Picture perfect, p.1
Picture-Perfect, page 1
“Be brave enough to live creatively. The creative is the place where no one else has ever been. You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. You cannot get there by bus, only by hard work, risking and by not quite knowing what you are doing. What you will discover will be wonderful: Yourself.” – Alan Alda
Copyright © 2022 Sacha Kurucz
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Paperback ISBN: 9798358283497
Hardcover ISBN: 9798361191277
Original novel released in February 2018 and re-released November 2022.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Cover art from Freepik
Layout by Sacha Kurucz
Reprinted by permission.
Printed by Amazon in the UK.
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39 (PART 1)
CHAPTER 39 (PART 2)
CHAPTER 39 (PART 3)
CHAPTER 40
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Let’s Get Social
Picture-Perfect
SACHA KURUCZ
Secret artist, Layla Griffiths, has had enough. She's had enough of her stressful job, her jaded romance with Tony Granger and the somewhat tense relationship with his interfering family. She finds her only solace from it all in the pages of fantasy novels and in the brushstrokes of a painting. But Layla doesn't yet know that her ordinary life is about to be swiftly upended, and only she can choose how to fill in what's been erased.
So, with a splash of hope, a scattering of chance and a palette full of risk, she decides to sketch herself a whole new world.
Unbelievably, everything starts to change and she can't believe her luck, especially in her illustrious new role, working with Benjamin Turner - one of her favourite mystical writers - on the art for his latest book. As promising as it all seems, though, this new world doesn't come without its emotional consequences, and it is these serendipitous events that will make or break it all.
Layla has never been able to find what she's been looking for, until now...
This is her remarkable story. One of courage, inspiration and love.
PROLOGUE
Christmas Day 2016
Snow had begun to daintily drop on the ledge of the outside window, making its grand gossamer entrance with pure elegance. One minute it was clear, the next, the outside world was white. I watched it pour from the sky, like icing sugar sifted from a cloud, and relished in its beauty from the inside of my toasty home.
Those around me were relishing a different toasty view, as they rubbed their hands together in front of the log-fire and used the heat from their mulled wines to surge themselves with warmth. The clinking of glasses and happy chatter made me smile.
My gaze turned to the paintings on the wall, with their golden frames working like mirrors to reflect the log fire’s sparking cinders. Then, to the presents that lay underneath the towering pine tree scattered with shining metallic baubles. A rectangular-shaped gift enveloped in scarlet-sheen wrap caught my eye. It was not under the tree, but just to the back of it.
‘How had I missed this one?’ I thought to myself.
On it was a label which I peered over to look at.
“For your Renaissance” it read.
The message reminded me of how - once upon a time - a love like this was so far from any reality I could achieve.
It felt like forever ago to reflect on the woman whose past relationship had reduced her to wondering her own worth. If partnerships could be compared, that former one was like a rickety chair. No matter how many unique ways you tried to fix it, it would still inevitably fall apart. But, in addition to that, imagine if that chair could talk. If it told you every so often that the reason it was broken was because of you. Those years with him were just like that, and whilst they were long gone, they were also never forgotten.
My reminiscence was soon broken by the chipper presence of those around me. I was offered a drink of eggnog and comical discussions about how some of our guests’ Christmas jumpers were embellished with temptingly squeezable shapes. As much as humour and shiny objects always were a welcome distraction, I’d taken it upon myself to sort out the Christmas karaoke. The guests seemed to be enjoying the festivities, so I returned to fiddle with our sound system, occasionally sipping my sweetly spiced drink in-between the gaps of my guesswork.
Those few intricate moments stitched themselves in my mind’s eye - a snapshot to remember. A life I wanted to capture forever. Everything about it was so beautiful because I knew what they all stood for, why they were all there.
And I thought to myself, ‘So much has changed...’
CHAPTER 1
When Autumn Met Winter, 2014
There’s something rather therapeutic about cooking. You can whip up a little bit of imagination in a bowl, ogle it as it crisps itself to golden perfection and immerse yourself in delight when you and those around you can finally enjoy it. It’s an all-around sensual pleaser. And whilst it may have taken me a while and be done after a long and busy day, there was nothing I wanted more than to make him happy.
“This Mexican-style chicken is amazing, babe!”
I hated being called babe, though.
But Tony Granger was my boyfriend. I wasn’t going to correct him. After nearly two years of being together, I’d have thought that he’d have realised all of the little things I didn’t like by now. I always took note of his.
“I’m glad you like it.’ I replied, timidly. “I remembered you saying it was something you wanted to try.”
He was still wearing his hat at the dinner table. It was some ridiculous black and white cap with a racing logo that made him look about ten years old.
“I wish you could cook for me all the time, Layla.” Tony muttered through a mouth stuffed with chicken. He lightly sprayed herbs onto the glass table as he complimented my work. I was surprised he managed to verbalise anything, eating at that speed.
I smiled back at him and attempted to keep my niggling thoughts away from my mind’s ‘exit’ door, hoping that they wouldn’t escape as tactless words. Today was not the day for them.
It was Tony’s 30th birthday. After spending a pleasant August day at Brand’s Hatch, watching some speed-wagons drive into each other, I continued to be a “good girlfriend” and sat back in silence on the journey home as he turned off my music in place of listening to some daft hip-hop nonsense. I was in a state of inner-conflict. Whilst I wanted to make him happy on the one hand, the truth of the matter on the other was that I wasn’t as happy as I should’ve been. I wanted to be. I really did. But it had become undeniably hard. I thought that those feelings were of my error - that maybe I was shallow for holding such mixed thoughts of negativity in my head. After all, he was being okay…today.
Aware of how rare these moments were, I attempted glee through forced smiles, in hope that it’d somehow magically make me feel the same inside. A bit like when you don a pair of shorts in early spring, thinking it’ll encourage the sun to penetrate the cold. It doesn’t. But, for a short and seldom time, you feel as though you have some kind of control over the situation.
After finishing his food, Tony lay on the sofa in a heap, massaging his newly rotund belly. As he nursed the Mexican chicken digesting inside of him, he turned on the T.V., leaving me to clear up on my own. I blew out the candles on the table and went into the kitchen to start washing up. Was I surprised he didn’t even offer to help as a gesture of thanks? Not really. Again though, I felt bad complaining on his birthday. So I carried on with a strained smile, singing a soft ballad in the kitchen to keep myself company.
“You know,’ I heard Tony bellow from the lounge. “If you had some singing lessons, you might sound better.”
A sting went through my chest. I forgot I was dating Simon Cowell.
Through gritted teeth and tested patience, I resisted responding. But I also ceased to sing. At that moment, I supposed silence was golden.
That night I lay in bed wide-awake whilst Tony spooned my foetal-positioned body. Thankfully, he was too full for any other kind of ‘present’ and fell asleep fairly swiftly.
I was left to be at peace with my thoughts, wondering who the man was that had his hands wrapped around me, breathing onto my neck.
Once upon a time, I used to know him so well. But that man seemed to be a distant memory. The man I fell for had a zest for life, a passion for the unique and would endlessly surprise me with his spontaneity. Now though, there was only his shell. Whatever dwelled beneath the skin that I used to admire no longer seemed to exist. I missed the old Tony - the one that went to pop concerts with me and swept me off to the theatre to appreciate magical plays. I missed the one that went for night drives to the hills with me and lay on a blanket watching the stars. I remembered us contemplating life, whilst merrily eating oversized marshmallows like excitable children. Those memories made me smile.
I turned towards him, thinking I’d see the same face that once glistened under the milky light of the moon, only to witness him lying there with his mouth semi-agape and a bit of drool cascading his bottom lip.
It was hopeless reverie.
With that dream shattered, I carefully unwound myself from his touch and went to retrieve a paperback from the bookshelf in the lounge. I hoped that a mythical story of adventure and heroism would prove a worthy distraction from my undesired thoughts, and that, eventually, I’d be able to fall asleep without them bleating away.
And as my stale reality continued on, reading fantasy became my salvation.
CHAPTER 2
As the autumnal months drifted into more wintry weathers, organising outdoorsy escapades proved a challenge. Nevertheless, I am a woman who likes a challenge. So I dug my way through the internet, like a dog seeking a bone, in the hope that if I found a good outing in London then maybe it would trigger Tony’s interest. To my amazement, I found something.
“Oh, wow! Guess who’s at the Apollo theatre in London on Thursday?’ My voice was slightly shaky with excitement as I found out that my favourite fantasy writer, Benjamin Turner, was going to be doing a live reading and follow up on his previous books. “Tony, we should go. Maybe we can finally do the Q&A about his last book with the cliffhanger ending?”
Surprisingly, it was Tony who’d initially got me into his writing. Although Tony himself wasn’t an avid reader, he would always give something a chance if his friend, Simon, thought it was the bee’s knees, and when I found it by his bedside and started reading the first few pages, I couldn’t put it down. Ever since then, I’d been devoted to his work - especially of late. The escapism this genre had provided me put my mind at so much ease that it enabled me to feel more excited about life again. This catharsis resulted in my eagerness to persevere with our relationship. If only the same could have been said for Tony.
“That sounds cool, babe. But I was going to tinker with the car that evening.’ Not one fibre of his body moved when he finally replied to me. “You know it’s the only day this week I can fit the coilovers, since I’m with Kevin and Dad this weekend fishing.”
He didn’t even sound bothered as he turned down my proposition.
Benjamin wrote such fantastic, jaw-dropping, hard-hitting and mystifying reads that always left you wanting more, and I couldn’t imagine how Tony could pass up a chance like this just to “tinker with his car”.
As a rule, I wouldn’t have objected to a car needing to be fixed. But, every time I’d suggested something to him recently he’d put an object in the way, usually in the shape of his VW Polo. If there was such a thing as a Black-Market for cars, I was sure that was where he’d picked up that health-hazard on wheels from. He was constantly fiddling with it. He’d spent the majority of his savings on it after he’d written off his previous Corsa by wrapping it around a tree. I still remember the evening that happened and his slurring phone call to me in the midnight hours, explaining how it wasn’t his fault. But instead of saying what I was thinking, I let it go. That seemed to be a running theme with me lately. I’d learnt that my thoughts on matters like that usually went down badly, so it was best to say nothing. Instead, I attempted to think of ways to bring us closer together, then maybe he’d be less angry and I’d be happier? Isn’t that what love is - to not give up when the going gets tough?
“Can the car not wait a little longer for its springs?” I asked meekly, a pleading smile drawn on my face as I peered over at him from the laptop.
“Babe, the car’s on its last legs with the cut springs. It’s dangerous. I can’t take anyone in it in that state, especially now the weather’s getting colder. If anything happens then I’ll only have myself to blame. It’s a priority. I’m sorry.’ He continued to stare vacantly into his mobile from his sunken spot on the sofa, before adding. “Why don’t you go solo? Or see if Sara will go with you?”
I internalised the thought I wished I could have said out loud. ‘If you’d bought a decent car, I wouldn’t need to bother Sara.’
Sara Bellamy was my best friend. Ever since her dog managed to circle its lead around my bicycle and I went flying like Supergirl over the handlebars, we had been in each other’s lives. The landing was neither heroic nor graceful, but no bones were broken and Sara’s profuse apology inevitably made us friends for life. However, we couldn’t be more different. As fun-loving and as bold as she was, she hated books about fantasy. It was rather ironic. Though, she did adore the workings of erotic literature (especially the hunky boss meets sweetly angelic girl types) so I doubted she’d want to come with me. It was Tony who was mutually invested in his work. Not Sara.
“I just thought that it’d be nice if we went together, since you also like his books. But, I understand if the car needs work. I’ll talk to Sara.”
I wasn’t going to talk to Sara.
One of the things that made me fall in love with Tony in our early years was his power of invention and caprice. He had such a wild imagination in his younger days.
He once told me that, when he was a young boy, he’d configured an imaginary world that only consisted of his favourite people and things inside of it. Much like a Pixar movie, there were towers of syrupy waffles as big as skyscrapers and giant pterodactyl-type creatures that would fly around and observe the magical world below. When life became tough, this was the place he would visit in his mind to gather strength again.
Upon reflection, it sounds a little naïve and silly, but it was this creative spirit that intrigued me. It was also the same creativity that made him interested in the same kind of reading material as me. Finding a guy like that, in my world, truly was a feat.
By day, I worked in car sales, and most of my colleagues would’ve rather talked boobs than books. Not that I’m a prude, I am not averse to boob chat, but if it’s the exclusive topic of conversation then my ears will cave in on themselves. My point was it was this unique spirit that separated Tony from any other guy I’d met or was surrounded by day-to-day. He was special, because he had a rare and mutual love for something I did, too, and we could explore that creative wondering together.
…At first anyway.
I looked at the ticket to Benjamin Turner’s reading, as it sat aimlessly in my internet basket.
“Buy me…” it beckoned from the screen.
Of course, it didn’t really do anything. My mind was working overtime; creating a narrative for an inanimate bunch of cyber cells all floating about in a chasm of technological worlds. But still, one thing that couldn’t be disputed was that something inside me was yearning to go, even if that did mean going alone.
I glanced back at Tony, his concentration fully on the phone in his hand. My heart remained in my mouth as I slowly looked back at the glowing screen, biting my lip.
It was now or never.
CHAPTER 3
I recalled the image of my work desk from the first day on the job. Back then, it was a crisp, pine office unit. There was a matte-black telephone and a tidily organised business card stack on top, which rested adjacent to my shiny, toblerone-shaped name placard. With pride, I sat there, gleaming at it and vowed that I would maintain its immaculate appearance no matter what.
