“Not everyone. I don’t think the Prime Minister has seen it yet. But then, he’s a little busy trashing the economy,” Ari joked.
“Can I see it?” Tom asked abruptly. “I mean, would that be okay? I know it’s a work in progress, and I wouldn’t want to intrude, but...” He trailed off, suddenly worried he’d overstepped.
Ari was looking at him thoughtfully, chewing on her bottom lip.
“Okay.” She nodded slowly. “Why not?”
* * *
Tom loved Ari’s house. It was small but perfect, and it smelled like her and Reine. He remembered the first time he’dvisited, the house unnaturally pristine, with Ari looking both absurdly ashamed and proud of her home at the same time.
“It’s just a typical two-up, two-down,” she’d explained. “But it was all I could afford, and I had the kitchen re-done, and the bathroom too.”
Tom hadn’t seen the flaws Ari was fixated on. He didn’t see the slightly worn carpets, or the faded curtains, or the crack in one of the kitchen tiles. Instead, he saw a warm, colourful and pleasant home with Reine’s drawings on the fridge and boots by the door and flowers in a vase and realised, with an overwhelming feeling of pride, that Ari had accomplished it all by herself. She was amazing — Ari — and her home helped prove it.
When Ari unlocked the door and led him in, switching on the lights, she slipped her heels off by the door and motioned for him to follow her.
“Do you, um, want a cup of tea or anything?” she asked him. “Or I have wine. I have all the wine,” she added, giving a self-effacing laugh. “Red, white and pink.”
“Tea would be great,” Tom replied, even though he hated tea, which tasted bitter, earthy and almost soap-like to him. He couldn’t understand why the British were wedded to the stuff, the whole nation seemingly coming to a stop at four o’clock so they could drink the vile brown brew. He knew Ari loved tea though, and Reine likewise drank it, though hers was always served weak and milky, with a chocolate biscuit on the side.
Ari stopped, turning back to look at him.
“You hate tea,” she said, her voice flat. “You used to drink coffee whenever I had my tea.”
“Yeah.” Tom ran his hand through his hair. “But you offered tea.”
Ari smiled at him. “I was being English. Offering tea is just a way of making people feel welcome, and youarewelcome here, Tom. I also offered you wine, you know.”
Tom paused. “I didn’t want to say yes, just in case that you, I don’t know, thought I drank too much,” he replied, somewhat sheepishly.
Ari looked at him for a long moment. “Tom,” she finally said, “I know you’re a good father to Reine. I’m not going to take her away from you. Please stop thinking you’re on probation with me or something, okay? I’m going to have a glass of wine, and it would be lovely if you would have one with me.”
Tom smiled at how easily Ari had read him, feeling his shoulders relax a little. “Okay, thanks. Another red would be lovely.”
Ari nodded, pouring out two glasses and handing one to Tom.
“Come on,” she told him, “I’ll show you the painting. It isn’t finished, obviously, so please don’t judge it.”
“I won’t judge it, I promise,” Tom replied as Ari began leading him up the stairs. “Are you happy with how it’s coming along?”
Ari nodded. “I think so. You know me, sometimes I get hours into a painting and then inspiration deserts me. This time, though, I’m happy. It’s good to have a brush in my hand again.”
She waved him into her bedroom, and Tom swallowed. He’d never been in this room before.
He’d seen Reine’s room, obviously, with its white-framed single bed, fairy lights along one wall and books covering nearly every surface. Ari’s room, though, was different. It was small, not much bigger than Reine’s room, with light green walls and natural wood furniture. It was neat and tidy, although clothes were strewn across the bed, and pot plants covered her windowsill, a flood of vibrant green that smelled clean and fresh.On her bedside table was a pile of books, mostly poetry and cosy mysteries, with a half-finished mug of tea balanced precariously beside them.
Being here, in Ari’s personal space, was intimate and revealing, and it suddenly occurred to Tom that he’d never been in any of her bedrooms before. She was the love of his life and had borne his child, but their history had taken place in sparse hotel rooms, rental cars and the occasional tent or caravan. They’d travelled across Europe together, sharing beds, bathrooms and cupboard space, but they’d neverlivedtogether. Not really. Tom recalled the little knick-knacks and mementos Ari had bought as they’d journeyed from country to country, each item a small hint into her mind and world. They’d only been hints though — Tom hadn’t been with Ari long enough to learn that she preferred earthy colours to bright ones, that she read cosy mysteries before she slept, or that she was so frightened of small spaces her window was nearly always kept open.
He still had so much to learn about her. There was still so much he didn’t know.
“What do you think then?” Ari asked, gesturing to the corner of her room. Her easel swallowed up an enormous portion of the little bedroom, and paint splatters were clear on the nearby wall. An old, large piece of fabric protected the carpet, and Tom stepped on it gingerly, not wanting to disturb the space she’d reserved for the thing that, after Reine, he knew she loved best.
“It’s amazing,” he breathed out, as his eyes swept across the canvas before him.
It was a woodland scene set at dusk. The trees were captured perfectly, so textured and real that Tom could nearly feel the rough bark beneath his fingertips. The scene was dark, with only a little autumnal light filtering through the heavy canopy of bronze, red and orange leaves above. The work was sweepingand painstakingly rendered, and Tom knew Ari had put her heart and soul into this piece.
“It’s wonderful,” he added, shaking his head in admiration for her talent. “Honestly, Ari, you’ve outdone yourself. It’s a work of art.”
