27
I caught a bus home from Inga’s house, too spent to walk the way I usually did. Slumped in my seat gazing sightlessly out at the passing houses, my mind churned with every accusation and every angry word Inga and I had hurled at each other.
It had been brewing up for some time, but that didn’t make it any easier. And what she’d said about Matt. All this time, even while I’d been swimming around in a soup of sheer denial about it, frantically trying to convince myself Matt and I were still just friends, she’d suspected I had feelings for him. How ridiculous that it had taken her saying it for me to realise it.
Because of course she was right. Of course she was. I was in love with Matt. Had been for a long while. Would it have made a difference if Inga had said something before? Who knew. It might just have meant us falling out earlier than we had. For who knew what was going to happen now? Whether my friendship with Inga would ever be the same again, even after Matt had left for Spain.
“Cheer up, love,” said a man walking past to exit the bus. “It might never happen.”
A ball of pure fury rose up inside my chest. It already fucking has! I wanted to yell after him, but it was too late; the bus doors were swishing open, and he was gone.
“I hate it when people say that, don’t you?” the woman seated across the aisle from me said. “Do they expect us to go about grinning like idiots the whole time just for their benefit?”
That, I thought, as I shot her a smile, was precisely my problem. I pretended to be okay when I wasn’t. Even with Inga. I really needed to stop doing it. If Inga’s reaction was anything to go by, it wasn’t helping. It was a defence mechanism, but people didn’t love defence mechanisms. They loved real people. People who showed their vulnerabilities and humanity. That was what Inga wanted from me. Or at least, she thought she did, anyway. But what if your vulnerabilities and hang-ups were so overwhelming they were like a sandstorm in a desert, blasting everything away, reshaping the landscape? There was a risk that Inga might not like the real me when she really got to know me. But then, she didn’t much like me now, did she? So, if she let me, after she got back, I’d tell her everything.
My phone bleeped inside my bag, and I grabbed it, hoping it was Inga. It wasn’t. It was Amy.
Sorry, Lily. My parents are going away and have asked me to pet-sit. Also, I’ve decided to save up to buy a flat of my own, so staying with them more permanently makes sense. Is it okay if I come round to get my stuff?
Well, I’d known that had been coming, hadn’t I? It was something else I wasn’t proud of—stringing Amy along all this time. I ought to have spoken to her ages ago. I’d treated her like shit, and it wasn’t good enough. I liked Amy; she was a good friend. If I wasn’t careful, she’d end up being somebody else I’d lose from my life.
Just on my way home now. I messaged back. Quite understand. So sorry about everything.
No worries. See you in an hour? she replied.
But an hour later, faced with the reality of Amy with her packed bags, I just couldn’t find it in myself to tell her how I was feeling, how crap everything was. It wouldn’t have been fair. She’d have felt guilty about leaving. So I did what I’d recently decided not to do anymore—I pretended I was okay when I wasn’t.
“It’s fine, Amy, honestly,” I said when she said again how sorry she was. “Violet’s away at the moment, but she’ll be back any day.”
That was a blatant lie, of course—I had no idea when or even if Vi would be back. Then, just to make sure Amy felt okay about everything, I compounded the lie with another one. “She mentioned a job she’d applied for, actually, so I’m sure she’ll be okay to help out with the rent. Sorry it didn’t work out as we planned.”
Amy smiled, looking relieved. “That’s okay. Not that I plan to live back at Mum and Dad’s forever, but it’ll be fine while I’m saving up, and their kittens are very cute. Though why they imagined it was a good idea to get kittens when they were about to go on holiday is anyone’s guess.”
“That’s parents for you,” I joked, despising myself. What did I know about how parents behaved? Normal, nonaddicted ones, anyway.
“Keep in touch, won’t you?” Amy said as we hugged goodbye shortly afterwards.
“Certainly will,” I said, still with that I’m okay grin. “Bye, Amy.”
Two goodbyes in a morning. That had to be something of a record.
Though at least the lie about Violet turned out not to be such a lie, after all. Because the very next day, after I got back from my shift at the hospital, I found her in the kitchen, cooking pasta as if she’d never stormed out at all.
I’d already been tired when I let myself into the house. Now I was suddenly completely wiped out. Like I’d aged fifty-plus years.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m making carbonara. I reckoned you might be hungry when you got back from work.”
Just as if the drugs, the wasted guys, the bitter, cruel words about me and my life, had never happened.
“Hi, Violet, good to see you, Violet, oh, and where the hell have you been, Violet?” I said sarcastically, wondering how the hell I was going to find the energy to deal with this all over again, dumping my bag on the floor.
“Good to see you, too, sis,” she said, ignoring the last part of my question.
Giving up temporarily, I left her to her cooking. “I’m going to get changed.”
I showered, letting the water run over my face, directing it into the small of my back, which was aching after a day of standing, bending, lifting, my thoughts like birds fluttering inside my brain. God. I’d like to go to sleep and wake up in ten years’ time. What next? What fucking next?
When I finally traipsed downstairs in my dressing gown, Violet was just dishing up. The food looked and smelt very good. I wondered wearily where she’d learnt to cook. At one of her foster placements? Maybe she’d been taught by a celebrity chef. Or a lover. Or a lover’s mother in Italy. Who fucking knew? I had no intention whatsoever of asking. I was just going to enjoy the benefits and delay the evil moment until me and Vi had another much-needed, and no-doubt-highly-charged stressful conversation.
“This is good,” I said as we ate in front of the TV, our plates on our laps.
“Carbonara’s my specialty,” Vi said. “Where’s Fitz, by the way?”
I sighed. Here we go. Vi was bound to be mad at me for rehoming her dog.
“We ran into Lewis in town, and I let him have Fitz back. They’d clearly missed each other, and I just don’t have a lifestyle suitable for a dog.” I wasn’t sure why I was justifying my decision. Probably because I anticipated Vi giving me grief about it. But I plunged on, anyway. “Even before you went away, he was miserable a lot of the time, left on his own when you went out.”
Vi was quiet for a while. Then she just said, “Cool,” and got on with eating her pasta.
And I was glad that I’d said what I’d said. Relieved, actually, to have got it off my chest.
Miracle of miracles, everything was harmonious for a while—good food, junk TV, companionable silence, me managing not to give vent to everything I’d been thinking and feeling for the past few days. After the week I’d had, still feeling blasted by my row with Inga, it was sorely tempting just to accept it. To keep quiet about what had happened and to enjoy the gift of Violet being here, being nice. Of not feeling so gut-wrenchingly, piercingly alone for once.
But I was trying to be more open now, wasn’t I? I wasn’t pretending to be okay when I wasn’t. And things definitely hadn’t been okay between me and Vi last time we’d seen each other. Why shouldn’t it all turn to shit again, even if she was being nice now?
So, after I’d finished my meal, I reached reluctantly for the TV remote to switch the soap Vi had put on off.
“Hey!” she said. “I was watching that.”
“Sorry,” I said. “We need to talk.”
I watched the emotions that travelled like quick-fire over her face. Annoyance followed by resentment, then a deliberate attempt to squash both of them down.
“Sure. That’s fair. But before you say anything, I’m sorry I was such a bitch. You made me feel small in front of my friends, but I shouldn’t have said half the things I said.” And she smiled at me—a big, beaming smile that was hard to resist, taking the wind right out of my sails.
“Well,” I said, “I’m sorry if I made you feel small in front of your friends. But, Vi, if you’re hoping to stay here again, we need to establish some ground rules.”
She nodded. “Sure. Write me a list while I wash up.” She stood to collect our plates.
“You don’t have to wash up,” I said. “You cooked.”
“Yeah, but you’ve been at work. Sit. Chill. Work on your ground rules.”
Another winning smile, then she shimmied out of the door with our dirty plates like a waitress confident of her tip.
I closed my eyes with a sigh, listening to her clattering about in the kitchen. My sister. No matter what grief she’d caused me, it was still good to have her here. And with everything tied up with Amy, the spare room was now officially free.
It occurred to me suddenly that, if Inga and I hadn’t fallen out, I might have sneaked upstairs to the bathroom to call her for advice. Hey, Violet’s back, all sweetness and light, expecting to stay here again. Should I let her? Inga would say no, I knew she would. But then she was an only child, and she didn’t know the history of me and Vi. Hell, she hadn’t even met Vi, which was incomprehensible when we’d been friends for so long. Or had been friends for so long, anyway, since our friendship was currently uncertain.
It would be nice, actually, to talk to Vi about that rather than about ground rules. To open up and really connect with my sister. Tell her about my stupid decision to drop hints about Noah to Harry. Maybe that way, Vi would feel she could talk to me; I might find out something about her life in those missing years when she’d been abroad. Her hopes and plans for the future.
But we’d never had that kind of a relationship, me and Vi. I was the older sister, the one who gave unwanted advice and did my best to pick up the pieces when things went wrong. Which meant there was no easy way to ask her about her drug taking that didn’t feel like an accusation or a pointed finger.
Vi was singing now, a song I didn’t recognise; something new, no doubt, aimed at people younger than me.
“ Jesus, Lily, you’re the same age as I am!” I heard Inga’s voice inside my head. “We’re not exactly past it. Or at least, you might be, but I’m certainly not. ”
Was she in Copenhagen now? She must be, I supposed. What had the journey been like with little Noah? Had he slept? Or cried the whole time? I wondered whether she’d taken him to meet her mother yet. What that had been like if she had.
I’d know, if we hadn’t argued, wouldn’t I? Because we’d have spoken, or texted each other, the way we’d done pretty much every day of our friendship.
I picked up my phone, wanting to text her now, and saw that I had a missed call from Matt. Shit, my phone had been on silent during my shift.
There was a voicemail message.
“Hi, it’s Matt. My flight’s been delayed, so I just thought I’d give you a call. Hope everything’s okay and Alex isn’t being too much of a pain. He’s staying with his dad at the moment, but you know what his dad’s like. I don’t suppose he’s being very sympathetic or offering much of a listening ear. I hope you’re managing to get some painting done, that it’s going really well. I can’t wait for your exhibition. I’ll definitely be back for that. Nothing could keep me away. Anyway, take care, Lil. Bye for now.”
I played the message again, simultaneously churned up and comforted by it.
Matt. Another topic I’d like to chat to Vi about if we had a different kind of relationship. What I was going to do about my feelings for Matt.
Vi returned from doing the washing up just as the message was finishing playing.
“How’s what’s-his-name?” she asked, sitting down on the sofa. “Matt, wasn’t it? The guy you brought with you to Nottingham.”
“He’s okay,” I said warily, feeling as if she’d read my mind. Surprised that she wanted to bring up the subject of Nottingham after all that had happened. “He’s in Spain at the moment.”
“That must suck.”
It did; she was right.
“I told you before, nothing’s happening between me and Matt.”
“You’re just friends, I know.”
She was grinning at me, and I sighed. “It’s complicated, Vi.”
“Well,” she said. “That’s life, isn’t it? One shit show after another. But I promise, if you say it’s okay for me to stay again, things will be different.”
“How?”
“I’ll be a good girl. I’ll do my best to be quiet so you can work. I’ll cook for us both.” She shrugged. “Whatever you want. You’ll see, it’ll be fun. You liked my pasta, didn’t you?”
“It was delicious.”
She beamed at me.
“Well then. Anyway, you look bushed. Go on up to bed. I’ll just watch a bit more TV, and then I’ll turn in too.”
I went, putting aside the feeling that she might be using my tiredness as a way of avoiding any further discussion about ground rules and allowing myself, for once, to be cared for.
Alex came by the next evening. I had the night off and was in the studio painting, doing my best to submerge myself in work towards my exhibition, headphones on, music playing loudly in an attempt to create a creative bubble. Vi had to tap me on the shoulder to get my attention. I pushed my headphones back.
“There’s someone to see you, Lil. Big bunch of flowers? Hang-dog expression?” She did an imitation for me. “Says he’s Alex.”
Oh, God.
“Want me to tell him to get lost?” Violet offered, seeing my expression.
I sighed and put down my paintbrush.
“No, I’d better see him, I suppose.”
Vi came with me. Showed no signs of leaving while I said hello to Alex.
“Hi, Lily,” he said, holding out the bunch of flowers. “I got you these. To say sorry for the other night. I was a bit drunk.”
I took the flowers from him. “Thanks. There was no need.”
Violet took the flowers from my hand. “Better get these in water. They look as if they’re screaming for a drink.”
They did, she was right. In fact, they looked like garage forecourt offerings past their sell-by date. Either that, or Alex had been carrying them around for a while, trying to pluck up the courage to come and see me.
“There was every need,” Alex said as Violet took the flowers away to the kitchen. “I was upset, but I shouldn’t have dumped everything on you like that.” He licked his lips. “But ...”
My heart sank, sensing what was to come. More stuff about his undying love and him and me getting back together.
Vi returned with the flowers. They didn’t look much better in a vase.
“I took the most wilted ones out,” she said cheerfully, placing them on the coffee table.
I saw Alex glance in her direction with frustration. Clearly he’d prefer it if she made herself scarce. But she didn’t. The very opposite, in fact. She sat down on the sofa instead.
“I’d offer to make you a drink, Alex, but I’m going out soon, and Lily’s in the middle of painting. You know, to reach her deadline for her very important exhibition?”
In other circumstances, it might have been funny, but there was nothing funny about Alex’s miserable expression.
I opened my mouth to say something along the lines of it being okay, that I’d make him a cup of tea, but closed it again, realising that, yet again, I honestly couldn’t think of a thing Alex might have to say that I wanted to hear. Besides that, it was good to have my little sister holding my side, sticking up for me, and I didn’t feel inclined to lay that to waste.
Alex left soon afterwards. But a few days later, he was back. And the day after that. Until one day I was upstairs painting—without my headphones on—and I overheard Violet at the door saying, “Look, I don’t mean to be unkind, Alex, but you had your chance, and from what I can gather, you blew it. Lily doesn’t want to know any more, okay? So we’d both appreciate it if you’d get lost.”
Oh, Violet. But, harsh or not, I couldn’t have been too disturbed by her blunt manner of speaking because I didn’t rush downstairs to waylay Alex and invite him in. I trusted and hoped that, at some future date, we’d be able to meet up and be civil together. We had so much shared history; I didn’t want to lose that. But, even without my feelings for Matt, I was completely sure we weren’t right for each other, and I didn’t want to get back together with him.
Anyway, after Violet’s words, Alex appeared to give up, because he didn’t come round again.
My sister’s considerate behaviour lasted roughly a week; a happy week during which I really started to believe we were getting somewhere, forging a new relationship with each other. Then slowly, bit by bit, Vi started to return to some of her old ways. People were at the house at all hours. Vi’s stuff was all over the place. She forgot to wash up.
I was disappointed. Hurt too. Reluctant to say anything in case we argued again. But Vi was nice enough when our paths did cross, and, anyway, I was submerged in my painting any free moment I got, so if Vi did play music a bit too loudly, I put on my noise-cancelling headphones or played music myself.
Painting so intensely helped me deal with Inga not being in touch, or at least it helped a little. I’d sent her a text—“ Just checking in to see how you are.” But she hadn’t replied.
I might have been productive, but I was very tired. So it was nice, one evening, to find Violet in on her own and apparently in a mood to share a meal with me. I cobbled together a meal from store cupboard tins and bits and pieces from the fridge, and Vi and I sat side by side on the sofa to eat it. Afterwards, she washed up, which seemed to take her an absolute age, and when she came back, with a cup of coffee for us both, she didn’t seem to be able to relax, not even to watch her favourite soap. It was exhausting, watching her pace around the sitting room, picking things up and putting them down again.
I was about to ask her what was wrong, when she suddenly asked, “D’you ever think about Mum?”
My reply came straight back. “Not if I can help it, no. Do you?”
She was holding the boots she’d discarded earlier on her way into the house, one in each hand. “Only every freaking day,” she said, and when she turned to look at me, I noticed there was something odd about her eyes. Her pupils, which had seemed fine while we were eating, now looked dilated and strange.
“Vi,” I said. “You haven’t taken anything, have you?”
Violet dropped the boots onto the floor with a clatter, amicable Vi gone without a trace. “Oh, that’s right,” she said, face screwed up unpleasantly. “That’s you all over, isn’t it? Unpleasant subject? Accuse Violet of doing drugs. You’d do anything to avoid talking about Mum. Well, screw you, Lily.”
It was a shock, after a period of us mostly getting on, to have her speak like that to me again, and I watched, fighting back tears as she shoved her feet into her boots and headed for the door.
“Vi,” I said. “Please don’t go.”
She didn’t bother to answer, ripping the door open and heading out, undone shoelaces trailing.
I went to the door, calling after her. “Vi!”
But she didn’t turn back, and seconds later she was off around the corner, out of sight. So I went wearily back inside, wishing I could turn back time, conflicted all over again about having challenged Vi about taking drugs. She’d seemed so weird, though; so strung up. I’d been worried about her. I hadn’t known, either, that she thought about Mum so often. Jesus, no wonder she was wired if she did that. She was right; Mum was a topic I tried to avoid.
But there was no avoiding it now. Vi’s accusation had taken the lid off my bad-memory jar, and there they all were, tumbling out for my inspection.
The times before I was old enough to walk home from school on my own when Mum forgot to come and pick me up. Letting myself into the house when I was older to find her passed out on the kitchen floor covered in vomit. Her hurrying upstairs with a man I’d never seen before calling out to me to “ Watch some TV. ” Burnt meals, empty cupboards, long days when she slept and I had to entertain myself, retreating into daydreams and drawing, drawing, drawing. Pictures of happy families going for walks and holidays, living in perfect houses. Not drunk people shut away from the sunshine in dirty, neglected houses.
All of it peppered with precious days when it was just me and Mum, and she hadn’t been drinking, or not enough to make her anything but merry, and she lavished attention on me, brushing my hair, calling me her beautiful girl, making up stories for me. I had lived for those magical days. But they never lasted, and when Violet arrived, they pretty much dried up altogether.
So yes, Vi. I did my best not to think about Mum.
Would it do any good to tell my sister about those times? To be perfectly honest with her instead of trying to protect her? I wasn’t even sure she’d believe me, though, the way she was at the moment. I couldn’t invent nice memories for her, and if I gave her an edited version, just focusing on the rare good days I’d shared with Mum, I’d be telling her a lie.
Not that I knew what Mum was like now; she might have turned over a completely new leaf for all I knew. If she was alive, that was.
I got ready for bed, not expecting to be able to sleep. Which was just as well, because I didn’t, not a wink. Not until I heard Vi come back in the early hours, anyway. As I listened to her stumbling upstairs to bed, I decided I would try to do what she wanted and speak about Mum. Maybe she did need to hear the truth about what it had been like for me. And maybe I needed to tell it too.
But I didn’t see Vi the next day. Or the two days after that. She was either asleep or out when I was around. The next contact I had with my sister was a note on a torn-off scrap of paper left for me to find when I got back from work.
Gone to visit a friend. Back for your exhibition.
I stood there holding the note, searching fruitlessly for more meaning in it, frustrated that she hadn’t just told me where she was going instead of writing a note. Perhaps, if I hadn’t brought up drugs, she might have done. And there I was, right back in the push and pull of what I should and shouldn’t have done with regard to my sister.
Worse still, with Vi away, even with my work and my painting, there was way too much time to think. Inga still hadn’t been in touch. It was awful to be estranged from her, out of contact, or whatever this was. It was completely wrong. I felt completely wrong without her.
Finally, I got angry. Why the hell was I just sitting around passively to see if Inga got in touch, the way I’d always done with Violet? She’d just lost her mother, for goodness’s sake—because I assumed that by now Inga’s mother must have passed away. If there was even the slimmest chance of Inga coming to my exhibition, I had to talk to her first. I couldn’t just let her discover the truth about my lies about the past through my paintings. I had to tell her in person. I wanted to tell her in person. Not just so she wouldn’t be hurt, but because I needed to talk about the whole hideous mess with someone I knew I could trust.
So, I phoned her. But the call went straight to voicemail. I popped round to her house on the off chance that she was back and at home—neither of us had ever felt we had to ring ahead for permission to call round, unless we wanted to be sure we wouldn’t have a wasted journey. But she wasn’t home.
I went for a walk. Came back. Tried again. Still no answer to my knock.
But this time her neighbour was in her garden—the nosy one who’d complained about Noah crying a few months back. “She’s away. Family bereavement.”
“Oh,” I said. “I knew she was going away, but I thought she’d be back by now.”
The neighbour shrugged. “Well, she’s not. I’ve taken in two parcels for her too. Huge things, they are. Taking up far too much space in my hallway.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’d offer to take them, but don’t live around here, and I haven’t got a car.”
I turned away to make my lonely way home, miserable that Inga had been dealing with her mother’s death all this time without me. I walked this time, taking the scenic route. Only it started raining when I was in the middle of the heath with nowhere to shelter. Even the trees didn’t help much, because it was late bloody autumn, and they didn’t have any leaves. I wasn’t wearing a waterproof, so my fleece jacket was soaked through in seconds.
Chilled to the bone, I finally got home. Stripped off my clothes, wrapped myself in my dressing gown. Ran a bath. The plumbing in my house was ancient. It always had been completely inadequate—on our list to upgrade when we could afford it. Baths took an age to run; longer if you stood in the bathroom waiting for the tub to fill.
I left it to do its work and wandered into the studio to look at my paintings. God, was I really going to display these works? Large scale, uncensored paintings that revealed the deepest regions of my heart and my nightmares, the darkest history of my life. As if I’d made them in my sleep. Or somebody had stolen into my house during the night to put those painful brushstrokes down onto canvases.
Sometimes—often, in fact—I seriously doubted I was brave enough to let anyone else see them. But there was no time to do any others, so it was these or nothing. And cancelling the exhibition would be an even bigger statement—to myself and the world—than accepting it had been. God, I needed to speak to someone.
I tried Inga again. Left another message.
I sat there overwhelmed by a compulsion to speak to Matt. I shouldn’t, though, should I? Not now I knew about my true feelings for him. And yet ... I’d have called him before, wouldn’t I? When he’d just been a friend to me. I wouldn’t have thought about it. If I wanted to speak to him, I’d just have called. Wouldn’t I? I couldn’t be sure any longer. I’d lost track of what normal was.
To hell with it.
I picked up my phone again. Dialled.
“Lily! Hi.”
He sounded genuinely pleased to hear from me. I wanted to weep. “Is this a good time?”
I could hear muffled traffic. Conversation. Birds—parakeets?—screeching. “I’m just on my way to have dinner with my new boss, but it’ll take five minutes to get there, and it won’t matter if I’m a bit late. It’s great to hear from you. How are you?”
I was about to do my usual thing—to pretend I was okay when I wasn’t. But somehow, this time, I couldn’t do it. “Honestly?”
“Of course honestly.”
“Well, I’m not sure I can exhibit any of the paintings I’ve made for the exhibition, Violet’s gone off somewhere again, and Inga and I fell out just before she went off to Denmark, and now she’s not answering my calls. You know her mum died? Or at least, I think she’s dead. I’m worried about her, Matt. And Violet. I just want to know they’re all right, you know?”
Matt was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I can’t do anything about Violet or Inga. I’m sure they’ll get in touch when they’re ready.” He sighed. “I didn’t know about Inga’s mother. Poor Ing.” He sounded sad to have been out of the loop. “But you know how complicated their relationship always was. Maybe Inga just needs some time to process things?”
“Maybe.” I hoped with all my heart that was the truth. That after a while, we could carry on as we’d always been.
“And as for your paintings, I wish I was there to see them. In fact, send me a couple of images now.”
I thought doubtfully about Flayed and Phoenix. Did I really want Matt to see that side of me? “No, it’s okay. You’re on your way to your meeting.”
“How long will it take? Anyway, I told you, it won’t matter if I’m a bit late.”
I was still reluctant. But then he’d see the pictures at the exhibition, anyway, wouldn’t he, if I decided to display them? “Okay.”
“I’ll call you back as soon as I’ve seen them.”
I went into the studio. Took one photo—of Phoenix , the painting that was troubling me the most. Remembered—just in time—to turn the bath taps off. Sent the image to Matt. Then sat, biting my nails, for him to call me.
When he did, he didn’t even bother to say hello. “Is that your mother at the bottom of the picture?”
Tears filled my throat. I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “Yes,” I answered, my voice faint.
“And that’s you, at the top?”
I swallowed. “Yes. Or it’s future me, rather than me now. Or at least, I hope it is.” I wasn’t sure whether he’d understand or not, but he did.
“It will be you, Lily. It will. I’m a hundred percent sure of it. Lily, you must know how good this painting is, surely? It’s one of the most powerful paintings I’ve ever seen. You have to show it in your exhibition. You have to show all of them.”
“You really think so?”
“I really do. Promise me you will.”
I sighed. “Okay,” I said wearily. “I promise.”
“Good. Look, my flight’s booked for the evening before your exhibition opening. I can’t wait to speak to you properly. About the painting. About everything.”
I wasn’t sure what “everything” meant to him; whether it meant the same as it would to me. Love. Attraction. I didn’t even know what I’d do if it turned out that his feelings had deepened the way mine had done. But I did know I wanted to see him.
“I can’t wait to speak to you too,” I said.