October
Ever since I’d removed the natural varnish resin and discovered, at the point where the sky met the sea, a floating figure and what I’d suspected to be a fin, I’d known that the apparently unremarkable Dutch painting I was working on was, in fact, quite special.
There had been rumblings throughout the museum, and they were growing louder and more fervent.
And so, it didn’t come as much of a surprise that in November there would be a press conference and a major unveiling.
There’s something magical about working on a piece you know will soon be recognised and discussed and hung in a gallery for everyone to see.
For now, it was just me and the painting, which finally made sense : the crowds had gathered on Scheveningen beach on a gusty winter’s day because they wanted to get a glimpse of the washed-up whale.
It wasn’t just a seascape ; it was a spectacle.
Different folks had come together to see it : a gentleman on horseback ; local villagers ; a homeless man begging for money.
As I applied a fresh coat of varnish, I left my headphones to one side, relishing the soft scuffing of my brush on the panel and losing myself in the painterly surface, which by the time I was done had a satin-like finish, the colours saturated.
When I was fully immersed, I could fool myself into believing that I was the artist, capturing the people in paint in real time as they assembled.
Next came the filling and the retouching.
I plugged the small areas of damage and loss on the whale and in the sky with chalk-gelatine putty, then moved onto the deeper losses in the cluster of clouds.
Once the surface was even, the creamy-white pastes acting like Polyfilla in holes and cracks on a wall, I began my retouching.
Unlike the cleaning and the structural work, this part of the process is reversible.
Slowly, with a fine brush, I applied fresh paint on top of the varnish, happy in the knowledge that if I wasn’t sure about something I’d done, I could wipe it off and have another go, no consequences.
Together with the curator, I decided that I should touch out the pentimenti.
Those wraithlike figures that had haunted me as I’d worked weren’t intended to be a part of the final composition and in their half-existent state they were distracting.
We’d respected Hendrick’s original intention by reinserting the whale, and here we were adhering to his wishes again.
As I blocked out the clumsy grey shadow of the former carriage, I found myself yearning to do the same with my life, to erase any passing thoughts and desires – any mistakes – that didn’t fit with the future self I’d had planned.
I was tired of thinking and of waiting ; I wanted it over and done.
My mind and body had felt foggy for so long that I could barely remember what clarity felt like.
I closed my eyes in an effort to focus on the feeling, and when that didn’t work, I tried to picture it instead, clean and bright.
At the weekend, Robyn and I met for coffee.
Other than the odd text, I hadn’t spoken to her since everything had happened with my mother, and I wanted to see how she was.
She replied right away and suggested a café off Oxford Street.
Usually, I preferred to steer clear of central London when I wasn’t working, but I lived north and she lived south, so meeting in the middle made sense.
It was a cold but clear day, the sun shining even if it wasn’t emitting any warmth, so I wrapped up and went on my bike.
The café was light and airy and tucked away on a quiet street behind the main drag.
I was the first to arrive and while I waited, I ordered myself a latte.
The young woman behind the counter asked if I would like the seasonal special – pumpkin spice, I think – and after a small free taster, I politely declined.
I’d just sat down and was shrugging off my coat when the door dinged and Robyn walked in looking a little red in the face.
‘Sorry, delays on the Central line,’ she said, shedding her own jacket and pulling up the chair opposite.
‘Don’t worry. I would have ordered you a coffee, but I wasn’t sure what you would want.’
‘Ah, no caffeine for me.’ She twisted in her seat to look at the blackboard and made positive murmurings at the chalked list of juices and smoothies.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Hm?’
‘Why are you off caffeine?’
‘Well,’ she said, hopping back up again, ‘since things didn’t go to plan last time, I’ve decided to take every precaution known to man – or woman, I should say – with this round.
’ She went to place her order and waited by the till, purse in hand, while the blender roared, drowning out the tranquil music sounding from the café’s speakers.
When she returned with a carrot-coloured drink, she looked less flustered, her pallor a lighter pink.
‘It’s good to see you,’ she said, smiling.
‘And you.’ I smiled back. ‘But wait, so you’ve already started your second round?’
‘I have.’ She exhaled as she said it. ‘Three injections down. I just came from my first scan.’
I pulled in my stomach, thankful it no longer felt like a pincushion. ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked.
‘Mm, I’m OK.’ She stirred her already-separating juice up with a paper straw, then took a sip, the tidemark lowering.
‘I just hope it works this time,’ she said, licking her lips as they started to quiver.
‘I had to take out a loan, which I really didn’t want to do, at least not at this stage.
You know, if I don’t meet someone, and I need to have IVF, by myself …
I just don’t think it’s feasible.’ She went to say something else, before shaking her head and touching all ten fingertips to the wooden tabletop.
As before, I found myself wanting to tell her I was sure it would work, and as before, I stopped myself. I reached out my own hands and squeezed hers. ‘I’m keeping everything crossed for you.’
‘And you?’ she asked. ‘I’m glad your session with the counsellor went well.’
‘It did, thanks again.’
‘That was all you.’
I didn’t know whether she could sense that I wasn’t ready to talk about it, but she changed the topic of conversation, and it was only later, just before we said our goodbyes, that we returned to freezing.
I noticed how her eyes glistened when, with a touch more hope, she spoke about it potentially working out for her this time, and the way she chewed her straw when she added that, of course, she understood it might not.
‘I can’t imagine it, though,’ she said, dispensing of her straw altogether and finishing her juice straight from the glass. ‘What would my life be about?’
It had been clear to me from the first time we met how much she wanted to have a child, but it was only sitting opposite her in that café that I considered what her deep and unwavering longing said about my own desire.
‘Don’t worry,’ she added, with a sad smile, ‘I don’t expect you to know the answer.’
I was in the middle of a dream – a happy dream, I think – when the sound of the front door clicking off the latch stirred me.
Footsteps on the stairs, then a bag being lowered to the ground.
I felt my heart beat hard against my chest. I contemplated turning on all the lights and shouting out.
Instead, quietly, from underneath the duvet, I reached for my phone.
I’d never rung the police before, and as I dialled the number I imagined our dusky street shrieking with sirens and illuminated with blue flashing lights.
I listened as whoever was down there opened and closed the fridge, which had moaned on its hinges ever since we’d moved in.
They must have slipped off their shoes before going into the kitchen, because the wooden floorboards didn’t creak.
That was when I realised – or hoped might be more accurate.
Noah. The clink of a glass knocking against its neighbours.
The glug of it being filled with cold water from a bottle.
Quiet. Then, again, footsteps, approaching.
My heart started to beat harder and faster.
I was returning my phone to my bedside table when I saw the bathroom light turn on through a crack in the bedroom door.
I pictured him looking at himself in the mirror, hands gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles turning yellowy white.
He was plucking up the courage to tell me he couldn’t do this any more ; he’d come back earlier than planned to put a stop to it.
I moved onto my front to try to squash the butterflies fluttering around in my stomach, and I waited.
I was considering rolling over to face the wall, and pretending to be asleep, when I opened one eye and saw that he was standing by the bed undressing.
‘You’re here?’ It was more of a statement than a question, yet there was a rising note at the end.
‘I am,’ he said, reaching over and planting a kiss on my forehead, lingering for long enough for me to breathe in the familiar scent of him at the end of a long day. ‘I’m sorry I woke you.’
Everything about him being there felt familiar, normal, like he’d been watching a game at the pub and just got in, a little late.
As my heart steadied, I braced myself, ready for it to start up again, perhaps for my head to spin.
Instead : ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home?
’ As I asked the question, I shifted onto my side and blinked both eyes open fully.
The room was dark, but the moon was big and bright, its milky light leaking through the gap between the bottom of the blind and the window ledge.
‘I wanted to surprise you.’
I propped myself up against my pillow and reached for the switch of my bedside light. The bulb flicked on and cast the room in a dull yellow glow, all highlights and shadows.