‘Then you have me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid.’ I can’t help the bite in my tone.
‘Fleur works in advertising,’ he jumps in.
I don’t respond.
‘That’s how we met,’ she gushes on, linking her arm through his territorially. ‘I came into the office to pitch a collaboration with this one—’ she squeezes his arm for all of us to see ‘—and then I just couldn’t get rid of him!’ She looks up at him with puppy-dog eyes. I feel like I’m going to be sick in my mouth.
‘Oh, Ryan has a tendency to pick up women in the workplace, don’t you?’ I gulp back the last of my drink. ‘It was lovely to see you, both,’ I add. ‘But if you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to use the ladies’ room.’ I don’t wait for a reply. I walk quickly through the room, my heel slipping, but I right myself quickly, dodging phone screens, dodging laughter, dodging my past that’s nipping at my uncomfortable heels. I look around the foyer but can’t see the way to the toilets. A burst of laughter comes from inside the room and a popular song looping in thirty-second repetitions follows each click of my steps.
Outside, the music is replaced by the parp of a car horn, idling traffic, and animated conversations of the pedestrians passing by the historical facade of the building. My chest is tight, the song from inside replaying behind the tinnitus ringing in my ears. I gulp back the thick London air and rest my palm against one of the white pillars, my balance feeling slightly off, head pounding.
‘You OK?’ Spence stands beside me, eyes creased in concern.
‘Yeah. Just needed some air.’
‘Do you want to go back to the hotel?’
I blink back the sting of tears behind my eyes but straighten and put on a smile. ‘Yeah, I think I might call it a night.’
‘I’ll just go and get Georgia and?—’
‘No,’ I interrupt. ‘You stay. She’s having such a good time…’
‘She won’t mind…’ His voice is unconvinced.
‘We both know that’s not true. Stay. I could do with walking off whatever is glittering around my system right now anyway.’
‘Here.’ Spence takes off his jacket, placing it over my shoulders.
‘Thanks.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you, or Josie? I can go and get her…’
‘No. She’s working. I could do with the quiet, if I’m honest. I’ll go back to the hotel and do some more research. Michael’s out there waiting for me. Somewhere.’
He looks down at his feet. ‘Message me when you get in?’
I nod.
‘Al…’ His voice is pained as he looks back inside before meeting my eyes. I give my head a quick shake. He swallows, understanding the context immediately: I don’t want to talk about Ryan and Fleur. I just need to find Michael.
I give him a quick kiss on the cheek and then as fast as my feet can take me, I head towards Charing Cross Road.
I pull Spence’s jacket tighter around me. Soho is busy, spilling out onto the kerbs, the smell of seafood, garlic, coffee and the rich undertone of London filtering in the background. I bring up Google Maps and make my way across town. I know St Martins isn’t at that site any more, but the pub is.
I pass a cafe. The window is cracked and I imagine Michael crouched down, sketchbook in hand, charcoal blackening his fingers, capturing the gaps of light filtering through. I carry on, past laughter and tables spilling out onto the kerb. Golds, reds and bronze of the setting sun reflect around me. The same colours he would have seen decades ago. I try to imagine the music, the people, the fashions that he would have seen back then.
The pub comes into view and for a moment, time folds. I pretend that he’s inside, waiting for me. I can almost see him through the window, a pint pushed to the side, dark hair falling in his eyes as he draws, waiting patiently for me to arrive.
I step into the pub, warmth and the smell of beer, fried food and perfume hitting me. The atmosphere here is different to the glitz and glamour of Perri’s party. I glance around the room, and by the window is a table. Two chairs. Empty. It shouldn’t be; people are shoulder to shoulder inside. It’s like Michael has saved me a seat. I sit down, pulling the menu towards me, scanning the QR code. I order a Coke and a bowl of chips, even though I have no appetite. On the table are condiments. I pull out a sachet of salad cream with a smile, holding it gently in my hand.
Calm begins to wash over me. But I can’t push the sight of Ryan’s hand on Fleur’s back away.
I swipe open my phone and begin to search for Michael Jones+artist+1985. I get a hit, and I pinch my fingers, zooming in on the landscapes that appear. Further investigation soon flattens my optimism when I see the artist is only in his fifties.There’s another in Boston, but again, the bio doesn’t fit with my Michael. Just as I’m going down a rabbit hole of Michael Joneses, a notification from the Facebook group pops up. My pulse races as I read the post from a woman, Cali, who lived in Australia. She says that her dad used to work as a painter and decorator in Yorkshire, and he remembers someone called Michael who was an artist. My heart skips. This is it. This is the first real link to somebody who might actually know him.
I take a few sips of my Coke and think of what to say that doesn’t make me sound like I’m desperate. In the end, I say thanks for getting in touch and then attach the photo of Michael, asking her if she could share it with her father, adding if it’s the same person I would love to speak to him.
I eat my food. Take a few photos to add to my research, finish my drink.
