‘I’m fine. I’m happy. I’m also going to finish this prosecco and then go home and cry properly because my ex-husband… no, my best friend is standing in a gallery being seen… truly seen… and it’s beautiful, and it’s making me a complete mess.’
She kissed his cheek. Held him for a moment, She’d let go years ago and was glad she had. Then she stepped back. Wiped under one eye with her thumb.
‘Don’t cock it up,’ she said.
‘I’ll try.’
‘Try harder.’ She smiled. ‘I always say that.’
‘And you’re always right.’
She turned to Rory. Kissed his cheek too. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
She left. He watched her go, green dress, blonde hair, the walk he’d loved for ten years and would love differently forever, and the gratitude in his chest was so large it had no edges.
Late. The gallery emptying. Staff collecting glasses. They stood side by side in front of the painting. The canvas above them, Neil’s face, forward, terrified, brave, bare.
‘You know what happens now,’ Rory said.
‘What happens now?’
‘The review comes out. The painting gets discussed. Someone will know.’
‘I know they’ll know.’
‘And you’re…’
‘I’m standing in a gallery holding your hand in front of a painting of my own face. I came back, Rory. I’m here.’
‘Yeah.’ The smile. The real one. ‘You’re here.’
The gallery owner made a brief speech. Thanked the artist. Thanked the sponsors. Mentioned that ten canvases had sold, including a private offer on the final piece that had been declined by the artist on grounds that, she glanced at Rory, ‘it’s not for sale.’
‘It’ll never be for sale,’ Rory said quietly. To Neil. ‘That’s yours.’
‘Where will it go?’
‘Wherever you want.’
They stood there. The painting above. Evening light through the warehouse windows. The ordinary city doing its ordinary business outside while inside a converted warehouse two men looked at a canvas that had taken eight months and a padlock and a brass hasp and a lifetime of turning away to produce.
‘Take me home,’ Neil said.
‘Your flat or mine?’
‘Either,’ Neil said.
He found Rory's hand as they moved towards the door. His shoulders had been up around his ears for the whole of the private view. He only felt them drop when the cold air outside hit his face. Twenty years of carriage. Set down on a pavement.
They left the gallery together. Behind them, the painting watched the empty room.
18
CELEBRATION
Back to Rory's flat.It was where Neil needed to be.
Where he'd first stayed.
