Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
With Noah, we head over to the Rose & Crown Gallery, a former pub converted into a gallery and art studios in the old snugs.
The Rose is an old two-story building situated on a corner.
It still has the original Rose & Crown in gold letters on the side of the building over the windows.
The artists chip in to a pool for the hanging baskets and second-floor window boxes with trailing flowers and vines.
Lenny, the owner, in turn waters them. Tourists and locals stop into the gallery, have a cup of tea, and talk to the artists.
It’s been a real community hub for years.
The Rose & Crown is where some of my friends have been showing their work in Brighton, and it’s helped launch their art careers.
It’s a co-op gallery, and it’s cool they get a hand in what’s shown as an art collective, as well as exhibitions of their own work.
Our friends Paul and Caden graduated last year with Noah, and they’ve been showing their work there for about a year, Paul’s large abstract paintings and Caden’s linen embroidery pieces and delicate watercolors.
We head into the entry on the corner, the doors wide open to make the gallery even more inviting in the summer for people to come inside. In the side gallery, it looks like they’re hanging a few final paintings—Paul’s—and I spot a couple of Noah’s framed illustrations, all ready for a show.
My guts twist. Everyone’s moving on, and I’m so far from having a show of my own.
No one’s working in the gallery right now. The sun falls through the window, with the paintings on the floor, left leaning along the wall.
“Gotta get back to that today,” Noah says, nodding at the paintings. “Wanna help?”
“Sure. Of course. I’ll be glad to.” The words spill out in a hot tumble. I force myself to slow down, to swallow some air. To not let panic take over about the future like I’ve learned in therapy. And not let my thriving imposter syndrome flourish.
Noah doesn’t notice my momentary waver. “Great. Let’s go put our jackets in my studio and get my tools, and we’ll get hanging.”
Which we do, and it feels great to help Noah out, and also terrible at the same time, because I’m so far from having a show of my own.
Or even having work in a group show. For any kind of exhibition, I need new work, something I definitely don’t have since graduating.
The others graduated last year, so they’ve had more time to get going on their art careers, but Noah went straight into working full-time because he already had illustration clients before he graduated.
Paul walks into the gallery, beaming when he sees me. “Matty! The rumors are true—you’re back.”
“Just for the afternoon,” I confess. “Not for long.”
“Better than not at all,” Paul confirms.
“Yeah, we need to lure him out of the big city, now.” Noah’s got a broad grin on his face.”
Paul laughs. “Well, sorry to miss the work party. I’ve got drinks in my studio if you want a reward.”
“Of course we do,” agrees Noah. “And let’s get Matty convinced to show some work down at the Rose too.”
“I’m not part of the collective,” I point out, very reasonably in my opinion. Like they’ve all forgotten.
“You’re in by association.” The way Paul says it is not up for dispute.
“I still don’t have any art to show.”
Paul frowns. “You need to paint, Matty. It’s your calling.”
“I know, I know. Don’t I know.”
A few hours and a couple more drinks later, I find myself waiting at Brighton Station, cooling my heels with a train delay.
Of course, I’m unable to stop thinking about Florian again after what Noah’s said.
I was too harsh, and I had no justification for unleashing a personal attack on him like I did.
So once more, I find myself attempting to compose a text message to Florian.
Except there’s no good way to apologize by text.
I’m sorry I acted like an arsehole about your ex-boyfriend just falls kind of flat.
And nobody wants the we need to talk text.
Because then he’d automatically assume I was fake dumping him, which I had technically done already.
So, I’m on to:
Florian, everything I type sounds terrible. Would you be willing to talk to me again? Please? Mx
I delete the even though I don’t deserve it part because it’s too pathetic. Then I put it back. And delete it again.
Shifting from foot to foot, I can’t quite work up the guts to hit Send. I glance up at the board with the train schedules. Still delayed. The night air is sharp now that the sun’s gone down, because July in England is hardly tropical.
I look at the phone in my hand. He’ll just ignore me. I’ve got nothing to lose.
And… sent.
My face burns. Quickly, I shove my phone away deep in my coat pocket and walk through the station to keep warm and to put some distance between me and the message. Except I only get across the concourse when my phone chimes a text.
It can’t be him already. Can it?
Swallowing hard, I fish out my phone and make myself look. And it’s definitely Florian, judging by the one-word answer. And by the fact I put his contact details into my phone when we swapped our details in my flat on the night we first met.
Yes.
Shit. I didn’t expect Florian to say yes. Why didn’t he say no? No would have been much more reasonable. I was prepared for no. Panic rises. Noah would know what to do in this situation. Think.
He’d tell me to calm right down and deal with it. Right. Take the bull by its horns, Matty.
Can I call you now?
Delete. I try again.
May I call you now
And that next message goes whizzing off into the night sky toward London, and I fear I might die of nerves on the spot. Which probably would be reasonable, given the circumstances.
And the immediate response comes through again.
Yes
What’s the etiquette here? I suppose I need to do the calling. I mean, he said yes. Twice. Shit.
I pull up Florian’s contact details and call.
Two rings later, and I’m rewarded by Florian answering, his voice smooth and rich like luxurious silk. Why didn’t I notice that before?
“Florian speaking.”
“Hi, it’s me. Matty. Gowen-Smith.” As if he’s forgotten, or he knows several Mattys. He probably knows a few Smiths, to be fair. Fewer Gowen-Smiths.
“Hi.”
“Is this a good time?” I imagine him in his office, which must be impressive, in some glass tower somewhere in the heart of London. Or possibly at home in equally imposing surroundings.
“It is. I must admit I didn’t expect to hear from you again.”
Shit. “Yeah… I’m sorry it took me a few days to get back to you. I was working, and… well, I didn’t expect to call you either, if I’m totally honest.”
“What changed, then?” So smooth. So distant.
“I had some help in realizing how much of an arsehole I was on that night, and I want to apologize to you. Because you didn’t deserve that.
” To steady myself, I draw in a deep breath.
“And I know it’s lame to apologize over the phone, but I know you’re busy, and this is probably more efficient, and you wouldn’t want to see me again after what I said.
And you like efficient. I haven’t forgotten. ”
I make myself stop then. One breath in, one breath out. Repeat. Florian must be doing the same because he’s quiet.
“Are you still there?” I ask.
“Yes. I understand apologies are difficult over the phone. However, I appreciate the brevity and intent.”
Fuck, this definitely doesn’t sound like it’s going well. Like he’s going to forgive me. I don’t expect him to. And it shouldn’t matter, should it? I’ve only known him for about a week.
“Yeah. But I am sorry for hurting you.” My mouth twitches. “I was rude.”
In case he’s forgotten, I’m obligated to point it out again.
More silence, followed by a slight cough.
Emboldened, I continue. “It’s really none of my business, your personal life. I overstepped. We were supposed to have one fake date, and I ruined it.”
“Admittedly, I enjoyed the evening until the end of the night,” Florian confesses, his voice slightly softer. Or maybe I just imagine his voice has gone softer.
I shiver, and not just from the cold. “You actually did? Here I thought you only tolerated me.”
“You’re an intriguing person, Matty. And knowledgeable. And I want to apologize to you for what I said about your age, implying inexperience. As you’ve said, we don’t know each other at all. You’ve proven yourself more than adept in your contemporary and modern art knowledge.”
“You’re forgiven,” I blurt immediately, not even trying to hold back. “And I can see why you said it.”
“Still.” Florian’s voice is quiet. “I shouldn’t underestimate you.”
“Did… did the fake date go alright? In accomplishing what you wanted it to accomplish with your—your business needs?”
“I think so. You were well presented. And… convincing.”
The goose bumps return. “Um, thanks. I love being convincing.”
An awkward silence draws out over the line, while overhead, the speakers announce the trains resuming service to London. I scan the electronic board for my platform and start walking in the right direction.
“Where are you?” Florian asks.
“Brighton. I came to see a friend. Who told me to get my head out of my arse and call you,” I confess. “And again, I’m terribly sorry.”
“I accept your apology. I realize I’m not the easiest person to be around sometimes.”
“Truce?” I ask.
“Yes.” I hear a smile in his voice, and I smile back, even though he can’t see me smiling as I swipe through the gates to my platform and the waiting train.
“I want to ask you something. I mean, about my suit. You said you got yours… but you still have mine. And I’ll need it back this week for a wedding on Saturday. Actually, I need it by Friday because it’s back in Brighton again next weekend.”
“My apologies. I’ve been out of town on business myself. I will see to it that your suit is cleaned and returned.”
More distant again. My stomach flops. “Thanks.”
“Of course. I should have done this immediately, but it has been a very busy time. I will speak to Richard.”
“Right. Richard.”
What did you expect, Matty? That he would hand deliver the suit to you? Like you actually want to see him again?
Strangely, some part of me actually does? But I don’t say any of these things. Instead, I pause outside the doors to the train carriage I want.
“Yes. He will contact you with arrangements.”
“Okay.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No, that’s it, really. It would be better to apologize in person, but hopefully, this is a step up from a text apology.”
“I understand. No matter: I’m in Berlin tonight. It would be difficult to meet today to talk.” The smile is back in his voice.
And my stomach flops again.
“Sorry, it must be late there. Maybe we can meet another time, then,” I dare.
“Perhaps.”
“If you need more fake dates…”
“I’ll call you should I need one,” Florian assures me, his voice surprisingly warm. “Thank you. Good night.”
“Night. Bye.” I hang up, clutching my phone against my chest for a moment, unexpectedly euphoric. As the last boarding call rings out, I enter the train, covered in goose bumps.