46. Present Day – January
46
PRESENT DAY – JANUARY
SCOTT
J osie always leaves me feeling light. Like life is easy. Fun is easy. After I watch her drive off, I head back up to my apartment and collapse onto the sofa.
I meant what I’d said. I know I need to forgive myself about Marcus. Stop doing everything with him in mind. But I do want to do something to remember him. One last thing to honour him.
I flip my laptop open and find the window that’s been idling in the background for over three months now. Ever since I got back from the lads weekend away — ever since the Halloween party.
A sea of ink and colour, sketch and print, fills the screen. Tiles of image upon image of tattoos. Specifically, eagle tattoos.
I scroll through them again, still not finding the perfect answer. These have nothing on Josie’s sketches. My eyes flit to the corner, where I’d stashed a wrapped package.
Parting the brown paper, I pull a frame up from the wrapping and study the picture inside — a sketch of an eagle I’d stolen from Will’s haul. Okay, not stolen exactly — he’d invited me over to see his revamped gallery after he’d been so enamoured by Josie’s art that he’d bought all her originals. He insisted I took one for introducing me to her work.
Something drew me to this picture then and I still feel it now. It’s as if my chest has swollen, like I can suddenly breathe easier even though it feels like my heart has grown and taken up all the space.
I tenderly place the picture back down and make a mental note to put it up as soon as possible.
Opening a new window, I search for a tattooist in town. The one I settle on has an online booking system, and before I think too much about it, I make an appointment for a consultation tomorrow morning.
Gazing at the sketch, another thought springs to mind, and I send out a text to Will.
Scott
Apollo (!) … was there any lost property back at Halloween? Looking for a black anklet.
While I wait for a response, I head to the kitchen and dig into some more of Lucia’s leftovers. The flavours burst on my tongue, delicious.
Will
Yes actually. But I didn’t think black was your colour.
Carefully, I swipe the black gloss over the final patch on the doorframe that’s between the bar and the back corridor. Stepping away, I check I haven’t missed any bits. As January ticked over into February, I’ve got my head down and painted, painted, painted, slowly returning The Bull back to a blank canvas.
Decorating can be strangely mindful, and while I’ve been running the roller across the walls, my brain’s been running into overdrive. I can see what Josie means about it being a form of therapy. The repetitive up and down with the roller has allowed me time to think. More than I have in years. Time to process more about Marcus, my grief, and also what I want to do with The Bull. What I want to do for Josie.
There’s a clunk, and I turn to see Nate walk through the front door.
‘Looking good.’ He nods as he scans the half-painted interior, littered with dust sheets and paint pots.
‘It will be when we’ve finished. Thanks again for your help.’
‘No problem. Chunk’s held up with something at The Wreck, then he’ll be over.’
‘Awesome. Fancy a coffee?’
He narrows his gaze, as if my hospitality is new to him. It probably is. ‘ Sure ,’ he says slowly.
I wrap the wet brush in cling film and lead my brother up to my apartment.
He jerks his head, doing a double take when we walk inside.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘When did you get bright yellow throw cushions?’ He arches an eyebrow at me.
‘Yesterday.’ I stop myself from saying they remind me of Josie. That I want her to be comfy here.
‘And the picture?’ He’s walked over to the sketch I’d hung on the wall. He’s peering at it, nose mere inches from the glass. ‘Since when do you put up art ?’
‘Will … gave it to me.’
He’s staring intently at the artwork, and I run my fingers through my hair again, glancing down at my feet.
‘What’s that scrawl of initials?’ His tone hitches up playfully. ‘Is it a J … a JC ?’
‘Yeah.’ My voice is a strange strangled pitch. I grab the coffee pot and pour out two mugs, adding milk and sugar to Nate’s.
He spins back, smirking at me. ‘You’re a total goner, aren’t you?’
I chuckle as I admit, ‘Have been for a while.’ Coughing to clear my throat, I pass him his coffee and take a scalding sip of my own. ‘Can I run something by you?’ I stride over to where my laptop is lying on the sofa and open it up, the screen jumping to life as I sink into the cushions.
Nate plonks himself down next to me so we can both see the display. I navigate away from the list of tattoo parlours by tapping in a web address I’d memorised.
‘If you wanted tattoo artist recommendations, you could’ve asked me,’ Nate says.
I can only manage a grunt before the website I’m seeking loads.
‘You wanna go on an art retreat?’ He sounds confused.
‘Not me.’ I take a deep inhale. ‘Josie.’
‘I didn’t realise she was going away. Ella never said.’
‘She’s not … yet.’
He looks at me sideways. I’m not making myself clear.
‘Dude, I don’t know what to do with my life, but Josie does. I want to help her.’
‘Okay.’ He lengthens the word.
‘She’s an amazing artist. Stunning.’
‘For sure. I mean, look at the pigeon.’ He points to the framed picture.
‘It’s an eagle.’ I tut. I don’t know why I’m feeling nervous. It’s probably because this is the first time I’ve said it out loud, and it might be a ridiculous idea.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asks before taking a swig of coffee.
‘She’d love to go on a trip like this. I want to support her. I’m working on a plan.’
‘So what … you’re gonna fund it or something?’ He quirks his eyebrow over the rim of the mug.
‘Exactly … and when she’s back, do you think she’d want to put her art up in the pub? I could display it for her, like the pub’s a mini gallery. I’ve got savings and bare walls …’
‘Dude, if I’d known you had that much money, you could have bid on Josie yourself at the auction.’ He knocks his knee against mine.
‘It’s amazing how much you can save up if you’re always at work. But,’ I sigh, ‘jokes aside, I feel … out of my depth. I want to get this right.’
‘I don’t know what you’re worrying about, big brother.’ Nate claps down on my shoulder.
‘I dunno. The Bull’s just a little countryside pub. I’m not sure it’s grand enough for her. Especially what she might come back with from her art retreat.’
‘I think she’ll be fucking blown away by this idea. But I can understand why you’d come to me for grand gesture advice.’ Puffing up his chest, he says, ‘It is my forté,’ and gives a huge, charming, grin.
Who had ten in the morning for when the dimple came out? ‘And here I thought it was humility.’
Nate wriggles back into the sofa. ‘Let’s go over the nitty gritty while we wait for Chunk.’ Fixing me with a smug look, he says, ‘I’d like to enjoy your nice coffee and comfy cushions a little longer. You know, I wouldn’t have moved in with Chunk if you’d have done this for me .’ I bat him over the head with one of the cushions and he laughs, cradling his mug to avoid sloshing. ‘Watch it! Or I’ll fuck up your fancy new pillows.’
Nate is nothing but reassuring and supportive, and after talking it through with him, I’m buzzing at the idea of helping Josie. The truth is, with my boring, workaholic lifestyle, I’ve built up a fair amount of savings. Years ago, my accountant suggested I should pay myself a wage to work at the pub to ensure all my taxes and contributions are right, but other than food and bills, I don’t go anywhere or spend it on anything. Well, until the cushions.
I get up and collect our empty mugs. ‘You and Chunk finished converting the barn now?’
‘Yep, and it’ll be getting warmer soon, so then I can get the treehouses ship-shaped.’
‘Nice, bro. You know, I’m proud of you — what you and Chunk have accomplished at The Wreck.’
‘Who are you and what have you done with Scott?’
I quirk my eyebrow at his sarcasm.
‘You know, I could have overlooked the scatter cushions and talk of savings, but telling me you’re fucking proud of me ? Nope, total giveaway. You’re obviously an imposter..’
Rolling my eyes, I set about refilling our coffees. My stomach rumbles and I realise I haven’t eaten today.
While Nate muses about luxury treehouses and glamping, I check the fridge, and try to remember when I last went food shopping. Inside, I find the last couple of containers of Lucia’s petiscos and send her a silent thanks.
I spring the Tupperware lid open and take a bite of some puff pastries. What did Enzo call them again? Folhados? They still taste incredible.
‘What’s that?’ Nate asks.
I walk over and offer him the tub. ‘The best food you’ve ever eaten.’