Free Yesterday's Sun by Amanda Brooke

Bronson was to take place at the gallery where Holly exhibited and sold her sculptures. It was a small gallery but ideal for her work, partially because of its prime position and select clientele, and partially because she worked well with the proprietor, Sam Peterson. Sam had been extremely supportive of her fledgling career when she had first arrived in London and had played a large part in Holly’s success as an artist.
    Holly had met Sam through one of the many part-time jobs she had taken after leaving art school. She had worked for a pet-care agency—walking dogs, babysitting rabbits, and, in Sam’s case, feeding his cats while he was away on one of his many tropical holidays with his partner, James. Sam had taken a keen interest in her artwork and had not only encouraged her to keep up with her art after she left college but had eventually offered to exhibit her work in his gallery.
    It was a short journey to the gallery on the Tube and then on through the bustling crowds, but Holly was starting to feel energized by the hustle and bustle. She was wearing a smart fifties-style tunic dress with matching jacket. The outfit was a shade of pale blue that set off her long blond hair, which was swept back off her face with a matching headband. It had been a while since Holly had worn something other than jeans and a T-shirt, and dressing up made her feel part of the crowd again.
    She needed all the energy she could muster, because she was practically running on empty. She had worked nonstop on her designs, sketching into the wee hours of the night with nothing to keep her company except the waning moon, which peeped through the kitchen window like a brooding monster, narrowing its eye in concentration over Holly’s shoulder.
    While she had managed to keep most of the details of her hallucination out of her thoughts, she couldn’t quite erase the picture of Libby from her mind’s eye. She used this to her advantage and breathed new life into the sketches she was creating. At long last, Holly felt a connection with the piece she was trying to create. The downside to this was that she had also somehow developed a connection with Libby. Libby may have only been a figment of her imagination, but she was the first baby that Holly hadn’t been terrified of, the first baby she had wanted to reach out and hold. Libby had sneaked into her heart and there was a part of Holly that almost wished she were real.
    The tinkling of the brass bell over the door announced Holly’s arrival at the gallery, and the expanse of space that greeted her was bright and modern. White walls reflected the natural light streaming into the glass-fronted gallery, while strategically placed spotlights picked up the selection of brightly colored and contrasting art pieces to entice the buyers.
    The receptionist waved to her and picked up the phone, no doubt announcing her arrival to Sam. As Holly waited, she took the opportunity to do a quick stock of the work she had on display and to check out the competition. Holly sold a range of small sculptures through the gallery. Some were figures, others more conceptual, but all had Holly’s distinctive style of mixing contrasting textures and color. Holly’s work seemed to be becoming more commercial and it was the income from this type of work that paid for her and Tom’s luxuries. Holly felt a twinge of disappointment as she noted that only a few pieces of her work were being displayed in this front-of-house section of the gallery.
    “Looking for something?” A soft voice came from behind her. Holly turned around to be greeted by the portly features of a middle-aged man with an obvious obsession for tweed.
    “Hello, Sam,” beamed Holly, giving her old friend a kiss on each cheek. “I was just looking for some art pieces by the up-and-coming artist Holly Corrigan, but for the life of me I can’t see the kind of collection I was hoping for. Keeping them in a darkened room somewhere, are you?”
    “Oh,