Page 53 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘I think it’s more powerful that way, don’t you?’

With their necks cricked right back, Flick and Maggie were standing in the middle of the Sistine Chapel, staring up at the frescoed ceiling and Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam.

‘There’s so many theories, about it being the moment humanity is created, before the spark of life jumps from God’s fingertip to Adam’s.’

‘It reminds me of that moment in E.T.’

‘E.T?’

‘When he touches Elliott’s finger.’

Maggie turned to look at Flick, and she blushed and pulled a face.

‘Oh bollocks, did I just say something really stupid?’

And now she felt like a complete idiot. She knew Maggie had owned a gallery and was all knowledgeable when it came to art and lots of other middle-class things.

But if Maggie thought her a philistine, she didn’t show it.

‘No, not at all,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Maybe Spielberg was inspired by Michelangelo?’

They both smiled, then turned back to staring at the ceiling, along with the rest of the tourists who were being herded through the chapel with slack-jawed awe.

‘Why’s God always got to be an old white man with a beard?’ observed Flick. ‘Why can’t God be a woman? Or a person of colour? Or my age?’

‘I think in the old days that was supposed to be the traditional image of wisdom.’

‘What’s changed? The world is still run by old white men. Pale, male and stale. Look at politics.’

‘Do we have to?’ Maggie groaned. ‘I’d rather look at these beautiful frescos.’

But Flick was feeling irked now. That was the problem with all these old religious paintings. These famous masterpieces that were always painted by men hundreds of years before she was born, and which she was always being told were important – but why exactly? She could never see herself or her generation reflected in them, could never relate to their view of the world. OK, so these old guys might be good at art – hell, she could barely draw a stick figure so she was seriously impressed by their skill – but so what?

‘They might be beautiful, but they don’t mean anything to me.’

That caught Maggie’s attention.

‘I mean, this painting might have changed your life, but it’s not going to change mine. For starters, I’m not religious.’

‘It doesn’t matter, you don’t have to be. That’s the wonderful thing about art. It’s never just about the subject, but about how it makes you feel. It allows you to see things within yourself. Everyone sees something different. Everyone gets something different.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like in this painting there’s a tension. It’s this big, dramatic moment, and yet it’s so breathtaking in its simplicity.’

Titling her head on one side, Flick squinted up at the ceiling.

‘I don’t see it.’

‘Look at that gap, between the fingers. To me that symbolizes that space in between where life truly happens. Like that moment just before a storm breaks, before the lightning crackles and lights up the sky. When the atmosphere changes and you hold your breath and wait for it to begin.’ Maggie gazed up at the ceiling.

‘It’s the split second before you walk onto a stage, or leap into the unknown, or make any big life decision. When you first meet someone and there’s an electricity, an anticipation, a spark between you both. Before you kiss someone for the first time. That’s when you feel most alive.’

Flick nodded and tried to think about Rory, but nothing came.

‘All those things come flooding back when I look at this painting. It makes sense of all those emotions and feelings, in a way that I can’t explain properly—’ Maggie broke off, flushed. She suddenly felt rather embarrassed. ‘Sorry, I went on a bit there, but does that make sense?’

Flick looked at her, curiously.