by James Bailey
“Sorry, sir, I just had to check whether the horn on your head counts as being an offensive item or weapon. I’ve been informed that it is OK and you are allowed in, but please can you remove it from your head and carry it. Sorry for the delay.”
You should be sorry.
I have forgotten that I desperately need the toilet and I hurriedly bypass a young redheaded man poised with a card reader. I’m already halfway up the large stone staircase, taking two at a time, by the time he’s asked me to donate to the gallery.
As I reach the top, I see two signposts.
Left: 1200–1500 Bellini, Van Eyck, Piero, Raphael, Uccello
Right: 1500–1600 Titian, Holbein, Bronzino, Massys, Veronese
Which way did she go? I flip the coin to decide.
Right it is.
I stride straight past priceless works, not giving them a second glance. Instead I frantically look around the rooms, focusing on the people—those sitting on the leather furniture, those admiring the paintings, those milling around the rooms—trying to spot her. My heart beats rapidly and spikes every time I catch sight of someone wearing a yellow jacket. Every girl I see looks like it could be her. The dark floorboards become light, the wallpaper evolves from redcurrant to cranberry to ruby to salsa as I cross the thresholds between rooms. My heavy strides cause the wooden floor to squeal and squeak.
Where is she?
I reach the central staircase and wonder whether I should go farther into the gallery or head back and take another turn. Surely she can’t have gone this far already? The coin tells me to go back. My heart sinks for a moment as I contemplate that maybe she’s meeting someone here. Maybe she has a boyfriend. A husband even. I didn’t check to see if she was wearing a ring. I reach another fork in the road and am ordered by the coin to turn left. The room in front of me is packed with crowds gathering around one painting.
Hans Holbein’s The Ambassadors.
I studied this painting at university during lectures on the Tudors, although I can’t remember anything about it apart from the optical illusion of the skull painted on the floor. It can only be seen if you look at it from one side of the painting and not the other. A group of tourists swarms around me, trying to examine the painting more closely. I try to reverse my way out of the crowd and as I do so, I bump into someone trying to take a photo.
“Sorry,” we both say, before I realize who I’ve just knocked into.
It’s her.
“Hello again. They let you in, then?” the girl jokes.
“Yes, eventually. Apparently my unicorn horn is a weapon. All the terrorists are using them these days.” I laugh nervously at my own joke.
“Sorry, I would have waited for you . . .”
“No worries.” I smile back at her.
I look at her, bewitched, trying to think of something to say, but my mouth is dry, and I’m nearly knocked over by another tourist clambering to see the painting.
She giggles to fill the silence as we do nothing but smile at each other.
“I’m not here to see anything in particular, just generally browsing . . . to answer your question . . . you know, from before, in the queue,” I eventually stutter.
“There are so many paintings to see, aren’t there? I have no idea which way to go, or where to start.”
“I know, it’s a bit of a maze,” I reply. “I remember when I was a kid, my grandad would always take me to the gift shop first when we went to a gallery. He’d buy a few postcards of the paintings, and then we’d have to go and find them. It was like a treasure hunt.”
“Wow. That’s such a good idea,” she replies. “Maybe we should do the same?”
I’m still smiling like a gormless fool.
“Only if you want to, though?” she adds.
“Yes, yes. I’d love to. Let’s do it.”
We head to the gift shop together and start looking through the postcards.
“How many shall we pick?” she asks.
You can pick every single one if you’d like. I’m happy to be here forever.
“Shall we get a few each?”
I pick a few from the left side of the shelves, and she picks a few from the right, before we make our way to the till.
“Are you paying separately? Or are you together?”
“I’ll get them,” I jump in quickly.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, of course.”
“OK, thank you very much.”
We exit the shop and head back into the gallery.
“OK, so what are we looking for, then?” I ask, glancing at the cards she’s selected.
“I’ve picked this one by Canaletto, one by Renoir, a Degas . . .” We stand in the corner of the room while she shuffles through them, showing me the postcards. “And Sunflowers by Van Gogh. I know it’s a really obvious one, but I want to see it. It’s really the reason I’ve come today.”
“Are you a big Van Gogh fan, then?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t say I’m a huge fan but I’ve just been reading an anthology of the letters he wrote to his brother. They’re quite interesting.”
“I didn’t realize he was a writer too, I only know the basics . . . the cutting off of his ear, the suicide, all the upbeat stuff.”
She laughs loudly, and we start walking slowly on, consumed in conversation.
“I didn’t know much before, to be fair. I’m working abroad at the moment in an English bookshop and saw his Sunflowers painting at the gallery nearby. I realized how bad it is that I’ve never seen this version, given I’m from London. So that’s why I thought I would come and check it out while I’m back here.”
“Where . . .” I start to ask her where she’s working, but before I can she continues talking.
“It’s quite . . . Sorry, what were you going to ask?”
“No, after you, carry on.”
“Sorry, I was just going to say it’s quite sad reading about his life. He suffered so much heartbreak. Did you know he proposed to three different women, and they all rejected him?”
“Poor guy,” I say, keeping a poker face about my own situation. I look down at her left hand to see if she’s wearing a ring. Thankfully her ring finger is happily unadorned.
“After the third woman said no, he kept sending her letters and traveled to Amsterdam to look for her, but she didn’t want to see him.”
“He didn’t play that one that cool, then,” I joke, knowing how he felt.
“No, he most definitely didn’t, but do you know what, I quite like that. Admittedly there’s a line, and OK, the woman was his cousin, which is also a bit odd, but no one wears their heart on their sleeve for love anymore. What’s the equivalent now? Super-liking someone on Tinder?”
“Sliding into someone’s DMs?”
“Exactly, how sad is that? No wonder they say romance is dead.”
“Would you like someone to cut off their ear for you, then?”
“OK, maybe that’s a step too far.”
“What do you mean? I was about to cut mine off and give to you.”
What am I doing? Am I flirting about cutting my ear off?
“Sorry.” She laughs and pats my upper arm as we pause and look into each other’s eyes again.
“We’ve missed one already,” I say, pointing to the landscape of Venice we’ve just walked past.
“We’ve got to stop chatting and concentrate,” she jokes.
We move closer to the painting.
“I really like Canaletto,” she says, admiring the brushwork.
“So do I. The detail is amazing, isn’t it?” I realize I’d agree with her right now even if I hated the painting. “Have you ever been to Venice?”
“No, I haven’t, actually. I’d love to go, but I’d love to go everywhere. That’s the problem.”
Before I know it, I am planning our first date, imagining our first kiss, envisaging the first time we tell each other “I love you.” I’m thinking about our romantic getaways to France or Ita
ly or Spain, where we will spend blissful evenings walking hand in hand, stopping at quaint bookshops. I’m planning my wedding speech. I’m picking our kids’ names.
“OK, we’ve found one painting. What’s next?” I ask.
“We’re looking for Renoir and Degas.”
“I think they’re through here.” I lead her into the next room. “So you sound like you know lots about art?”
“No, I really don’t know much at all. I’m more of a book girl, but I do like these types of paintings.” She points to the Impressionist works as we slowly stroll past, stopping intermittently at pieces that catch our eyes and the ones replicated in our postcards. “I went to the Tate Modern yesterday and I’m not too sure about modern art.”
“What, you mean the canvases with just a dot of paint on them?”
“Yes, or the single piece of string.”
“Did you hear that story about the person who left a pair of shoes in the corner of the Museum of Modern Art in New York, and everyone walked around them thinking they were an exhibit?”
Her dark eyes squint when she laughs, almost disappearing into the happiness.
“I always want to know whether the artist genuinely believes their work is good, or if they’re just having a laugh.” She smiles.
“I know. It’s so funny to read some of the descriptions. They’re so pretentious.”
We both laugh, and as we do, we catch each other’s eyes again, forgetting that we’re surrounded by hundreds of others. For a second, it’s just us.
As I get swept away, I suddenly remember the real reason I’m in London and quickly pull out my phone.
“Oh, is it time for you to go and watch Jessie?” she asks as I check my phone, hoping Jessie has slowed down and I can spend some more time exploring the gallery with my new friend.
“Oh, wow, yes, it looks like she’s almost here. I’m really sorry, but I’d better head out and fight my way to the front of the crowds.”
“Don’t apologize. I wouldn’t forgive myself if I kept you from watching her big moment.”
“But we haven’t seen Sunflowers yet,” I say.
We look at each other, trying to decide what to do about the situation.
“Maybe I could come and watch with you? . . . And I don’t know what you’re planning to do after, but maybe we could come back and see Sunflowers later together? You’re probably wanting to spend the evening with your friends, so no worries if not . . .” she rambles.
“No, I think that sounds like a very good idea. I’d love to do that. Maybe it could be . . . like a date?” I bite the bullet.
“Yes, like a date sounds perfect.” She smiles.
As we make our way to the exit, we pass by some of history’s best portraits. Even among all the paintings of beautiful women, I can’t help but think she is by far the best-looking woman in the gallery.
13
Did you see the woman dressed as the Mona Lisa? That was quite good, and Mr. Potato Head?” Jake admires the medal hanging around Jessie’s neck. “You should invite them to your next fancy-dress party.”
“Yeah, people who actually make an effort.” Jessie’s dig goes over his head. “Mr. Potato Head was annoying, actually. He ran next to me for a while, but all the crowds were just cheering for him instead of me. I kept trying to lose him.”
“I couldn’t believe there were so many people watching,” Jake says as he accidentally stands on one of the hundreds of energy drink bottles littered across the ground.
He looks up and notices me standing behind Jessie. I eventually found the two of them among the crowd beyond the finish line.
“Why have you been running?” Jessie, wrapped in silver foil and looking through her goody bag, asks me as she turns around. I’m not quite sure a free key ring would convince me to run 26.2 miles, but she seems happy enough.
“It looks like you’re the one who has just run a marathon, not Jessie,” Jake jokes as I stand there, sweaty and breathless.
“I know, I know, but I’ve got big news. Massive news. And I need your help.”
“Go on then, spit it out.”
“So this may seem stupid, but I think I’ve just found the one. You know, the one I’ve been looking for. The girl of my dreams,” I say excitedly, stumbling over my words, still short of breath having just sprinted across St. James’s Park, looking like a marathon runner who’s gone the wrong way.
“Wow! That’s great, Josh. Where is she?” Jessie drops the key ring back into the bag and looks up.
“That’s the problem. That’s why I need your help.”
“Why do you need our help? Give her a call and tell her to meet us here. We can all go for a drink together.”
“I can’t call her.”
“You know you’re not making much sense right now, Josh?” Jessie takes a big gulp of water.
“So while I was waiting for you, I popped into the National Gallery, and I started talking to this girl who was in front of me in the queue. I bumped into her inside, and we explored the gallery together, but when we came out to watch you we got separated in the crowd, and I’ve spent the last twenty minutes running around looking for her.”
I’m waiting for Jessie to realize I missed her run past.
“What was her name? I’m sure we can find her on Facebook. I’ve got pretty good stalking powers,” Jake brags, as if it’s a skill he should list on his LinkedIn profile.
“That’s the thing, I don’t even know her name.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know her name? Is this person real?”
“Yes, of course she’s real,” I snap.
“So let’s go through this again. You didn’t at any point say, ‘Hi, my name is Josh, what’s yours?’ You didn’t think to do that?”
“No, we just got talking, and then I was planning on getting her details later, but before I knew it I lost her in the crowds.”
“Are you sure she wasn’t trying to lose you at the first opportunity?” Jake jokes.
“Stop it,” Jessie scolds Jake.
“No, definitely not. It was her idea for us to come and cheer Jessie on together. She started talking to me, or maybe I did, I can’t remember. But no, definitely not. It was definitely mutual. She wouldn’t have run off.”
Would she?
I start doubting myself.
“Did you say anything to her before this that may have put her off? You didn’t mention, I don’t know, the coin, proposing to your ex . . . ?”
“No, I didn’t say anything bad. We were having a really nice time. She definitely liked me too.”
Didn’t she?
“I know it sounds crazy, but I really liked her. Like, really. Since Jade, I’ve not been interested in anyone, and well, we just had this spark, you know what I mean? How am I going to find her?”
“Let’s go and look for her. She can’t have got too far,” Jessie says, throwing off her foil blanket.
“Surely you want to go and lie down?”
“No, I’ll be fine. It’s not every day you meet the one. Come on, let’s go and find her. I’ll just text my parents that I will meet them a bit later,” Jessie says as she hobbles along.
We head down The Mall, past the Duke of York column.
“Where were you when you got separated?”
“Just by Embankment Station. The police were trying to control the crowds, and I presume she got stuck on the other side of the road.”
“So chances are she will still be around there? No one can get anywhere very quickly with all this congestion.”
“She might be, but I have a feeling she might have gone back to the gallery. She suggested that we go back there to see Van Gogh’s Sunflowers after we saw you.”
“OK, how about we head to Embankment, and if we can’t find her there we’ll go to the gallery?” Jessie suggests. “What does she look like?”
As we trudge along the streets behind all the other tired runners, I try and picture her in my head.
“So sh
e’s probably in her early to mid twenties. Dark hair, up in a bun. About five feet five.”
“And what was she wearing?”
“She has a yellow jacket on, with denim jeans . . . and a handbag with different-color badges on.” I try to recall as much as I can.
We walk along the bottom edge of Trafalgar Square, the National Gallery looming at the other end.
“Should we split up so we can cover more ground?” Jake suggests. “One of us could walk around Embankment and the other two go straight to the gallery?”
“Yes, that sounds sensible.” I consider where she is most likely to be, before flipping the coin to decide where I should go.
“What’s the verdict?” Jake asks, as we’re separated by a stream of people.
“Me and Jessie will go to the gallery. Are you happy to try Embankment?”
“Yes, I will accost anyone who matches her description.”
“Thanks very much, Jake.” We head in the opposite direction and approach the same security guard who stopped me before. This time he lets both of us in without any holdup, despite our unicorn costumes.
I think to myself that in London, with an additional 650,000 marathon spectators, the odds of finding her are about as good as seeing a real-life unicorn.
“I’m sorry, I haven’t even said congratulations yet,” I apologize to Jessie as we head up the stone steps. In all my excitement, I realize I’ve hijacked her big moment.
“That’s OK, you’ve listened to me talking about the marathon enough for the last few months anyway. This is much more important.”
“Excuse me, where is Van Gogh’s Sunflowers?” I ask one of the volunteers patrolling the room.
“In Room 44, so just straight on and head right.”
As we head through the gallery looking out for her, it feels like déjà vu. This time, though, I know where she’s going to be.
She’s going to be by Sunflowers, waiting for me.
I walk across the laminated flooring and, as the crowd thins, I spot the painting. The shades of glowing yellow paint captivate me before I look around the room.
Where is she?
We pace from room to room, looking for her.
