Chapter 45
Chapter Forty-Five
Now seated in my studio, I’ve taken out the two beach paintings Florian loved so much.
Did he actually love them? I look critically at the paintings, now propped against the bookshelf on the floor.
The sky is aqua, and the sea is a deep blue, with pale beaches and colorful figures and red-and-white striped beach chairs.
In the background, the iconic Brighton Pier stretches into the distance with its famous sign and structures.
The second painting shares the same color palette, from further down the beach, with a closer focus on the figures.
When I painted this last year and showed it to my friends, they were all enthusiastic about the work.
Noah thought I should do more. “That’s all you need, Matty.
Work in series. That’s what sells best. And these are gorgeous. ”
I don’t think Noah would lie to me. Not usually.
Then I text him early to see if he’s free for a drink today if I come to Brighton and that I’m in Glynde and that I need to get out to clear my head.
With my earnings from the pub and no rent, I can afford the day trip.
Right now, all I can see is Florian here in Glynde, as if he’s manifested into some kind of ghost. And hopefully, he’ll have ghosted his way out of Glynde by the time I get back tonight.
Brighton’s about twenty minutes away on the train when it behaves itself.
There’s always a chance of rail replacements, being Sunday, but it would be great to catch up with him.
I’ve lain low since coming home. I haven’t told anyone I left London.
It would be great to see him and also get an update on the Rose too.
It turns out Noah’s up early, too, because I have a text before long.
Pub lunch? 12:30pm? The usual?
Deal
Which is still a few hours away. I find myself changing into my painting coveralls and pulling out paints to mix up a suitable palette. I have a primed canvas ready to go, and I glance at my sketch of Florian and soon set in to work.
When it comes to portraits, I prefer to work alla prima, or wet-on-wet paint. There’s a freshness in the resulting work that appeals to me when I paint in this style, loose and free. Putting on some music, I lose myself in painting. Something bound tight in my chest frees as I work.
I only become aware of my surroundings a few hours later when there’s a knock on the door.
“Come in,” I call, in the process of cleaning my brushes, standing before my newly finished portrait of Florian. I glance from the painting to the door.
Mum pokes her head in, then enters, holding two tea mugs. “I thought you might need more tea.”
“Thanks,” I tell her, taking off my gloves and accepting the tea. I sit on the stool by the easel, and Mum takes the desk chair. The tea’s hot and grounding. Though it does feel weird to be caught painting Florian by my mum.
“Stunning,” she tells me, admiring the painting. “You’ve really captured him.”
“I hope so. I mean, I’d like to think so.”
Florian’s gaze from last night as he sat on the stool where I am now is burned into my mind. Impossible to forget. There’s something both serious and a little melancholy in the painting. And there’s a lump in my throat.
Mum looks from the painting to me. “How was it seeing him yesterday?”
I sigh and shrug. “Amazing. Terrible. You know.” Then I sip my tea, battling myself.
Like how can I put into words how I feel about Florian?
About how infuriating and incredible he is at the same time?
How thrilled I was to see him yesterday, and how devastated too.
Because nothing’s changed one bit, in reality.
Mum gives me a wry smile. “I can tell you both care for each other.”
“Yeah.” I swallow a particularly generous mouthful of tea, and it burns a little on the way down. “Caring only gets you so far. Better off not.”
“That’s very cynical for you, love.” Mum frowns, considering me. Like she’s checking to see if I’m the real Matty and not some doppelg?nger. Maybe the other version of me would have a better time navigating feelings.
I shrug again. My shoulders tighten. “Feelings aren’t helping this situation. It’s what makes it worse. If I didn’t care about Florian, it wouldn’t hurt so much that he wants to destroy the Rose.”
“I’m sure it would be a huge loss.”
“Yeah. He’s going to turn it into flats.
” My tone is flat. The shock’s since worn off, but the knowledge doesn’t cut any less.
“Even knowing how much it means to me. He sees a business opportunity, and all I can see are my friends suffering because of his selfishness. Like couldn’t he pick any other building in Brighton? Why the Rose? I hate it.”
Mum pushes her auburn hair back over her shoulder.
“Well, if I can hazard a guess here, your friends are resilient. It’s a setback to lose the space, and a big one, but they will find other spaces.
They’ll find a way to make it through if they want to work as artists.
Unfortunately, there’s a long history of artists being pushed out of affordable spaces by developers.
In Brighton and London and around the world.
They’re not the first, and unfortunately not the last either. ”
“Yeah. I know. But it doesn’t make it better. Not when it’s this space and this particular developer. Florian knows how important the Rose is to me. It’s everything. And I can’t get over that he’s been there, met my friends, and he’s still going ahead with his plan.” I tremble.
Mum’s quiet, thoughtful. “There can be both, you know. The business development and also having a relationship. If you would like.”
I swallow hard, searching her eyes. “He’s given me two tickets for Glyndebourne.
He says I can take someone else. Like you, Mum, if you want to come with me.
” It’s better not to address the relationship word, left hanging in the air.
Like it floats there, and someone else might claim it and carry on worrying on my behalf.
Meanwhile, I feel half out of my body. Everything reels.
The wrongness of it all is overwhelming.
And it feels like I’m responsible. Like I’m betraying my friends with all of my heart.
“I’ll be happy to go to Glyndebourne with you. If that’s what you want.” She gazes at me.
“I don’t know if I want to see him again.” My eyes brim with tears. Everything’s wrong. And Mum doesn’t see how wrong.
Mum smiles wryly as she cradles her tea between her hands. “You’ve just painted his portrait.” She glances over at the painting. “You’ll see him.”
I gaze at it, too, before I realize I’m crying. Mum comes over to give me a big hug, despite me warning her I might have paint on me. “I really like him, and it’s all supposed to be fake.”
She rubs my back instead of asking for an explanation or pointing out that I’m contradicting myself about what I want.
When I straighten, I wipe my eyes on the cuff of my coveralls.
I allow myself a momentary cry, but instead of feeling better, I feel worse.
But I have to get it together. I shove the unwelcome feelings away.
“Better?” Mum asks.
“I don’t know. But I should go to get ready for Brighton this afternoon. I’m meeting Noah for lunch.” Getting away from here will have to help, as will seeing Noah.
“That sounds perfect.”
Mum heads out, and I go about getting ready to leave. I wash my face with cold water to chase away any lingering tears. And when I’m ready, I head for the train and Brighton.