I let the truth wash over me, a truth I never thought I would have. ‘But it didn’t fail?’
‘No… it didn’t.’ He smiles. ‘This one worked.’
‘But you said he never knew you were sober, that you never got to apologise.’
‘Yousaid that Ettie didn’t know I was sober; I never corrected you. As for the apology, I said sorry to him many times but it wasn’t the kind of apology I needed to say. Those ones are formulated much later, when your life has moved on so much you can really look back and see who you left in your wake.’ He takes the picture from my lap, studies it with a soft smile on his face. ‘This was my last day. He picked me up to drive me to the station but we stopped at the beach on the way, the beach we came to when we were kids. It was nice, being together again. It felt like the end of something and the beginning all at once. And then you called me eight days later.’ He clears his throat. ‘And that was that. He was gone.’
‘I never knew.’ I reach out, take his hand in mine and squeeze it. I look down at the picture, at Ettie’s face, and notice how happy he looks, how relieved. ‘If I’d have known I would have reached out more, after Ettie I mean. I wouldn’t have gone back to London without saying anything…’
‘I know.’ He squeezes my hand back. ‘But I kind of like the fact that you didn’t really know me then. I like the fact that you get to know this version of me. I like him much more.’ I see the bashful pride on his face, how calm he looks now that the whole truth is out there. I think of all the horrific microaggressions I used to harbour for him – the anger, resentment, pity – and I hate myself a little for it. That underneath the old Florian was just Ettie’s little brother, the man sitting next to me now.
‘He’s growing on me.’
Florian smiles to himself and then clears his throat. ‘Well, here’s to you surviving your first hit and run.’ He gets to his feet in order for our glasses to touch and then stays standing. ‘Can I show you something?’ He looks nervously at a door in the corner.
‘That sounds ominous.’
He grabs two coats and throws one at me and heads to a door at the back of the house, grabbing the remainder of the bottle of wine on our way out. It leads to a cold, stark little passageway that he takes me down until we get to another door.
‘Now, it’s not finished, so don’t judge it too harshly.’ He reaches into the darkness of the room and flicks the switch, sending iridescent light streaming onto every cement surface. In the middle of the room, standing around 10 feet high and around 5 inches diameter is the statue, white and speckled with glinting flashes of alabaster. It takes a while to adjust to the sheer size of it, the ridiculousness of this sculpture in the middle of the shabby studio, where plaster is splattered on every inch of ceiling and skirting and floorboard.
I step towards it, reach my hand out and run it along the base. There are birds in all different stages of flight and size, skimming the surface. Flowers trail up to the calves of the central figure: a woman, holding in her hands a pomegranate as her hair falls around her shoulders like seaweed, so smooth and fluid. I move around it, my fingers tracing the indentations he has so delicately carved out. I follow the line from where her bare palm reaches for her counterpart across the rock: a man, cowering below, prostrate, his face pained, whilst around him the flowers turn to strangling weeds knotting around his thighs, but still his hand reaches with such determination towards hers.
I turn my gaze to the sculptor who stands watching me take it all in. His arms are clutched around his body, his feet tapping out an unsteady beat.
‘It’s beautiful, so beautiful.’ It comes out as a soft murmur.
‘You like it?’
‘How could you not?’
‘You get the reference?’
‘Now with my limited ancient knowledge, I’d say she’s Persephone?’
‘A+.’
‘But him?’
‘I wanted to look at the story from Hades’ perspective. Whilst everyone celebrates Persephone’s ascendence back to the living for half the year, I imagined Hades, rooted in the Underworld with all the things that are doomed and dying whilst she lives and flourishes without him. He gets his love, for a while, but knows that she will always have to leave him. Whilst Persephone thrives, Hades dies.’
‘One forced to die, the other forced to live. Why does that sound familiar?’ I manage a wry smile as my fingers retrace the point where the couple’s fingers touch.
‘It’s not about Ettie,’ Florian says quickly, his voice suddenly sharp.
‘Okay…’ I hold my hands up, jokingly at first, until I realise that Florian’s voice isn’t softening; instead his head turns to me, his eyes pointed.
‘Ettie’s death isn’t something I’m ever going to make art about. I can promise you that.’
‘Why not?’
‘At the very least it’s a bit obvious, at its worst it’s sleazy, you know – making money from something so tragic.’
‘I don’t know…’ I go to defend myself, as if it’s a personal attack – and I guess it is, because that’s exactly what I’m doing, isn’t it? Florian agrees with the troll in my Instagram comments who told me I was an opportunist who only got my book deal because my husband snuffed it.
Florian takes a gulp before clearing his throat, not letting me finish my point. ‘You know when it first happened, I was living with this guy and the second thing he said to me after the obligatory, “I’m sorry,” was some shitty comment about how I could make a series of sculptures about it.’
‘Well yeah that feels a bit callous but—’
