you’re older?”
    Rainbow looks to the sea dreamily, already imagining her future, and then a toothy smile slowly spreads across her cheeks and she turns to me. “I want to be an artist.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYeah, a painter, like I said, out in Montauk.”
    â€œIs there a big art community there?”
    â€œNot particularly, but I’d exhibit all over the world.”
    We sit in silence while I think about the sheer enormity of her imagination and dreams and belief that she can make them happen, and wonder whether it’s a state of mind she was born with or whether she’s just had a lot more encouragement in life. She doesn’t seem to be much better off than me. I’ve seen her house (a spying trip with Ash from Ella’s back garden) and it’s not that big, but her family all seem to be working for pleasure rather than money. Perhaps that’s a choice for everyone and I’ve just never thought about it, maybe because I’ve never seen it happen before. I’d ask whether she has the money to not work for a living but I’ve been taught never to talk about money. It’s odd but I’ve always noticed that rich kids will be like, “Oh man, I’m so broke, this is how much I have in my bank account,” etc. and the less well-off know that it’s rude to even mention that kind of stuff. Fucking insensitive bastards. My mind rolls back around to Rainbow and I imagine her in a paint-splashed smock somewhere in the USA, tucking her hair back behind her ears and surveying her work.
    â€œCan you make a living off of that?”
    â€œYeah, of course, it’s hard but people do it every day, in every—well, at least in every free country in the world.” She stops for a moment, then shrugs without sadness, in a practical, even optimistic manner. “And everything’s hard. If you’re gonna try for something, might as well be something you really want.”
    I’ve been watching her out of the corner of my eye the whole time we’re talking. The way her lips move, the strawberry pink of her cheeks, each freckle, and I suddenly know that whatever happens to us in the future, I will remember this girl for the rest of my life, that she will change the way I see the world, and that people like that are hard to find. Practically impossible to find when you’ve known everyone in your life for its entire fifteen-year duration. And then I tell her that I have this strange feeling, like I’m an old man looking back over my life, and I’m watching this young girl as she looks out to sea.
    Rainbow smiles back at me. She nods thoughtfully. “Like On Chesil Beach .”
    â€œLike what?”
    She grins, her lip catching on her tooth. “A book. You should read it.” Her hair whips around her cheeks, both red with the cold, and her eyes look alight and bluer than I’ve ever seen a pair of eyes look, and vulnerable, and honest. She leans into me and whispers to me shyly, but knowingly, “I think it means you like me.” She looks to the water, then turns back to me grinning sweetly, but almost challengingly, like she’s just set a dare, and as we lock gazes her slender arms move slowly, charmingly, to her waist.
    She unbuttons her jeans and drops down to sit on the sand and sheds them like skin. She stands up and her sweater and shirt come off over her head as one, leaving a sheer, pearl-colored tank top and pink French knickers. The top quickly follows