“—which you hate.” Marnie can’t help herself from breaking in, but Tom ignores her, carrying on as if she hasn’t spoken at all.
“—and I have Sasha to think of now too.”
Who I hate,Marnie thinks, though she bites her tongue on that one.
“Will Sasha live with you?” she asks instead, running a hand along a white chaise longue. Suddenly, this room makes more sense. Tom, she realises with a start, hasn’t chosen a damn thing in this room, or this entire apartment. No. This whole apartment with its cream and white theme and gold-edged frames reeks of Sasha and her grasping, new-moneyed hands.
“Eventually,” Tom replies, but Marnie hears the hesitation in his voice.
“Tom—” she begins, but he suddenly looks anguished, holding up a hand to stop her.
“Don’t, Mom, please don’t.”
“I just want you to be happy, Tom.”
“So do I,” he agrees, but he still looks wounded. Not for the first time, Marnie sees the lines around Tom’s eyes, the tiredness in his face, the sheer brokenness of her son’s body. He looks and sounds beaten by life, and she longs to reach out and take that sadness away from him.
“I want to be happy, Mom,” he carries on, sinking into a nearby chair. “I’m tired of grieving. I’m tired of this half-life, of waiting for someone to walk through my door who I know will never—” abruptly, Tom stops. He shakes his head, running a hand tiredly over his forehead. “I need to live again. I want to be happy. Dad told me to be happy. He wanted me to be happy.”
“Yes, but with Sasha? I just—”
“Mom,” Tom implores again. “I have no other choice.”
“Of course you do!” Marnie argues. “You’re attractive and clever and kind and... and of course you have other choices, Tom!”
Tom shakes his head at her sadly. “No, Mom. I guess what I mean is... I’ve made my choice.”
Marnie exhales heavily, trying to keep the annoyed huff from leaving her lips. Standing taller, she spins on her heels — although it’s nearly impossible on this high, velvet pile carpet, which creeps around her ankles like a fucking nylon jungle — and heads away from the main living area, following a narrow hall towards the bathroom. With a scowl, she passes the bedroom, which is decadent and plush and looks very much like a nineteenth-century whore’s boudoir, before she sees a darker, smaller room and pauses.
Pushing on the door, Marnie takes a closer look. This room is different from the others, with hardwood floors and light blue walls. There’s a desk by the window, covered in paperwork, though Marnie notes, with a flush of pleasure, a well-made model of a De Havilland Comet by the lamp. She feels a touch of Doug in this room, and knows, with absolute certainty, that this room is Tom’s through and through. There’s no Sasha in this room. There’s just her son.
Looking up, she suddenly finds herself taking in the artwork on the walls. There are three paintings, all of a similar size and kept secure in simple wooden frames. Acrylic paint, Marnie decides, on oil canvas. Traditional and tasteful but also eye-catching. The first is of a mountain village at night, stars speckled above it. The second is of a pebbly beach at sunset, all oranges and pinks and light. The third, however, is much darker. It’s of a small child with dark hair, holding the hand of an unseen figure, staring out at a shattered landscape, with broken earth beneath her feet. Still staring at the image, shehears Tom enter the room behind her, and whistles under her breath.
“Sasha didn’t choose this,” she says matter-of-factly, and feels, rather than sees, Tom nod behind her.
“No.”
“You chose this,” Marnie adds. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yes.”
Marnie finally turns, indicating to all three paintings. “They’re all by the same artist?”
Tom swallows heavily, his eyes scanning over the paintings he’s clearly chosen, framed and hung. “Yeah... I, uh... I bought one of the artist’s paintings while in Europe.” He leans against the wall. “I guess it became a bit of an obsession.”
“You’ve been collecting their work?” Marnie asks, not displeased. An appreciation of art has always been strong in her family, and she’s happy to find Tom following suit.
“Yeah, I have. This one,” he indicates to the image of the small girl, “this is the last one they released. Took me a while to find it.”
“How do you know it’s the last one?”
“They haven’t released anything since.”
“Oh. Do you follow the artist online or something like that?” Marnie asks with interest.
“Just their art,” Tom replies, and he swallows again, full of discomfort.
“You should get in touch with them,” Marnie says, trying to show an interest in her son’s interests. “Ask if they’ll take a commission, ask them to—”
