‘This is different.’
‘How?’
Eleanor shrugged. ‘He was so angry. He was so …mean.’ The echo of his words still made her wince in pain. ‘He’s never spoken to me like that before. Ever.’
‘Hmmm.’ Reggie picked up his pencil and began to fiddle with it. ‘Have you talked to him since?’
‘No. He’s called me a bunch of times but I don’t want to speak to him.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t.’ She swiped her brush across her canvas a little too viciously, leaving a big splodge of paint in its wake. ‘Argh, look at this mess.’
‘Stop.’ Reggie took the brush from her hand. ‘Take a minute before you make a complete cock-up of what was looking like a very nice piece of work.’ He flashed her a little smile. ‘Look, I’m going to be honest with you. Men are idiots. Trust me, I am one.’ He patted her hand gently. ‘And … men are even bigger idiots when they’ve been drinking. He probably didn’t mean half the things he said. Give him a chance to explain himself without half a bottle of poison in his veins.’
‘More like three litres of the stuff,’ she grumbled.
‘Wow, no wonder he was a complete arse then.’ Reggie chuckled, sensing Eleanor’s anger abating slowly. She gently wiped away the garish blob of paint from her picture, and sat back to assess the damage.
‘Did you two ever fight?’ she asked.
‘Who?’
Eleanor nodded at Reggie’s half-finished portrait. ‘You and your friend.’
‘Only once.’ A sad smile bloomed on to the old man’s face. ‘It was a big one, though.’
‘Really?’ Eleanor’s curiosity was rearing its head.
‘Hmmm.’ He sighed, a long deep sigh.
‘How did you make up?’
He sat back in his chair, staring forlornly at the picture in front of him. ‘We didn’t.’
‘Oh.’ Eleanor was desperate to know more but she knew Reggie was not a man to be pushed into talking, so she busied herself with cleaning her brushes and mixing new paints.
‘We didn’t speak for over fifty years,’ he continued quietly. ‘By the time I got back in touch … he was dead.’
Eleanor stopped her ruse of activity and stared into the crinkled eyes of her friend. ‘I’m sorry,’ she replied softly.
‘It’s OK.’ He waved his hand, dismissing her apology. ‘It was my own fault. I don’t know if you know this about me, but I can be very stubborn at times.’ Reggie gave a strained excuse of a smile.
‘You can’t blame yourself entirely. Two people make up a friendship, it wasn’t just you.’ Eleanor couldn’t stand the sadness in his eyes; it was too much for her already bruised heart to take.
‘No, but I was the one who walked away.’
Eleanor’s stomach lurched, the unanswered voicemails and missed calls from Fin sending prickles of guilt across her skin.
She forced her attention back to Reggie.
‘Why didn’t you go back? What happened?’
The old man closed his eyes and shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,’ she apologized, praying that the disgruntled, vibrant Reggie that she knew and loved would return and replace this broken, deflated version.
‘I was too scared,’ he whispered. ‘Back then, things weren’t like they are now. It was a different world.’
