Novels by Nick

January arrived without asking anyone's permission.Elena had been told about January in London. Multiple people, at multiple points before she left home, had mentioned January in London with the specific emphasis of people trying to prepare someone for something that couldn't really be prepared for. It's dark, they said. It's cold in a way that gets inside things. One woman at a party the week before Elena left had said, with great seriousness, January in London will test your commitment to everything you thought you believed.Elena had nodded and thought, how bad can it be.Quite bad, it turned out.Not dramatically. Just persistently. The grey was different in January not the layered interesting grey of autumn, the kind she'd drawn in November with some enjoyment. January grey was flat. It sat on the city like a lid and didn't lift and by the third week Elena had started drawing it just to have something to do with the feeling it produced, which wasn't quite depression and wasn't

The Before collection showed in October.One year almost exactly from the Paris trip. One year from Ruth's café and the photographs and the initial and a twenty-year-old with his arm around a woman on a French summer street.The venue was different this time. Not the Volkov Industries showcase space. A gallery in Shoreditch the same part of London where my mother had gone to design school in 1991, a fact I'd discovered three months ago when going through the fellowship archives and had kept to myself until the invitation went out, at which point I'd put it in the programme notes and Camille had called me immediately upon receiving hers."Shoreditch," she said."Yes.""Where she went to school.""Yes."A pause."You absolute" She stopped. "That's beautiful Mara.""Thank you.""Don't tell me you planned it all along.""I planned it from the moment I found out," I said. "Which was three months ago.""So you've been sitting on it for three months.""I needed to make sure the venue was av

The piece started on a Thursday.Not because Thursday was special. Just because that was the morning I came into the studio at six and stood in front of the blank space and the single pin and something in me stopped waiting and started.I'd been carrying it for three weeks. The way I carried things that weren't ready not pushing, just letting it sit in the peripheral vision of my thinking, catching it from the side sometimes when I wasn't looking directly at it. Celestine had told me my mother worked the same way. She'd have something for weeks, she said. Nothing on paper. Then one morning she'd come in and it would all be there.I'd always thought I was impatient.Apparently not.What came out on Thursday morning wasn't a coat.It was a dress. Which surprised me I hadn't worked in dresses much, they required a different kind of thinking, more about the body underneath, less about the armor over it. But this one arrived complete, almost fully formed, the way things occasionally did

She asked about it on a Tuesday.Not the photograph specifically we'd put it in the study, framed, on the shelf with the other photographs, the one of Camille and me at some event years ago, the one of Viktor with his father that Natalia had given him after the trial, the one of Matteo and Aleksandra at the beach last summer covered in sand and completely unbothered by it.My mother's photograph went up between those last two. The one from the Heath, where she was sitting on the ground with her sketchbook, head down, completely elsewhere. Ruth had given me a print. I'd had it framed the same week.Aleksandra noticed it immediately. She noticed everything immediately it was one of the more demanding things about her, this comprehensive attention to any change in any environment she considered hers, which at four years old was essentially everywhere she'd ever been."Who's that," she said, pointing at the Heath photograph."That's my mama," I said.She looked at it for a long moment.

Viktor was in the studio when I got home.Not working. Just sitting on the stool by the worktable with a cup of coffee gone cold beside him, looking at the wall. Matteo's coat. Aleksandra's drawings. The twelve Residue sketches. The new blank space.He heard me come in and turned.Looked at my face.Stood up.I crossed the room and put the photograph on the worktable between us without saying anything.He looked at it.I watched him look.The same process I'd watched all week. The recalibration. The quiet assembly of something from its parts. Except this time it was different this time the thing assembling itself was personal in a way that the merger documents and the board meetings and the legal filings had never quite been, not even at their most personal.He reached out and picked up the photograph.Held it carefully.His jaw moved once."That's her," he said."Yes.""And that's""Yes."He set the photograph down.Pressed both hands flat on the worktable and looked at it lying the

Her name was Ruth Adeyemi.She'd known my mother in London in 1991, the year before Paris the year my mother had been twenty-one and newly arrived from home and working two jobs and spending every free hour in a sketchbook that Ruth said she carried everywhere, even to the Tube, even to the shop, even to the kind of parties twenty-one-year-olds went to in London in 1991 where nobody else was drawing anything.We met at a café in Islington on a Thursday. Ruth was sixty-three, retired now from something in publishing, small and precise with the kind of eyes that had been watching people carefully for a long time and had drawn useful conclusions from it.She'd brought a photograph.Not just one.Six.She put them on the table between us without preamble, the way Celestine had put the Paris photograph down this is what I have, take it and let me look.My mother at twenty-one. My mother at a party, laughing, holding a drink she probably wasn't old enough for in the specific way of someo