What have I got to lose?
Chapter 7
As I sit on the bus the next day, feeling it bump and roll through streets, I twiddle my phone between my fingers. I’m still studying the estate agent’s advertisement for the old bank in Sheffield. It hasn’t been updated with a sold tag, so a glimmer of hope still dances on the horizon. When a voiceover announces the next stop as Elephant and Castle, I change buses.
A man who boards reminds me of Kit. As he searches for a seat, he makes eye contact with me and my chest loosens with a freshly expelled breath. Not him. I bristle again at the memory of his words and am glad when the stranger finally opts for the top floor of the bus.
With everything else on my mind, I try not to think about his blond hair or insults. Regardless of what he thinks of my photo, art has always been subjective. Just because he doesn’t rate it doesn’t mean it’s terrible. Showing my work has always felt like the artistic equivalent of walking naked down the street and asking people to point out my flaws. If Kit is an artist worth his salt, he already knows this. I pop a mint in my mouth and peer out the window to the inner-city landscape.
The high-rise buildings full of shimmering glass are a world away from the suburban landscape of yesterday, the rows of semi-detached houses, charming front yards, and supermarket superstores. Today, after so many years, the city feels foreign to me, as if I know my time here is winding down, whether I’ve made a final decision or not.
On our way out the door this morning (because Fiona insisted we stay the night), Dad handed me bundles of newspapers he’d rooted out of the recycling. They were full of job ads and opportunities, he reminded me, if I wanted to look at something else before throwing myself into the world of owning a business. He knows from experience it’s not easy. Tacked on the end was that it was fine if I wanted to move home, too. My old bedroom was always there for me. I promised I’d at least think about his offer.
As much as I love my dad, I’m thirty-five. I don’t want to be sneaking men down the hallway in the middle of the night, especially considering that squeaky floorboard everybody manages to find in the dark has never been fixed.
The early morning drive home with Adam was a complete contrast to the questioning I received on the journey up yesterday. Unlike his usual bull in a china shop approach, he prodded with gentle questions as he tried to measure my direction, to help me piece together all my alternatives. No matter what I wanted to say, or the ideas I spitballed, I couldn’t find the words to sum up exactly where my brain was at.
Opening my own art gallery is such a tantalising idea. It would mean skipping all those years of hard slog and diving straight into a role I’ve created for myself. I would truly be the captain of my own ship, displaying the art I wanted to, when I wanted to, and without worrying about losing out on work to someone who’s both less experienced and happy to compromise their principles and play games. My work would finally stand for something.
On the downside, it would be a massive leap of faith. I can’t pretend it would be anything less than the biggest gamble of my life, and the idea of risking all the money I’ve saved sets my brain to spin cycle. Anyone undertaking a venture of this scale would feel the same.
It would also mean shuttering the life I’ve known in London and leaving it all behind. Friends, acquaintances, gallery contacts and, most importantly, my brother. It’s dialling back the years even further and starting completely from scratch. Fair to say, I feel like a bit of a failure right now.
Heading back into employment and proving myself through promotions is appealing if I decide I’m keen on coasting through life with the nine to five crowd. It’s the accepted norm, isn’t it? Lose one job, sidestep immediately into another one. That, and no one would be able to say I’d skived on the hard yards later on, could they? But even as I searched job advertisements at two o’clock this morning, moonlight illuminating my childhood bedroom, there was a niggling voice in the back of my head that shouted, ‘Well, you did walk out for a reason, and it had better be good.’ That was before realising the number of roles for thirty-somethings with a master’s degree are, not surprisingly, few and far between.
I decide the best course of action is to investigate both options equally: make plans as well as continuing to apply for jobs. A foot in both camps makes sense. At least if I spread my net wide and score a job, it’ll bring some money in if the gallery plan goes pear-shaped. I hope it doesn’t; I already have my heart set on it.
I glance up from my phone in time to see my stop. I shuffle along with pedestrian traffic and head towards Lainey’s new flat.
She lives with Frank in a two-bedroom Bermondsey duplex. After scouring the internet for months and dragging me along to more open days than I care to remember, they collected the keys less than a month ago. It’s rundown, needing a serious coat of paint and the front yard is muddy rubble, but they wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s affordable on their wages while still being close enough to the city. For me, I love that it’s a nice change of scenery from my fifth-floor flat with views of a laneway coffee shop and what I’m certain have been more than a few drug deals.
Lainey’s brow creases as she opens her front door. She’s wearing a crown of sawdust. ‘Did you sleep last night?’
‘I’ll bet John stayed over,’ Frank sings out from the kitchen.
My brain trips. If only that were the height of my problems. Surprisingly, he’s been firmly planted at the back of my mind in all this; barely rated a mention, which tells me more than I’d care to admit.
‘No, nothing like that.’ I step past Lainey into their cramped but comfortable lounge room. It’s the first room they renovated upon moving in. This morning’s coffee cups are still sitting on a perfectly reflective glass table, and a chunky aqua throw that would look right at home in a John Lewis catalogue is a new addition to the grey fabric sofa. I drop my handbag on one of the recliners and follow her through to the kitchen, where Frank makes me one of his perfectly poured coffees. Today, a frothy little cat greets me.
‘You okay?’ he asks, angling himself into my line of sight. ‘You know, considering. Lainey told me. Sounds shit.’
‘Me? Yeah, I’m fine.’ I cradle my mug and focus on its contents in an attempt to avoid conversation. ‘Thank you.’
I watch as my friends go about their carefully crafted morning routine. Coffees are drunk, looks are shared, and words I can’t begin to understand are exchanged. Couples always seem to have their own secret language, don’t they? Only when I see these two am I reminded I don’t share this with anyone.
I suspect it’s what I’m missing, too. That warm ease of comfort. John and I don’t have shared words or codes for anything. We don’t even have a favourite restaurant we can meet at. We simply exist in each other’s orbit for one of Maslow’s extremely basic human needs. At some point, it’s not enough, is it?
When Frank leaves for the day, carting a set of golf clubs behind him and mumbling about the needs of the bank manager outweighing the need to visit the hardware store (arm swinging towards the hallway wall covered in splotches of sanded-down plaster), he takes Lainey in an embrace. Arms wrapped around her, he dips her into a Pepé Le Pew pose and peppers her face with kisses. She laughs so loudly, I’m sure the people in the next street can hear her.