by J Wells
He grins. “You may not like it, but it will help.”
“No, Gabriel, I really don’t think anything will.”
I place the empty glass on the table, sliding it towards him.
He lifts it. “Another?”
“Yes, and have one yourself.”
“Not sure I fancy one.”
I throw my hand against my hip and sit up straight.
“Don’t you know it’s rude to let a lady drink alone?”
“Well, I’m not one for being rude, so if you insist.”
He pushes his chair from the table and stands; I reach over and grab his arm.
“How about you make mine a double?”
“How about no, not with you driving home.”
“I’m not in the habit of drinking and driving.”
He frowns and I smile.
“No car, so no worries there; Danielle dropped me off. To be honest I was hoping you’d let me crash here for the night and I could catch a lift back in the morning with Dad.”
I watch his thumb make a path through his stubble as he scratches his face.
“No problem about staying, you can take my bed.”
“So…” I pause. “Am I allowed another drink?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He salutes with a smirk.
I’m left alone as he makes his way to the kitchen. Josh has sent two texts to check that I got home okay. I roll my eyes, slide my finger and delete the messages. I can hear Gabriel rummaging around in the cupboards. I push my shoulders back; I’m bored of sitting and decide to have a wander.
To the far end of the sideboard leaning against the wall are four framed paintings partially covered by individual cotton sheets. I lift the corner of the one closest to me; it’s a dark charcoal sketch of a middle-aged lady. Her hair is scraped back, making her face look pixie-like. I pull the canvas forward, leaning it against my hip, and lift the sheet behind.
I grin down into a face I know so well.
“Hello, sis.”
He’s got her features pretty much spot on, though I can see her right cheek needs work and there’s still more shading to be done around her hairline. I wish her face wasn’t only a picture, because after tonight I can’t wait to see her; she just knows me so well and will know what to say.
“Goodbye for now,” I mutter under my breath, leaving the sheet to conceal her from sight.
I shuffle and move my feet apart, as the two frames are quite weighty against my thigh. I turn my head but there’s no sign of Gabriel, so I decide to have a nosey at just one more. I only intend to take a quick peek, that is, until I lift the sheet. My mouth drops open. Oh my God, the woman’s topless! I see that she’s also heavily pregnant and smiling; her fingers are positioned against her stomach in such a way that they depict a heart.
“Enjoying yourself?”
I gasp, my head shoots round, I drop the sheet and push all four portraits back against the wall.
“Sorry,” I stutter. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“No, why would I?”
He places our glasses of whisky on the table.
“I’d like to offer you somewhere comfier to sit, but I’m afraid this is as good as it gets.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I’ve seen your lounge. I don’t fancy spending the night sitting on that rowing machine.”
“It used to be a lounge when my dad and grandparents were alive, and I kept it that way for a good few years. I had a settee and a decent-sized telly; I’d enjoy watching the sport for a couple of hours before bed. But with my sight getting worse I found I wasn’t watching but squinting. The flashing lights and colours gave me headaches.” He rubs his hand across his forehead. “About eighteen months ago I sat down with a beer to watch Nottingham Forest play, but I only managed the first five or ten minutes of the match before my eyes started hurting so much I just couldn’t watch any more. It was a local game I’d been looking forward to all day; I lost it and launched a bottle of beer at the screen.”
“That was a pretty dumb ass thing to do.”
“Yeah, you’re telling me, because it takes a lot for me to lose my temper. I don’t usually get mad, but it wasn’t just the football that got under my skin, it was how bad my eyes were getting. To be honest I think I was in denial, told myself there was no way I had the same condition as my dad.” He shakes his head. “I’ve never replaced the telly and a few weeks later I turned the lounge into a gym and music room.”
I take a step forward, and the floorboards creak.
“She’s watching you, you know.”
Feeling unnerved, I look round. Seeing no one, I frown.
“Who?”
He points. I glance up and smile.
“Monet, ‘The Reader’. Very funny.”
“She keeps her eye on me and Mr Pooch most nights.”
“Talking of Mr Pooch, where is she? Is she out hunting?”
I think of Mum and Dad’s old cat, Tabitha; she slept all day but we could never keep her in at night. There were many mornings I came down for breakfast and there was a half-eaten mouse or bird on the mat in the kitchen. Probably one of the reasons I never had a cat myself.
I make my way back towards the table where Gabriel is already sitting; he flicks peanuts into his mouth from a small crock bowl.
“No, she’s a house cat; she’ll be asleep, same place she sleeps every night.”
He walks his fingers across the tabletop, edging the bowl towards me.
“Nuts?”
Sitting beside him, I grin and push the bowl away.
“No ta, not after what Dad told me about peanuts when he came home from the pub.”
He screws up his face.
“Blokes going for a slash after downing a pint, they hardly ever wash their hands; they’d come out the toilet and dip their fingers straight in the bowl.” I cringe. “I used to like them until he told me that.”
“Nice, but I hope you’re not insinuating that’s something I do?”
I bite down on my lip. “Well, you’re a bloke and that’s all I’m saying.”
I lift my glass but it doesn’t make my lips before Gabriel chinks his own glass against it.
“Here’s to being single, to life, and here’s for it getting a lot better for the both of us.”
We toast; I take a sip while he downs the whole glass.
“Arrrrgh!” His face contorts.
I twirl my hair between my fingers. “What’s so bad about your life?”
“You have my eyes and then ask me that question.”
I bury my face inside the rim of my glass. “Suppose I just didn’t think about your sight.”
“That’s the problem, not many people do. I had a job three years ago. Do you mind?” He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his joggers.
“No, go ahead.”
He strikes a match and lights up.
“I thought painting was your job.”
He takes a couple of long draws, blows rings of smoke away from me, then douses more than half of the un-smoked cigarette into his empty glass.
“It is now, though it was more of a hobby back then.”
“What was your job?”
He exhales, shaking his head. “You really don’t want to know.”
“I do.”
“There was nothing exciting about it; it wasn’t like I was a doctor or brain surgeon. I was just a bloke, Mr Average who sat in an office on a chair.”
“Doing what?”
A grin manifests itself on his face. “You must have had one of those calls, you know, when there’s an annoying fucker at the end of the line trying to sell you some kind of shit that you don’t want to buy.”
I nod.
“Well, that was me, stuck in front of a computer screen, nine till five-thirty, five days a week. It bored the crap out of me.”
“Take it that’s the reason you left?”
“No.” He points to his eyes. “I told the bosses I had trouble with my sight, but they just told me to s
ee an optician and get another pair of glasses. I did as they asked, but nothing made much difference. The management called me into the office and said that my eyes were just an excuse not to do a good day’s work and I was lazy. Anyway, not to bore you, I messed up an order and cost the company a lot of money. I’m still getting letters from their solicitors; they’re on about taking me to a tribunal to claim the money back, and if that were to happen I’d be bankrupt … I could lose everything.”
I cross my feet under the table and lean back.
“Surely they knew about your condition?”
He picks up the last couple of peanuts and sits chewing.
“Not when I started the job. I didn’t know myself; it just kind of crept up on me. It was always worse when I first got up and probably till around mid-morning, then over the next few hours I’d notice it start to improve. I put it down to short-sightedness and not wearing the right prescription glasses. I was only diagnosed with Fuchs Dystrophy a little over two years ago. So there’s the problem; all my past records have to be checked and verified for the case against me to be dropped. It feels like I never quite know what’s going to happen.”
He pushes the chair back and crosses his arms.
“People see me going about my daily business, doing all the things that every other person does; because I don’t walk round with a white stick and advertise the fact, I guess they don’t think I have a problem. When I’m out walking and trip up a kerb or an uneven paving stone, people call out ‘drunk’ and laugh, but losing my footing is down to depth perception.” He shakes his head. “And I’m losing mine fast.”
“Wow, now that’s deep.” I gaze into my empty glass, which I must have sipped at unknowingly. “How about another whisky?”
“Can’t say I’m struck on the stuff myself, and it’s making me feel sick.”
He leaves the table and opens the door of the sideboard.
“Red it is,” he says, pulling out a bottle.
“I’ll get the corkscrew from the kitchen, if you like?”
“No need, screw top.”
“If you think I’ve got it bad, you should have known my dad. God, did he suffer with his eyes. He went to appointment after appointment, but it took years to finally get a diagnosis. He not only had Fuchs, but also the worse kind of cataracts, and eventually his sight got so bad that he qualified for a cornea transplant.”
“But surely that’s what he wanted, the answer to his problems?”
“You would have thought so, but it wasn’t as simple as that. He had the operation, but the transplants didn’t take and his eyes rejected them. He had to wait for a suitable donor to become available. It was an awful time for him; his blood pressure rocketed, it was sky high, and he was stressed beyond belief. They said his heart attack would have happened no matter what, but honestly, Natasha, I beg to differ.”
I hear his feet shuffle on the floor.
“So this is where I’m at now; my Fuchs is becoming much harder to live with, and although I can still see okay-ish, I’ve had a letter through saying that I qualify for the operation.”
I lean towards him.
“And if you have it, what will that mean?”
“Well, if it’s successful it means I’ll have perfect vision.”
I grab his hands between mine. “Gabriel, that’s great.”
He snatches them away. “I’m not sure. After Dad I just don’t trust the doctors; I think sometimes it’s better the devil you know.”
“That’s ridiculous. Your dad had a heart attack; you’re young, and there’s nothing wrong with your heart.”
“Fuchs is hereditary, and I’ve been lucky enough to inherit it, luckier still at a much earlier age.”
I could literally cut the air with his sarcasm.
“So who knows? Could be just my luck that I’ve inherited his dicky heart, too.”
“For God’s sake, Gabriel, that’s paranoia.”
“Call it what you want, but I’m scared.” He scrapes his fingers through his hair. “No, scared doesn’t do it justice, I’m fucking terrified.”
The air feels so thick it’s hard to breathe. We’ve finished our second bottle of wine and are both staring into space, two kindred spirits, tortured souls that words can’t help. Clenching my fists I think of Josh before snapping myself from my mind’s tormented carousel.
Either the room’s swaying or I am. Fuck Josh. I’m going to give him and Michelle a wedding present to remember me by. I launch to my feet, my hands steadying me against the table.
“Come on, Gabriel, paint me, paint me like the other women you’ve painted.”
He looks up from his thoughts. “Not now, I’ve already painted you.”
“Not like this you haven’t.”
I grab either side of my dress by the hem; the black lycra is so tight I literally have to drag it up the length of my body and wriggle to get it over my head. My hair’s a joke with static, and it seems to have gained a mind of its own. Then with the flick of my finger I undo the clips of my bra and it falls between my feet.
“Now come on, Gabriel, paint me like this.”
He holds up his hands. “Woah, Natasha!”
He bends down, feeling round in front of him, and then throws my dress into my arms.
“Put your clothes back on.”
“Why? And what does it matter? You can’t see me, well, not properly.”
He covers his eyes with his forearm.
“Believe me, I can see enough.”
“Get me a consent form, I’ll sign it, whatever, just paint me.”
“I can’t,” he mumbles from the confines of his arm.
“Surely you’re not that drunk?”
I lift the bottle of red by its neck and gulp it down as if it were water.
“No, I’m not drunk. Believe me, it’d take a lot more than a whisky and a couple of glasses of wine.”
“Stop stalling then and paint me.”
I grab his wrist, trying to pull it clear of his face, My intention is to drag him into the conservatory, but he refuses and flicks my fingers away.
I huff. “You coming or what?”
“No.” He sits further back in his chair. “I can’t!”
“Why not? Didn’t you say a body was no different to a china vase?” I push my chest out.
“You paint other women like this, so why not me?”
He lowers his forearm away from his eyes.
“Because...” He clears his throat. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever painted, not like anyone I’ve ever met. I don’t look at your body and see a vase, an inanimate object; when I look at you I see a woman, a beautiful work of art. If I have to run my hands over you, over your breasts to paint you, I’ll want so much more.”
Feeling uneasy and rather more naked than I did a couple of moments ago, I drape my dress across my bare chest and clamp it in place with my elbows.
“Gabriel, what are you saying?”
His fingers search out mine, and he holds them gently. His broad chest rises as he takes a deep breath.
“Don’t get mad with me, but I never needed you all the times you came here and sat for me.”
“So you’re telling me I came every day for three damn weeks for nothing?”
He smirks. “It was just an excuse to get you here. From the day of your first sitting I only had to close my eyes to see your face, and you were there in front of me. I’ve mapped out every inch of your face so vividly in my mind.”
He reaches towards me; I back off, but not quite far enough to prevent his index finger sweeping across my cheek.
“Perfect no.” He shakes his head. “But you’ve no need to be, because I love every one of them.”
I frown.
“I love them all, every one of your perfect imperfections.”
He pulls me back down, this time not onto my chair but onto his lap. His finger settles on my chin, and he tilts my face up towards him. His lips are so close that when I take a breath I can alm
ost taste his.
“I know you’re hurting,” he whispers, placing a soft kiss on the tip of my nose. “I think it’s probably best you put your dress on. There will be no painting here tonight.”
“You like me,” I hiccup, holding my mouth. “I’m impartial, but I guess you’re not bad looking.” My head sways from side to side. “Nice hair, but it’d be better if you dropped the sarcasm. Hey-ho, I’m single, I’m free.”
I sling my dress off my lap, try to get up, trip and slide onto the floor, rocking on my knees.
“Come on, Gabriel.” I wrap my arms around his legs. “Take me to bed.”
“My head,” I groan, and attempt to lift my hand to my forehead, but it’s trapped.
I squint, without allowing too much light to get into my eyes. An arm is draped heavily round my shoulder. I wriggle to free myself, but Gabriel’s lying behind me, spooning me, and has managed to wrap his arms and legs around me in such a way that I’m unable to move. Suddenly, I’m wide awake; there’s something hard poking into the lower half of my back. With widening eyes I peer behind; Gabriel’s face is mere inches away. He rolls forward, and with our bodies interlinked I have no other option than to roll with him. There’s a noticeable change in his breathing, and he murmurs. God, he’s waking up. I feel so awkward I’ve almost forgotten my throbbing head. His chin dips into my neck.
“Nice to see you’re back in the land of the living.”
His arms around me loosen, and free of restraint I turn over to face him and glance down below the covers. A candy-striped pillow separates us, and thankfully that’s what I felt digging into my back.
“How did I get here?”
I shuffle away to the far side of the mattress. He stretches his arms above his head and yawns.
“You passed out, so I carried you up here. One problem though, I’ve only got one bed and I didn’t fancy taking the floor. I thought you’d feel awkward being so close to me, so I pushed a pillow between us. I hope you don’t mind.”
My eyes bypass the pillow. “How did I get into your T-shirt?”
