by Lia Weston
‘Two things, actually.’ I swing my backpack around to my side and unzip it. ‘Firstly, I wanted to give you these.’ I pull out a hessian-wrapped bundle of white flowers – don’t ask me what they are; I have no idea – and hand them over.
‘Oh!’ June peers into the depths of the bundle. ‘Ranunculus, wow.’ (There you go.) ‘Low-scent flowers. You remembered.’
I didn’t, but hurray. I make a note to do a stencil piece for the florist. She had a Namibian flag tattoo. I wonder if she’d like a chain of desert elephants.
I realise June is waiting for something. Oh, right. The other bit.
‘Secondly I wanted to apologise for what I did. You didn’t deserve that. On any level.’ I zip my bag back up. ‘And the timing was pretty shit too.’
‘I’ll say,’ says June.
‘So, yeah. I’m really sorry.’
‘Well, thank you.’ She picks at the string holding the hessian wrap together. ‘And I probably shouldn’t have told people you were doing something you weren’t.’
‘You were trying to help me.’
She shrugs and gives a half-smile.
A flock of swallows swims into the sky.
‘Um,’ says June, rubbing the end of the string, ‘is this . . . I mean, are you apologising because . . . you want to get back together?’
‘Don’t panic, that’s not why I’m here.’
She looks so relieved it’s almost insulting.
‘I honestly just wanted to say sorry. Besides,’ I say, ‘you know I’m no good for you. You need someone more –’
‘Normal?’
‘Well, I was going to say “fun”, but okay.’
‘You can be fun, in your own way,’ says June. ‘We had that sleepover at the zoo, remember?’
It was for our one-year anniversary. I remember that June was equally thrilled by the baby giraffe and the buffet breakfast, and how cute I thought that was. It’s nice to remember the moments where everything was good, even after it all goes bad.
‘Junie?’ A guy with curated stubble sticks his head out the front door. ‘We need to be there at five-thirty. Do you want me to get your dress off the line?’
‘I’ll be there in a moment,’ says June, smiling back at him. The guy gives me a casual, ‘Hey, dude’ and disappears back inside. He would explain the second glass on the veranda table.
‘I should probably tell you something, too,’ June says.
‘He’s the something.’
‘That’s Johnnie. He’s,’ June sways a little, ‘really nice.’
‘That’s great.’
‘We met at a dessert cafe. He’s an animal-assisted therapist.’
‘Like a dog psychologist?’
‘No, he’s a therapist who uses dogs in his practice.’
It’s no clearer. ‘Right.’
‘We’re going to a Thai cooking class tonight with Ellie and Dan.’
She sounds like me talking to Isabelle about Sophia, that strange state where you lob random facts about your beloved at anyone who asks so everyone can share your joy.
Johnnie is tuning up his guitar inside. The first faltering chords of ‘Sea of Love’ start up.
‘How’s IF going?’ says June.
‘It’s not. I shut it down.’
June’s eyebrows hike up her forehead. ‘Really?’
‘You were right about it not being the healthiest environment to work in,’ I say. ‘A few things went wrong.’
‘Oh, Tommy.’ June studies me. ‘Something happened to you.’
‘Yes,’ is my safest answer.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ she says. ‘You know, Johnnie’s band is playing at Harry & Squire tomorrow night if you need to cheer up and get out of the house. The Avast-Mateys.’
‘Thank you. I’ll keep it in mind. Have fun at the class.’
‘Bye, Tom.’
I get a few metres down the road, and turn around. ‘June?’
She sticks her head out past the hedge.
‘Don’t forget that Dan’s allergic to shellfish.’
‘Don’t panic,’ says June, ‘I won’t.’
I deliberated for several days on this new piece. Seven colours, at one point. Maybe eight, set a record. But then I realised that it wasn’t about me.
I start when I know no one will be around. I wear white overalls so I look like a regular workman. Deep, dark grey paint which won’t fade too much; the wall doesn’t get direct sunlight. Bricks, woodwork, all of it primed and coated. It feels weird to use a regular brush after years of fat caps and markers. Old paint scraps have to be chiselled off the windows. I considered etching, but it’s too risky, especially for a first go. Lettering redone in a simplified Art Deco font, flat gold against the glass.
When I need a break, I sit on the corner and check my piece book, just to make sure I’ve got the details right.
For the final section, I bring out the acetate. Screwdrivers with boxwood handles, nails, clamps, carvers, chisels, all in the same flat gold, stencilled to border the windows’ edges.
I think I can say this is one of my best pieces, as long as the recipient doesn’t murder me.
The afternoon light is falling away, slipping over the edges of the roofs. I hammer the last paint tin shut and stand up. There are shadows growing in the doorways, and now someone is standing behind me.
‘What the hell?’ says the someone.
I crack my wrist back into place. (Rolling’s a bitch.) ‘Surprise.’
Dan stands and stares at Hollick’s Restoration. The grey paint has turned matte in the fading light, the name of the shop still gleaming. ‘How long did this take you?’
I check my phone. ‘Eleven hours and forty-two minutes.’
‘Huh,’ says Dan, and walks from one side of the building to the other. ‘You know, most people ask before they completely repaint someone else’s property.’
‘Yeah, but what are the chances you’d have said yes?’
Dan shakes his head at me and keeps walking back and forth. I continue packing up, keeping an eye on him. Finally he stops in front of the door, exhales, and shakes his head again.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘It’s pretty good.’ He checks out the window border. ‘It’s pretty damned good. Thank you.’
‘No worries.’
He abruptly turns and walks off. I stand and watch him go down the road and around the corner.
Is that it? Okay, maybe that’s it. Could’ve been worse. He could have had me arrested. Cellmates with Ro. How fun.
I finish bagging up the paint tray and brushes as there’s no tap nearby. I’m just taking the stencil sheets over to the bin when Dan returns.
He’s got a brown paper box stamped with the name of the bakery in the next street. ‘Thought you might need some food.’
‘I’ll go you halves.’
We sit by the council’s attempt at greening the street – a bench, a bike rack and a concrete trough full of pansies – and discover that there’s no good way to tear a salted caramel doughnut in two.
‘Are you still running?’ I say, trying to find a neutral point of conversation.
‘Yep, but I’m still really shit.’
‘I went with Gen the other day. She beat me. But I’ve fucked my ankle up a few times, so I’m not really at full speed right now.’ I leave the suggestion of him coming with me hanging, but he doesn’t take it. I’m flattened with disappointment and then wonder what I expected. You can’t fix relationships with a day of paint.
‘Heard about IF,’ says Dan.
‘June then Ellie then you?’
‘Saw the sign on the front door.’
I rip off half a croissant. ‘You dropped in?’
‘Yeah,’ Dan says. ‘I don’t know. I just wanted to say hi, I guess. See how things were.’
‘Pretty crap.’
‘You’ve looked better, I’ll be honest.’
Even after several weeks, my face still isn’t a uniform colour.
‘W
hat are you going to do now?’ he says.
‘Take a break. I’m thinking I’ll get some pieces together maybe, see if any galleries are interested.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
It’s like having a very strange first date with someone I’ve known for a few decades and have no desire to sleep with.
Dan finishes his doughnut and stands to bin the box, wiping his hands on his jeans. ‘I’d better go.’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Say hi to Rosie for me.’
He deliberates for a few seconds, then sighs. ‘You should say hi yourself.’
‘I thought you . . .’ I don’t know how to phrase it. ‘I thought I couldn’t.’
‘She misses you,’ says Dan. ‘She won’t stop asking where you are. “Where’s Dom? Where’s Dom?”’
I laugh. ‘Really?’
‘Even better, now she’s started calling the wombat Dom, so I hear about you all the bloody time. So,’ Dan spreads his arms for a second then drops them again, ‘come over and maybe she’ll shut up about it.’
‘If you think it’ll help,’ I say.
‘I do. Sunday. You can help me not set fire to the barbecue.’
‘Okay.’
Dan leaves, and I slowly finish the rest of the pastries, covered in paint, my ankle aching, but feeling far happier than I have in a long time.
*
Dan texts me a few days later to say business has bounced because of the new paint job. Plus Rosie’s really big on banana bread at the moment, so if I feel like bringing some on Sunday, that’d be great.
I walk through the side streets and detour twice to check on two of my pieces. Amity’s macaw is still flying to freedom. Two blocks east, an older stencil – a small procession of protesters who had forgotten what they were angry about – has been painted over by the council, along with the rest of this particular wall. It doesn’t bother me. It was one of my first works, kind of crappy, and I’ve never really liked it. Besides, new wall means new canvas. Gen has become obsessed with drawing birds. I bought her a notebook which she’s turned into her own piece book. We research works together, trawling images from the graffiti world’s kings and queens who leave their impressions behind like coloured fingerprints. Maybe this wall can be Gen’s debut. Won’t Mum be stoked.
I half expect IF to be derelict already but it stands dark and silent, all of the drama absorbed back into the wood and glass.
I enter via the back, past the bouncy castle still lying limply in the garden, and punch in the new combination that Kain gave me. No alarm goes off. A good start.
It’s a strange feeling of invasion, going through the contents of Felicity’s desk. It also confirms the fact that she keeps her highlighters in descending order of brightness. There’s nothing I can see that she’d want to keep, unless you count seventeen individual containers of pumpkin seeds. Wait, she might actually want those. I scoop them into my backpack.
Kain took it upon himself to clean out Rohan’s office. I do not go up to inspect the remains, though I do have a strong desire to set fire to Rohan’s drawer of ties.
A hoodie with a set of ears appears in the front window. I buzz it through.
‘Do you know what Captain’s Delight is?’ Mica waves a bottle as she comes in. ‘It was in my laundry.’
‘Where else would you stash,’ I look at the label, ‘Portugal’s fifth most popular wine beverage?’
Mica gets glasses from the kitchen. I’m still trying to find a bottle opener when she takes the Captain and knocks the top off on the edge of the Felicity’s desk.
‘Impressive.’
‘I’m a lady of many talents,’ says Mica, pouring. She looks at her drink, which is more like a pint. ‘Are we medically allowed to have this much wine beverage?’
‘Let’s find out.’
We sit on the stairs with our dubious drinks, looking at the sunlight filtering onto what’s left of the moss bank. I’m glad we never had a water feature with fish, which Rohan initially pushed for. Coming here is weird enough without adding carp corpses to the mix.
‘So,’ says Mica, ‘how much trouble are you in?’
‘Far less than we could be. Rohan lied to ConText, said the clients were happy to have their images used. They were pretty understanding, considering the circumstances. We paid them back, plus added a bit more as a goodwill gesture. That was Kain’s idea. Upshot is,’ I take a drink, ‘they dissolved the contract. We’re good.’
‘Wouldn’t they have dissolved the contract anyway?’
‘Not if they wanted to be assholes about it. They could have decided to just keep the images and use them regardless. We’re pretty lucky. It also helps when dealing with an Italian company to have someone who’s fluent in Italian.’
‘Kain?’
‘More surprises than a piñata, that guy. He’ll probably also turn out to be a former calisthenics champion or grow the world’s largest cactus.’
‘Have you heard from Rohan?’
‘No, but we did send him back his TRX straps.’
‘I should have embroidered him a cushion or something.’
‘We could have said it with flowers.’ I stretch out my legs. ‘I don’t think it takes that many daisies to spell out, You’re a massive cockhead.’
Two motorists outside decide to debate each other with their horns.
‘How are you going, though?’ says Mica. ‘I mean, it’s been a pretty shit few weeks.’
‘It’s not been great, yeah.’ I scratch my chest, just above the bruised rack of ribs. ‘The transition’s been weird. I didn’t think I’d miss it here. I never realised how much of my identity was tied up in the work.’
‘Mine, too,’ says Mica. She looks up at Rohan’s window, overlooking the ground floor. ‘I know I shouldn’t, but I love this building. It was a little universe all of its own, like a microcosmos.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I guess you appreciate the cosmos more when you’re stuck in the basement.’
‘I loved the basement.’ She taps the side of her glass. ‘It’s going to suck not working here.’
‘Well, if you need a job, Kain’s turning this place into a karaoke bar.’
‘Don’t tell Alex. He’ll bankrupt himself.’
‘We can all hang out. Also, rumour has it that Felicity has agreed to have a drink with him, so we can watch them like creeps and make it super-awkward.’
‘I want to see what Gen would pick for her song.’
‘“It’s The End of The World As We Know It”, probably. She knows all the lyrics.’
Mica flicks her glass with her finger. ‘How is she?’
‘Convinced that nothing in life is going to get better than defending her big brother with Kate Beckinsale’s prop gun.’
‘It was incredibly brave. She’s just a kid.’
‘I know. She’s also decided that we’re moving to Berlin to study art.’
‘Berlin.’ Mica sighs. ‘Lucky you.’
‘Want to come?’
Mica’s gaze flits to my face, then off across the floor. ‘Are you asking me out?’
‘Maybe.’ I drain my glass. ‘Though there may also be three of us on our dates.’
Mica uncurls her back as if her spine has been under compression. ‘Speaking of your family, I have to ask you something really weird,’ she says. ‘Was your mum . . . um . . .’
‘Having a thing with Rohan? Yup.’
‘Hooooooooly shit.’
I refill our glasses. ‘That’s one way of putting it. How did you know?’
‘Well, let’s just say that I took a short cut through a car park and recognised Rohan’s car and maybe I went over out of curiosity and maybe I saw something I shouldn’t have.’
‘Christ.’
‘Yeah,’ says Mica. ‘I never knew your mum had a tattoo on her ass.’
‘Neither did I,’ I say, ‘until now. Thanks for that.’
‘Sorry.’
We both take another slug of drink.
‘But
why Rohan?’ I say. ‘I mean, she could have picked anyone. Why him?’
‘He has a certain charm,’ says Mica. ‘I considered it, in one of my worst moments.’
‘You considered sleeping with Rohan?’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘You. And Rohan.’
‘Yup.’
‘You –’
‘And Rohan. Well done.’ Mica pats me on the arm. ‘Put it this way – sometimes you get to a very low point in your life where all someone has to do is tell you you’re the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen, and the next thing you know you’re doubling down in a sports car. Which, by the way,’ Mica holds her glass up, ‘is very, very, very, very overrated as a place for sex and tends to involve having your head jammed into a door handle.’
‘But you didn’t, right?’
‘No. I snapped out of that idea pretty quickly. And anyway, Rohan’s tastes tend to run to the vintage side of things.’
‘He’s consistent, I’ll give him that.’
I gently push her hoodie back. The rainbow hair has been stripped down to blue with black ends.
Mica looks into her glass. ‘This is really terrible booze.’
An ambulance siren rises and falls outside. Sophia sits like a spectre between us.
‘If I’d thought you’d take the composite girl seriously, I never would have done it,’ Mica says quietly.
‘I know. But, you know, kudos on your skills.’
‘Not that they’re much use now.’
‘Nor mine.’ I shift the position of my feet. ‘Mica, I need to tell you something.’ The words I want to say scatter, marbles shooting off in all directions.
‘Wait.’ Mica finishes the rest of her wine beverage. ‘Okay. Go.’
‘You know how I said I wanted a relationship where someone didn’t think I needed fixing and I hoped they didn’t need fixing and you said such a thing didn’t exist? At least, I think that was the wording.’
‘Who could forget?’ says Mica. ‘And it still doesn’t exist.’
I smile at her like a goof.
‘Oh, God,’ says Mica, face falling. ‘Are you getting back together with that ex with the Citroën?’
‘No, you idiot, it’s you. I don’t want you to be anything but you – Micaela Somethingorother Brown. Same as you don’t seem to want me to be anything other than just me. If you know what I mean. I’m not saying it right. And I’ve also done some really dumb stuff lately, so you might want to reconsider the whole “me just being me” thing. I wouldn’t blame you. I’m babbling now. I’ll just be quiet for a bit.’
