“It’s not the nudity that’s the problem. Cora’s scared to death of clowns.”
“They are a bit mad,” he admitted, giving his demonic circus a sidelong glance. “What was I going through back then?”
“Me,” she said, then laughed. Piper took a step forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Good to see you.”
“You too. You look lovely.”
“You’re not so bad yourself. Cleaned up, I see. No more hipster beard.” She patted his cheek. His breakup misery beard was long gone. He’d even dressed up, which for him meant a clean pair of jeans, a T-shirt with no holes in it, and a tailored black blazer. And he’d cut his hair and started running again, so he looked like a human being, which was quite a step up from how he used to look, like self-loathing brought to life.
“The beard had to go,” Hugo said. “I found a spider in it one day.”
“The glasses are new, aren’t they? Very chic. Bifocals?”
“Don’t even joke about that.”
Smiling, she took his glasses off and put them on herself. The black frames looked much better on her than him, in his opinion.
“If Monet had these,” she said, looking at herself in her phone camera, “we never would have had impressionism.” She slipped the glasses off and returned them to him.
“Bad eyesight has made the career of many a painter. Myself included.” He slipped his glasses back on, and Piper came beautifully into focus again. “Tell us, how’s Bob the Knob?”
“Rob.Not Bob. Not a knob. My husband. And he’s wonderful.”
“Still pet sitting?”
“He’s a veterinary surgeon, as you know, and yes, he is. How’s Jack? Any better? Or should I not ask?”
He hesitated before answering. “Possibly? I hear the typewriter sometimes at night. Loud enough to wake the dead. And he’s cut back on his drinking.”
“Does that mean you’re moving out? Finally?”
“Apparently so.”
She gave him a look that seemed to say,I’ll believe it when I see it.But she was nice enough to keep that comment to herself.
“Is that why you’re here?” Her tone was lightly amused but suspicious. Any woman would be when her ex-lover showed up at her workplace. “Moving to the Village?”
“Considering it. You'd have to hate yourself to pay these rents around here, so I should fit right in.”
“Oh, Hugo. I swear, the more successful you are, the more miserable you are.” She was annoyed with him now. He’d missed annoying her.
“No, no.” He waved his finger at her. “The more miserable I am, the more successful I am. Got to suffer for the art, yeah? Why do you think I did my best work after you chucked me out on my arse?”
Piper gave him a wave goodbye and turned on her heel. “Not listening to this anymore.”
She started to walk away, and Hugo jogged a few steps to catch up with her.
“I don’t blame you,” he said. “I would have chucked me out too.”
“Nobody chucked you out. You chose to continue hiding on that island with Jack over moving back to the real world and starting a life with me.”
“The real world’s overpriced. And you can’t deny I did some damn good work after you left.” This was true. After Piper broke up with him, he started painting Clock Island landscapes—the herd of piebald deer, the moon reflecting off the ocean, the lighthouse, the abandoned park…all in shades of watercolor gray, the colors of heartbreak. Those abstract landscapes attracted the attention of the wider art world for the first time in his life. People over the age of eighteen finally knew his name. So why was he hoping against hope that Jack was writing again? Did he really miss painting pirate ships and castles and kids climbing a secret staircase to the moon?
Maybe a little.
“I have two things to tell you. Number one—you’re full of shit—and number two—”
“Full of shit should be number two if you think about it.” He tapped his temple.
