The tourist withdrew with a warning glare.
“Please tell me where I’m going wrong in my appreciation,” I asked Elliot acidly, knowing he would foist that information on me anyway.
“I was struggling for so long with the relationship between Marla and Finn,” he said. “I was researching war and conflict and love for weeks straight, and then I stumbled across an image of this online.”
I peered at the image. “What’s it got to do with war?”
“The reference is subtle for sure,” he said, pointing. “Can you see the hidden dagger on the man’s belt?”
“Just.” If I squinted.
“This was painted during the Italian war of Independence,” Elliot said. “So, the fact the man is armed, combined with the time period, suggests he is off to combat.”
“Huh.” I rocked back on my heels.
“But look how tightly she grips him – her curled fingers digging into his arm. And see how his foot is on the step? He’s literally tearing himself away from her to go to war for his country. When you really think about it, there’s something so desperately … tragic about this picture but uplifting. Like … they have a love worth fighting for, but who knows if they’ll make it?”
For a long moment, I didn’t know what to say. There was something transformative about Elliot’s face when he got lost in a story. I’d noticed it in the writers’ room, and I was noticing it now; his expression grew soft, all tension gone. He looked free.
“Okay … that makes sense,” I said eventually. “I think what I’m missing is—”
Elliot threw his hands up. “If you say a fucking meet-cute right now, I swear to God—”
“If I could finish? Sometimes people need a little help. Why do you think museums hand out guides?” I gestured around us at the patrons, many of whom were wearing the museum-issued headsets and were clearly listening to the audio guide. “All I’m saying is, at times, in our script, like in this painting, the characters feel inaccessible. We need to let people in, and doing that doesn’t diminish the piece’s quality or worth.”
Elliot shuffled his feet. “Point taken,” he muttered.
“Clearly, my use ofmeet-cutegave the wrong message,” I went on. “But trust me when I say I do understand why you resisted me.”
He laughed. “Are you telling me you’re now irresistible?”
I flashed back to the first day I met him and blushed. “I meant – not likethat– I meant—” Oh good, the gibbering idiot from Have a Java had returned. “I was talking about why you didn’t want to work with me, nothing else—”
“I know what you meant,” he said with a low, throaty laugh, showing those dimples yet again.
He really had no business being this appealing. I turned back to the painting, trying to imagine myself making such a sacrifice and feeling grateful that I’d never had to. But then, I’d never been in love before, had I? My career had seen to that. And that had been my choice; after all, you opened yourself up to love, you opened yourself up to the possibility of the pain the couple inIl Baciowere facing. Was I better off for never having let someone in? Until recently, I’d always thought it was the most efficient form of existence. But look at Bex. Crushing it at work and about to start a new chapter with a wonderful man. Love wasn’t stoppingherfrom achieving greatness. What was wrong with me?
The bespectacled man popped up again, chasing away my troubling thoughts. “Excuse me,” he said to Elliot, “but my wife and I really would like to look at this properly and you’re so tall.”
“Come on,” Elliot said to me. “I paid entry, we should try and take some of this place in before we head back to the office.”
We drifted around the museum for a little while longer; there was so much to see it would truly take days. But I found it incredibly peaceful soaking it all in and, despite my initial irritation at Elliot’s attitude, I pushed myself to give the more abstract and obscure pieces of art a chance, which is how I found myself trapped staring at a circular painting of jewel-like shapes calledConey Island.
“Good choice.” Elliot’s deep rumble startled me.
“It’s a funfair, right?” The picture’s kaleidoscopic qualities did feel somewhat jubilant and sunny.
“Oh, Coney Island is so much more than a ‘funfair.’” Elliot’s eyes lit up. “We had lots of vacations there when I was a kid. It’s a boardwalk, a fair, a beach … It’s got everything.”
“Sounds a bit like Blackpool,” I said.
“Black Pool?” His pronunciation placed equal emphasis on both syllables.
“It’s a seaside town in the north of England,” I explained. “That’s where I spentmysummers as a kid. Riding donkeys, eating toffee apples and, of course, the illuminations.”
“Illuminations?” He mouthed the word as if it were one he’d never heard before.
“A light show,” I explained. “All along the seafront. Iconic and cheesy but so, so fun. More importantly, it was free, which was kinda necessary. But I loved it.”
