“But were you happy?” he said.
Had she been happy? No one had ever asked her that question about their relationship before.
“At the time I thought I was, yes. I loved Simon, and I liked our routines and stability. We had our future all planned out: engaged at thirty, married at thirty-one, and then start tryingfor kids shortly after. I honestly thought we were going to spend the rest of our lives together.”
As she said this, Libby remembered something Dylan had said last week, about not wanting marriage and 2.4 kids.
“I guess Simon and I were on the long-term relationship treadmill, and it never occurred to me that I might want anything else,” she added.
“I get it. There’s a lot of pressure in our society to live a certain way, to conform to the patriarchal-capitalist agenda of work, marry, procreate.”
“I really thought that was what my life had to be like,” Libby said. “A good daughter, a good girlfriend, one day a good wife and mother. But since spending these past few weeks in London, I’m beginning to realize that might not be the only way.”
“How do you mean?” Dylan said.
“Well, look at Frank and his girl on the bus. She rebelled against her parents and went to art school, and Frank has spent his entire life looking for a woman he met once, even though his own daughter disapproves. They both had the confidence to chase their own dreams, but I’ve given all of mine up to make other people happy.”
“It’s not too late to change that; you could still go to art school. You’re only, what—”
“About to turn thirty,” Libby said. “And as you said yourself, thirties is a bit old to be going back to college. Besides, I’ve not drawn in years.”
“What about that sketch pad Frank gave you?”
“Honestly? It’s sitting beside my bed, gathering dust.”
Next to her, Libby felt Dylan adjust his position. “You know, this might be a crazy idea but there’s this pub in SouthLondon that does a weekly life-drawing class. A mate told me about it—apparently it’s very casual; people just turn up and have a few drinks and get to practice drawing a model. You could give that a go?”
“Thanks, but I’m not sure I’d ever have the confidence to walk into a room full of strangers and start drawing.”
“I could come with you if you want?”
He said it quickly, and Libby was so surprised that for a moment she didn’t know how to answer.
“I mean, I’m terrible at art,” Dylan continued, sounding unusually flustered. “I once got a detention at school because we had to draw a classmate and mine looked like a pig and my teacher thought I was taking the piss. But I’m happy to give it a go with you.”
“Oh. Well, that would be cool, thanks.” Libby hoped Dylan couldn’t sense the joy that was suddenly radiating out of her whole body.
“Cool,” Dylan said, and when Libby glanced across at him, she could see he was trying to suppress a grin as well. “Shall we get on with it, then? These posters aren’t gonna put themselves up.”
CHAPTER
21
Libby! Don’t you look radiant this morning,” Frank said as Libby approached him at the bus stop. It was Saturday morning, but rather than their weekly walk up Parliament Hill, Frank had asked Libby to meet him at the stop near his house.
“Thanks, Frank. How are you today?”
“Very good. And here’s our bus right on time.”
Frank signaled to an 88 as it pulled up, its doors opening in front of them. He took hold of the side of the bus to steady himself as he stepped on board.
“Mr.Weiss!”
The bus driver, a middle-aged woman with black corkscrew curls, was beaming at Frank from behind the steering wheel.
“Patience!” Frank said. “How are you? How’s your father?”
“Oh, you know him, still making trouble,” Patience said. “When I visited him on Saturday, the nurse told me he’s been entertaining them all with Jimmy Cliff songs.”
