by Carrie Elks
I don’t spend a lot of time in the clinic outside of core hours. It’s different when there are no clients in the building—lifeless and sterile. If my life were a horror movie, this would be the part where the zombies break in.
I almost laugh when I find Lara in the kitchen. Though she isn’t the walking dead, she does look like crap. There are dark shadows under her eyes, and her lips are dry and cracked. She looks as if she hasn’t had any liquid for weeks.
“Hey, are you okay? You look terrible.” Of course, I immediately regret my verbal diarrhoea.
Her face crumples. “I’m pregnant.”
For a moment, my breath catches in my throat.
“Congratulations! Oh my God, I can’t believe it.” I go to hug her but she leans over the sink and heaves into it. I pull her hair away from her face as spasms wrack her stomach. Even though nothing comes out, I can’t help but gag in sympathy.
“You poor thing,” I murmur. “How long has this been going on?”
“A week,” she says between heaves. “It’s so bloody awful. Nobody tells you how bad it makes you feel.”
“But you’re having a baby! That’s so wonderful.” I stroke her hair as she wipes her mouth. There’s not even a flash of jealousy in me about her pregnant state. Just excitement and anticipation and a whole lot of sympathy. She really does look bad.
“I know. I should be excited and running around but I just feel terrible all the time. Whoever called this morning sickness was either an idiot or a liar.”
“Is there anything you can take for it?”
She shakes her head. “The doctor says it’s normal. In fact, he went as far as to tell me it’s a good sign, because studies show women suffering from morning sickness are less likely to miscarry.”
I try not to laugh at the expression on her face. A mixture of horror and anger, with a dash of anxiety. “If men had periods and babies, imagine how underpopulated the world would be.”
“You’re not wrong.” She takes a sip of water, rolling her neck as if to iron out the crinkles. “Anyway, what are you doing here so late?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Gala stuff.”
“Ugh, poor you. It puts morning sickness into perspective.” She almost smiles. “Still, at least you know it will be over in a couple of weeks.”
“I’ve just had an offer of help.”
“Who from?”
“Niall. He seemed really... weird, actually. Nothing like the guy who shouted down the phone at me last week. He was cheeky, almost cocky.” I screw my face up, trying to find the right descriptor. “It felt as though he was flirting with me.”
Lara becomes distracted by the fanlight window, staring up at it like it’s the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
“Lara?”
She looks at me. Her expression is almost guilty.
“Alex might have told him about you and Simon splitting up,” she confesses.
Oh.
I guess that would explain it. His light-heartedness. The way he grinned at me and called me ‘friend’.
“I hope he didn’t get the wrong idea,” I say. Lara knows I’m not up for anything—or anyone—else, not right now when I’m still under Simon’s roof. We’re trying to keep things amicable. To move on so quickly would be wrong.
She shakes her head, and I note a little colour has returned to her cheeks. “He wouldn’t try anything. He knows you’re vulnerable, and I don’t think he’s that much of an asshole. He feels really guilty about kissing you then blanking you.”
“I don’t want him to feel guilty. I just...” What do I want? I’m not sure anymore. All I know is that returning to our easy friendship today was like finding a lighthouse in a storm. He grounds me and lifts me up at the same time. Seeing him has made me feel happier than I’ve felt in weeks. If we can be friends, I’m all for it. “I don’t want to lead him on, I guess.”
“You aren’t. You won’t.” She sounds so sure, and I love the belief she has in me. I only wish I had her certainty.
The air is thick with excitement and hormones, rising up from the bodies of three hundred dancing students. Drunk, high, in search of a good time. We’re almost desperate in our need to celebrate, to feel young and free. We want to steal the night and take it as ours, because over the next few days we will be leaving, packing up our things and going home.
So we dance and we drink and we swallow and we do everything we know we shouldn’t.
A makeshift stage has been set up in the grounds. The music pumping out of the big black speakers takes on a life of its own. Snaking around our bodies and soaking into our skins. Pulsing through our veins until we become an organic, sweaty mass. Jumping on the soft grass, our hair swinging, we scream out the words until our throats protest and our lungs threaten to explode.
Niall’s arms are locked around my waist, his palms resting on my stomach. They feel sweaty and warm but I don’t push them away. Instead, I lean against him and let him pull me with the crowd, until we are part of a huge wave of bodies that ebb and flow with the music.
We’re rolling, and it feels so good it makes my skin tingle. The way we dance and move is sensuous; an orgy without the sex. Beads of perspiration soak my hairline before pouring down my cheeks. I wipe them away, too busy dancing to even care what I look like.
To my left, I notice Digby has stopped jumping with the music. His face is almost bloated, but his lips are pale and blue. Though he isn’t dancing anymore, his body is still moving, being pushed to and fro by the crowd like a piece of flotsam on the tide.
“Are you okay?” I have to shout it twice. I lean in to him and touch his arm. It feels like fire.
“Yeah, I just need to take a break.” He’s still swaying. “I’m going to get a drink.”
I open my mouth to offer to go with him, but the music changes and Niall’s arms tighten around my waist. I turn to look at him, and he’s smiling down at me, and for a moment it bleaches the thoughts right out of my brain. All I can focus on is his mouth. I press my own lips against it, closing my eyes, feeling the fire light up inside my belly.
When I open them, Digby is gone. I tell myself he’ll be fine, that he’ll get a drink and come back and we will all be dancing again, celebrating the final hours of our hedonistic freedom. There’s no point in looking for him, he could be anywhere, doing anything, and he’ll be back in a few minutes.
Of course, he isn’t.
21
I spend most of the weekend working. In a strange parody of what used to be our marriage, Simon and I sit at the dining-room table, staring at our respective laptops, occasionally breaking away to make each other a cup of tea. He tells me about his current case—some decade-old dispute about boundary lines—and I regale him with stories about the food orders I’ve had to negotiate. It’s easy and light, a contrast to the tension of the last few months.
Not once does this new entente make me regret my decision. If anything it reinforces that it was the right one. We’ve renegotiated our positions, found new ones that make us comfortable in each other’s company. If we were teenagers, I’d say we’ve entered the friend zone.
On Monday I fight through the morning rush hour to meet Niall. He surprised me by suggesting we meet at nine, offering to have coffee and pastries. I agreed readily, even though I always thought he would be the type to lie in.
His studio is based in an old warehouse, converted into a collective of small yet useable rooms, most of which have been populated by arty types. There are potters and basket weavers, painters and sculptors. When I see the light pouring in through the tall Victorian windows, I realise exactly why they’ve all clustered here; the brightness of the sun whitewashes the brown bricks of the warehouse. It illuminates, making everything appear so clear. Beautiful.
I walk along the first-floor balcony, heading for the little garret on the corner of the building that houses Niall Joseph, Artist. Though I’m carrying a huge bag full of notes and catalogues, the thing that’s really weighing me down
is this sense of desperation. The need to see him again pulls at my soul. The closer I get, the more my heart starts to speed, my breath shortening as his door comes into view. I have to remind myself that we are friends, this is a business meeting. It’s nine o’clock on a Monday morning, for God’s sake, but I can’t get this inane grin off my face.
It’s the smell of coffee that hits me first. The aroma of roasted beans escapes through the cracks surrounding his metallic door, overpowering the earthy smell of paint and the sharpness of turpentine, beckoning me over until I’m knocking at his door.
“Hi.” He sounds breathless when he opens it, but it’s his smile that steals mine away. The light floods in from the window behind him, casting a hazy glow behind his body.
“Hi yourself. Do I smell coffee?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, that’s the bitter aroma of my lost dreams.”
He takes my bag without asking and I follow him into his tiny enclave, looking around to get myself acquainted. One of the walls is lined with shelves full of paints and brushes and everything else he might need. The one opposite has sketches tacked to it—all at various stages of completion, from light etching to thicker pencil strokes. The third wall has a whole load of canvasses stacked against it, and it’s these that draw my eye. I remember how impressed I was with his works when I first saw them at Elise’s gallery. The ones in here are just as amazing.
When I look over at Niall he has his back to me, fiddling with the coffee machine.
“How do you like it?” he asks without looking round.
“Your studio?”
“No, Beth, how would you like your coffee?” He turns to look at me, amusement lighting up his eyes.
“Lots of milk and two sugars, please.”
He does as I’ve asked, muttering something about sacrilege.
“What?”
“Coffee isn’t ice cream. It’s supposed to be strong and bitter.” He hands me a mug, his fingers touching mine for the briefest of moments. “I bet you love a nice latte.”
“And I bet you only drink espresso.” I take a sip; it’s warm and delicious. “You’re a coffee snob.”
When he laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkle up. “I take coffee very seriously.”
I can see that. He has a corner of his studio dedicated to it. A grinder, a pot of beans, a coffee machine and mugs are all lined up like a shrine to caffeine. There’s something so very Niall about it. I like these little nuances in his personality, the small insights into what kind of man he is. A good one, I think.
“What are you working on?” I walk over to the wall where he’s tacked his sketches, studying the lines of his pencil, wanting to trace them with my fingers. When he stands behind me, his arm brushes against my shoulder, and I hear his soft breathing as he stares along with me.
“A bank in Dublin has commissioned ten paintings for their new office. I’m working on a few proposals for them.”
“That’s exciting.” I turn to look at him, but he just shrugs.
“Local boy done good. It tells a good story, explains why they’re spending so much money on useless stuff.”
“Not just any local boy,” I point out. “They chose you. That has to mean something.”
He’s too modest to reply. I finish my coffee and rinse my mug out in the sink, then smile at him. “Show me your paintings?” I ask.
He starts to laugh. “What, no small talk first, no discussion of techniques or your favourite artists? Just a blunt ‘get ’em out’?”
I tip my head to the side. “You want art foreplay?” A little alarm bell starts ringing in my brain. I ignore it, concentrating instead on the way he smiles.
“An artist likes to be wooed. Pretty words, little compliments...”
I want to step forward and curl my fingers around his neck, to pull his head down until his lips are connected to mine. Want him to sweep everything off his old wooden table with a simple brush of his arm, and lay me down on it until we are both gasping.
That’s why I take a step back.
“In that case, please could you show me your pictures because you’re an amazingly talented artist and I so want to see them?” Sarcasm. My sword and my shield.
He catches my change in tone and responds accordingly. “I was just joking. I’m like a man carrying around pictures of his kids. You only have to mention them and I’m waving them under your eye, waiting for you to tell me what beautiful paintings I make.” He inclines his head to the far wall. “I’ll show you what I’ve been working on.”
He tells me about the show he’s planning for a few months’ time, loosely entitled “Bodies of Art”. I stare at the paintings he’s done so far as he explains the concept, marvelling at how he manages to pick out the right shade of colour, uses the right texture to bring his paintings to life. He tells me about the model he’s found with seventy-degree burns, and the psoriasis sufferer whose skin is practically peeling off. He talks of muscle density and bone structure, and I hang on his every word as if I’m some sort of art groupie.
“Did I show you this? It’s the design for Alex’s CD cover.” He pulls out a small, square canvas and holds it up for me to see. The white background is covered with brushes of colour, each blending into the next. The hues mix together to form a shape in the centre. “It’s a bird,” he says, smiling wryly. “The album is called Fear of Flying.”
“The same as their band? It’s pretty.” In fact it’s beautiful, but I feel as if I’ve gushed enough. Like always, the way he layers the colours makes me want to reach out and touch them. As if by feeling them, I’ll be connecting with him.
I wonder if the urge to touch him will ever go away.
“They seem to like it. It’s going to be on their tour t-shirts.” He catches my eye. “I’m going to be famous.”
This time we both laugh.
An old canvas in the corner—one we haven’t looked at—catches my eye. “What’s that one?”
He puts the painting he’s holding down and hurriedly responds, “Nothing.”
Of course, his vague reply makes me want to see it more. I step forward, folding my hands around the wooden frame, pulling it back from the wall. The first thing I see is creamy flesh, then a slender neck, curving down into delicate shoulders.
A nude. I don’t know why this affects me. Maybe because it’s so realistic, I know it had to be painted from a model. A pang of jealousy hits me as I realise the picture shows pretty much everything except her face.
Niall almost runs to snatch it out of my hands. His cheeks burn as brightly as mine. “I can explain...”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
He carries on as if I hadn’t said a word. “I finished it that summer. It was probably the only thing that kept me sane after Digby died. I did sketch after sketch from memory, and somehow it finally came together.” When he glances up, he looks shamefaced. “I’ve never shown it to anybody.”
It takes me a while to register what his garbled sentences mean. I lift the canvas gently from his hands and study it. My eyes follow the curve of my breasts, and the softness of my thighs. I want to cry because it’s beautiful. The girl I was, before everything went wrong, is captured forever on oil and canvas. Unblemished skin, unbroken dreams, they’re all there to see.
“You kept it.” My voice thickens as I try not to sob.
“It was the one thing I did keep. The only good thing to come out of that time. Those last few weeks were senseless. We took too many drugs and did too many crazy things. But somewhere in there was a little kernel of something fucking amazing.”
He looks so despondent, I reach out and take his hand. Immediately, his fingers wrap around mine. “There was,” I agree.
We’re silent for a moment. I’m hyper aware of the way he’s holding me. The way he’s looking at me. The thrum of my heartbeat is almost deafening.
“What about now? Is there something here still?” he asks.
My voice is a whisper. “I think so.”
>
Gently, he takes the canvas and places it back, then runs his fingers across my cheek. I stare at his lips, taking in their colour, the way they tremble. I can’t even breathe, so afraid I’m going to do something, or say something, to ruin the moment. Instead, I close my eyes, breathing him in as his forehead comes to rest on mine.
“I’ll wait for as long as it takes,” he tells me. “I’ll be here; you only have to say the word.”
He smells of coffee and mint, the two scents mingling as he slowly breathes in and out. I open my eyes to find him staring right at me. I have to swallow hard before I find the strength to speak. “You’ll wait for me?” I ask. “Because I’m not ready, not now. With the separation and...” I trail off.
He cups my face with his rough hands and softly kisses my forehead. His lips remain there as he begins to speak. “As long as it takes.”
22
The morning of the gala arrives with a fierce rainstorm. It rattles the windows and makes me wake with a panic, wondering if the hotel has enough umbrellas or if there’s somewhere I can hire some. By six a.m. I’m in the kitchen, sipping at a mug of coffee and searching the web for rain canopies we can set up from the entrance to the road.
I’ve been growing increasingly edgy. My sang-froid of a week ago has boiled away, leaving behind a mixture of angst and anticipation that kills my appetite. Wisely, Simon’s been spending most of his time at the office, avoiding the rather crazy, soon-to-be ex-wife who’s haunting his townhouse.
When he pops his head around the kitchen door each night, announcing he’s heading for bed, I silently promise him that as soon as this gala is out of the way, I’ll be room hunting like nobody’s business. He already has one twenty-something daughter. If I don’t put some space between us, I’m in danger of becoming his second.
For the most part he’s been lovely. Courteous when asking how it’s going, sweet when inquiring if we should still be going together—to which the answer is, of course, yes. He paid for the table, after all, and it will be his friends filling the seats. I don’t want to embarrass him by leaving an empty chair beside him. I know I’m making it sound easier than it actually is—after all, how comfortable can it be sharing a house with someone you no longer wish to be married to—but after the pain we’ve been through, this stage seems almost easy in comparison.
