I don’t want things handed to me. I want to feel the innate satisfaction of knowing that, while things can get hairy at times, I’ve worked for the results. I want to come home to someone who appreciates and understands what and why I’m doing the things I do. What does he even mean when he says I can come back and check up on the gallery occasionally? If his thoughts are in line with his words, then he likely still perceives art as a bit of a ‘finger painting’ hobby.
And I can’t gel with that.
Look, I know people can change. Hell, my moving across-country involved a whole lot of bitter humble pie and changing my perspective on people and things, so I can’t discount that he’s genuine when he says that things need to change.
But he is a lawyer, and don’t they just love a good bit of precedent? By that token, he’s told me he’s going to change before and done nothing about it. There’s all the proof I need that this is never going to get any better. All he’s doing is giving me what he thinks I want in the hope it’ll calm me down and the carousel of life will continue. But it can’t. My life has changed, and I don’t think he has a place in it anymore.
I need to go to Loxley. I need to see Christopher, to explain all of this to him. I consider heading up there immediately, only he’ll be in the middle of class and the last thing I want on top of this morning is to look like an unprofessional harpy in front of his class. So, I hole up in my flat for the morning and scramble to tidy the darkroom, anything to keep my mind off what’s happening although, as it turns out, that’s a fail, too.
Because the first thing I see as I walk through the door are our photos, still strung up where we left them the morning of that fateful lesson. They’re full of playful smiles and knowing looks that spoke volumes at the time, but sound like the gaping hole of silence right now. God, I really have screwed this up, haven’t I?
Lainey may have called me upwards of twenty times since I walked out of the bowling alley last night but, judging by the text messages that have accompanied them, she’s calling to give me a backlog of my errors, and not because she wants to be friends again. It feels like a complete undoing of the last sixteen years of my life, and I’m bereft at the loss.
The only way to counter my confusion is to step outside and get some fresh air. I can’t run, but I can get away from the moment and spend some time thinking about my next steps and what I want to say to Christopher when I see him.
So, how do I explain what he saw? I’m gone for what feels like hours, chewing over the idea that, yes, this morning looked bad. Really bad. But it wasn’t quite what it seemed. Actually, it really was what it looked like. I can’t wrap this up any other way than to tell him the truth. I step into Sainsbury’s for a chocolate croissant because, if nothing else, I’ll get to enjoy something this morning.
DECLINED.
Huh? I frown at the chip and pin machine. That can’t be right, I was sure there was something left in there. Not enough to get me home on the bus last night, but enough for a snack, at least on my credit card. Surely things aren’t that dire? I scramble out the door and into the street with nothing more than the receipt in my hand and burst into tears. It’s humiliating. When I check my banking app, a direct debit I’d forgotten about came in overnight and whisked away my last chance of buttery goodness.
That’s it. I’m broke, my best friend hates me, the man I thought could be something won’t answer his phone, and the one who could never work out what he wanted suddenly wants it all. For a breath, I consider calling John and saying yes. It’s the simplest solution to every problem I have in this very moment.
It’s an extremely fleeting moment, one that passes in the time it takes to walk past the Novotel, and I’m quick to remind myself why that’s a bad idea. Because: everything. Don’t be stupid, Katharine.
When I get home, I try Christopher’s phone again. It’s still switched off. I hate the idea that this might drag on, so I jump in my car and head out to Loxley. The least he can do is talk to me, even if it’s to tell me I’m the worst person he’s ever met. At least then I’ll have something to work with.
My insides feel like a washing machine the entire trip out there. Thoughts go to battle with gut feelings, and I talk back to the radio, rehearsing everything I want to say to him. It’s not quite relief when I find his car the only one parked outside, but I am glad he’s here.
My hands begin to shake. Sitting here fills me with all kinds of déjà vu. Like the first time I was here, there’s going to be little chance he wants to see me. But, unlike that day, I head straight for his front door and knock loudly. It’s not like I’ve got much more to lose.
No answer. I’m not sure I expected one, but I try again. I can sense the odd electronic static of a television that’s switched on and nearby somewhere. I don’t want to sound like a crazy woman, but wouldn’t it be better to come to the door and sort this out now? Because that’s exactly what I want to do, I follow the veranda that circles the house, down the side passage, past a neat as a pin bedroom and, there he is, sitting in his studio.
For weeks, I’ve wondered what this room would look like, where his art originates. Now that I’m here, I can’t quite concentrate to piece everything together. There’s a worn green velvet chaise piled high with curled papers and books about art. An easel sits in the window facing the hills, but it looks like most of the work happens on an oversized table in the middle of the room. It’s covered in jars of murky liquid, tubes of paint, brushes and spatulas. There he is, hunched over with his chin in his fist and dabbing at the canvas in front of him.
I knock on the glass bifold.
Startled, he topples from his seat, blinking up at me from the floor. As he stands, I get a better look at him, at the filthy paint-covered apron that’s knotted around him, at the smear of dark paint by his temple and the dot on the end of his nose. He crosses the room and cracks the door barely enough to breathe through.
‘What do you want?’ he asks.
‘You’re home.’
‘Where else would I be?’ he grumbles. ‘I do live here.’
‘Can I come in?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘But I need to talk to you.’ I wring my hands and chew my lip. ‘Please?’
He tries to close the door, so I stuff my foot through the gap. My nervousness is quickly replaced by anger. At least give me a chance to explain, I think.
‘Why do you do this?’ I demand.
‘Do what?’ he asks, annoyed, giving in, letting go of the door.
I take the opportunity to push past him into the room. ‘You reel me in like a fish on a lure. You dance around and dangle your big, beautiful brain in front of me and then you vanish. You don’t answer emails, phone calls, messages, nothing. Why? Why can’t you just talk to me?’
‘Oh, so this is a me problem?’ he says with a laugh. ‘I mean, sure, it’s completely my fault you ditched me for another man.’
‘I haven’t thrown you over,’ I say quietly.
‘I take it you turned down the engagement ring he flashed about before I left then?’ He lifts his eyes to meet mine. ‘Rock of bloody Gibraltar.’
My head snaps back and I stare at him. ‘What did he say to you?’