Chapter 20 #3
As I stand and stare, I notice that the branches of one of the trees seem to be calling out for an owl or two, that the hollow of a huge trunk would be the perfect place for a badger to lurk.
That a slinky fox could so easily be winding its way through the foliage.
I’m still not totally sure what a capercaillie looks like, but I’m sure there’s a place for one here…
Almost without thinking about it, I head to the cupboard where Rory keeps his supplies.
It’s locked, in case little hands start to explore, but the key is on the chain.
I open it, inhale the intoxicating aroma of paints and cleaners.
It makes me smile, familiar and yet also exciting.
The bookshop contains a world of words, this cupboard contains a world of potential images.
Can I do this? Should I? What if I mess up?
What if I ruin all of Rory’s beautiful work?
I have been drawing a lot since I’ve been here, and with his encouragement, I’ve also dabbled a bit in painting.
The two of us, in his little studio – it’s tucked away in one of the outbuildings, blissfully positioned with a view down to the bay, bathed in sunlight by day and swathed in stars at night.
I’ve reacquainted myself with brushes, with mixing, with basic techniques.
Not quite like riding a bike, but there’s definitely still some muscle memory there.
My mind and my fingers seemed to connect, and I hadn’t forgotten everything.
I still had an urge to create, and an instinct for how to do it.
Maybe, I think, as I get out the paints and equipment, that’s why I’m not quite as excited to be Chief Global Project Manager – open brackets International close brackets – as I should be.
It is, exactly as Beth said, still going to be boring.
Is it what I want? And if I don’t want it, what other options do I have?
I start tentatively on the outline of an owl on the branch, and it soon develops into a whole owl family – mum, dad, two babies.
I’m pretty sure that’s not necessarily a realistic interpretation of animal life, but this is a mural for children.
It reminds me of a book Beth used to love as a kid, called Owl Babies, full of gorgeous pictures and a simple but moving story.
I make my owls all different colours, one of them tawny in shades of gold and brown, another snowy-white with amber eyes, the babies a mix. Again, probably not correct – but lovely, I think, standing back to admire them.
Huh. They actually look good. Maybe I’m sneakily an artistic genius after all…
The other animals turn out to be a little more challenging, and I’m not at all convinced I’ve got the proportions quite right on the badger.
The fox is less real than I’d have liked, looking more like a ghost fox wisping its way between the trees, but its bushy tail is vibrant, its eyes shining.
I wonder about adding textures at some point – layered paints, even fabrics, so that visiting children can touch as well as look?
It’s an idea. I’ll have to talk to Rory about it.
I’m so wrapped up in what I’m doing that I barely notice the passing of time.
Maybe this is another thing I’d forgotten – how easy it is to lose yourself in painting.
I yawn, noticing the colourful smears on my hands, knowing they’re probably matched by smears on my face too.
I smile, realising I don’t care. I’ve had such a wonderful time, and I think it looks good.
I think it’s okay. I bite down a nervous gulp as I stand back and inspect my handiwork, wondering what Rory might think.
The more I stare, the more I start to lose all objectivity, my new-found confidence crumbling.
I grab up my phone and snap some pics. I need a second opinion, but I’m not sure who to ask. Rory is too scary. Beth is cycling through Central Park. Kate is probably asleep. Moira… I send them to Moira.
Within seconds she replies, and I have an image of her lying there in her hospital bed, cut off from all she holds precious.
I hate the thought of her being alone late at night, worrying, maybe lonely.
I’m glad I messaged her now, even if she tells me I have the artistic ability of a toddler and bans me from wielding a brush in her bookshop ever again.
They’re beautiful, Jane, she has typed. My heart soars a little, watching the screen and the tiny dots that tell me she’s still writing.
They’re just what the room needed, and you’re just what Bonnie Bay needs. I will agree to having my portrait done as part of our new display – but only if you paint it. Don’t leave us just yet, my sweet.
I sigh, and send back some kisses. My mind goes back to the day we found the card that brought us here. To the way Beth and I were at loggerheads, the way I was being bullied by my boss. The way I felt so grey and empty. The way Moira’s words resonated with me.
She was right, of course. The most important stories don’t lie in the pages of books. They are indeed told by our hearts, found in secret messages, hidden between the wrinkles in our souls. My soul? How is that looking now? And my heart, how is that feeling?
Better, I think, putting away the pots and taking the brushes through to the kitchen to clean. Not just better – I feel like a different person. Like I’ve found my second chance. I feel free, light, like something has been switched on inside me. Lit up and shining.
It’s as though the old me and the new me have combined, and created something completely new – I’m older, wiser, more experienced.
I still like making lists and planning. But that doesn’t mean that Juliet is dead and buried, like I’d once feared.
She’s here with me right now, bringing a sense of joy to my days, my nights.
My whole life. I finally feel like I’m not split in two – I’m finally whole, not the before-me and the after-me.
I’m finally the right person, at the right time.
A lot of different factors have contributed to that – Moira, Kate, this beautiful bookshop in this beautiful land.
Beth for encouraging our journey, me for being brave enough to agree to it.
Mainly, I know, as I cast a final look around the magical night-time shapes of the sleeping books, him.
Rory. My Romeo. Even thinking about him warms me inside.
I have no clue what has inspired all of this emotion.
Not so long ago I was tired, sitting with Kate, a touch of the blues hovering over me.
Is it the painting? Is it the feeling of a day well lived, busy, full of purpose?
Talking to Beth, Moira’s comments? All of it, I suppose – and also the knowledge that Rory could have painted those animals just as well as I did, if not better.
I have a suspicion he left them for me to do, that he knew that one day, I would have both the urge and the confidence to pick up those brushes again.
I suddenly feel desperate to be with him, and run along the cobbles to my car. I make the trip back up to his mountain kingdom in record speed, wheels crunching on gravel as I park up outside the house.
Just like that first night, the outlines and silhouettes of his works in progress, of his materials, are strange and discordant – but now I know that he will take them, and make them into things of beauty.
I have seen him work, seen him cut and grind and weld, magicking the most mundane of objects into something new, transforming the discarded into something wondrous.
I feel like that myself right now. I feel like I arrived here discarded, mundane, ordinary.
Not even the lead character of my own story.
And now, I think, as I push open the front door, I feel so different.
He has brought me back to life, in so many ways – through his kindness, his patience, his art.
His tender touch, the heat that only he has ever been able to generate in me.
The sheer magnetism of the man, the tug I always feel in his direction – irresistible even after all these years.
I have no clue what the future holds. For once, I am not looking ahead, filling in a spreadsheet or juggling my time with everybody else’s needs. For once I am living in the moment – and the moment is all about us. Finding each other again after so long apart.
I smile, hearing the sound of Pointless coming from the living room. Any other time, and I’d happily go in there and trounce him with my superior knowledge of random and useless crap – but not tonight. Not right now.
He looks up as I stride in, smiles when he sees me. Looks slightly confused as I turn off the TV, and stand before him.
‘Have you been painting?’ he asks, his forest-green eyes vivid, flecked with gold, like something straight from the murals.
‘How did you guess?’ I respond, looking at my colour-splotched hands. ‘And more to the point, would you like to come upstairs, and make wild passionate love to me?’
I don’t need to ask twice. He’s on his feet in seconds, and I scream and laugh as he physically picks me up.
He hooks me into his arms, and gallops up the stairs with me.
I’d normally be worried, self-conscious, make some crack about him putting his back out.
Tonight, I just wrap my arms around his neck, and go along for the ride.
Tonight, I am Jane Clarke – CEO of Wanton Sex Goddesses, open brackets Great Shag Department, close brackets.
He throws me onto the bed, and I wait for him to join me.
There are things I need to tell Rory. There are things I need to work through. There is a lot of uncertainty hanging over us that needs to be addressed. But does any of it really need dealing with right now?
No, it doesn’t. Right now, I just want to feel. I just want to live.