Shit, shit, shit. Tears streaming down my face, I headed to the box room. What had I done? I pushed the thought from my mind. I needed to get my things. Fast. Scrap by scrap I forced the semblance of my messy life back into my rucksack. Sam had made it look so easy to lug around. Now I had to carry it alone. Hoisting it onto my back, I made for the door. I couldn’t bear to look at the sorry reflection that taunted me from the floor-length mirror. Sam’s pretty pansy was gone.
I placed my hand on the door handle and looked back across the room. It was just how I found it; like I was never here, except… I reached down into the bedside table and pulled out the broken photo frame I had stashed in the drawer. I placed it back on the table top. Sam and Jamie, the perfect couple, broken and cracked. Because of me. I took one last look at the photograph, one final look at Sam’s surfboard, and then turned to leave the box room for good.
Chapter 30
I looked down at my rucksack on the pavement, quite literally kicked to the kerb, as I heard the bus pull away behind me. I bent my knees and prepared to lift it. I already had the weight of the world on my shoulders, now I had to lug this bloody great thing around too.
This couldn’t be happening. Sam had missed me; he’d said he loved me. But as a friend. I replayed our time together, unable to marry my version to his. Friend; I could really do with one of them right now. At least I had a job, I thought as I walked across the road to CreateSpace trying hard not to compare my rucksack-clad, puffy-eyed self to the designer-draped co-curator from two days ago.
It was time to tell Tim that I had decided to stay on, to see the exhibition through to the end and to explore how we could work together in the future. At least I’d be making one person happy. The exhibition would be opening to the public tomorrow and if the press event was anything to go by it should be a sell-out, keeping all three of us busy all hours of the day.
I breathed slowly, trying to salvage the scraps of my Sydney life. Maybe things would be okay. I didn’t need Sam and Jamie and their box room to make something of myself here. If there even was a Sam and Jamie any more. The thought made my stomach churn. I had been so happy, knocking back drink after drink with Joshua. And now I’d hurt his sister. And him – someone who had only ever looked out for me. I tried desperately not to question what he must think of me now, his disappointed eyes piercing through the foggy missed memories of last night. Something told me our Saturday surfing sessions had seen their last.
As I walked into the reception, the guys at the desk barely lifted their heads. Friday’s compliments and smiles were gone. Had Jamie told Tim what had happened already? My sickness reared. I wouldn’t have made anything of myself here without Jamie and her connections. I stashed my rucksack behind the desk. Neither one of the receptionists questioned it – maybe the answers were too obvious. Slowly, and with shaking hands, I opened the door into the first room. The morning colours, once so joyful, now glared garishly down at me, causing a new wave of nausea to rush through my body. Tim stood, looking into Nameless, the same small blue painting that Sam and I had studied only days before. My heart ached at the memory. I swallowed the thought and hopelessly gathered the sparse shards of strength and sobriety I had left.
‘Great piece, isn’t it?’
Tim didn’t respond. He didn’t even turn to look at me. He knew. I had hurt his precious Jamie, after she had been so generous and hospitable and perfect. And I hadn’t exactly been a great friend to him either; all of those extended lunchbreaks with my mystery man and not once did I tell him he was pushing me further into the gap between his two friends, that he was an accessory to my ex-boyfriend-seducing crime. I probably wasn’t the worst person in the world, but I couldn’t think of anyone more deserving of the title right now.
‘Tim?’ I asked again. ‘I have something to tell you.’ I knew he was angry. But I couldn’t stand here in silence all day; the volunteers would be here soon – at least now he’d know his understaffed days were behind him.
‘Jessica.’ Tim turned to me slowly, long grey T-shirt skimming his tartan-covered thighs. He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply, his tone indicating that now wasn’t the moment for good news. I’d ask him tomorrow. For the meantime, I had to stay and face whatever it was Jamie had told him, to apologise for being so dishonest when I felt like I was the only one being honest with my feelings. Tim’s tired eyes took me in. Part of me wanted to run away; I couldn’t handle another person being mad at me today. I wished that Tim would scoop me up in his big bear arms and let me tell him everything and say that Sam was an idiot and he had led me on and he’d never liked Jamie anyway and that everything would be okay. Everything had to be okay.
‘Jessica,’ Tim said again, looking down at his feet. ‘I have to let you go.’
Let me what? Another wave of sickness hit me and I could feel the tears coming. This couldn’t be happening. Not because of one silly drunken mistake.
‘Tim,’ I began, ready to drop to my knees. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Tears started to fall from my eyes. ‘I was so drunk I could hardly speak and I… I’ve decided I don’t want to work for Art Today any more. This gallery, the work, you – you’ve inspired me so much… I want to stay on, for as long as you’ll have me—’
‘Jessica,’ Tim interrupted, shaking his head and putting a hand to his brow. ‘It was a press event; you were meant to represent us. It was your idea to invite them in the first place. I figured you’d had a bit to drink, but so much you could barely speak…’ He let the end of his sentence fade into the expanse between us.
I looked at him through tear-filled eyes. Lost, in every sense of the word.
‘The press night? I wasn’t too drunk at the press night…’ I stammered, unable to hide my confusion.
‘But you just said—’
‘I thought you were talking about…’ I stopped myself. Maybe he didn’t know about the Sam thing after all. And if he was angry about something at the press night I didn’t want to hand him even more material to paint a picture of me as the absolute fuck-up I was clearly proving to be. I racked my brain for press night hiccups, literal or metaphorical, but drew a blank. It had been a success, we had been a success. Tim had even said so. Without a word, Tim reached into his pocket and placed a piece of paper in my hand. It was a print-out of an email. Shaking, I read the subject line and the sender’s name:
SUBJECT: PA – THETIC ATTEMPTS AT CREATESPACE
FROM: H. A. SOMMERS
I glanced up to look at Tim, who was studying my expression with an intensity that made every one of my hairs stand on end. Hannah Sommers. My mind quickly shot back to our interview, recalling blurry words against the same colourful backdrops that surrounded us now. Had she found out? I hadn’t mentioned jobs, hadn’t asked her for anything. And Tim hadn’t spoken a word to her either. Nor had Olivia, other than our introduction – too fearful of putting her foot in it. I’d made sure of it. I’d kept them apart. I’d watched Hannah leave. All I’d expected from Sommers was a stunning review, but looking from Tim’s distraught face to the message in my hand, I knew this wasn’t it. I read on: