Chapter Seven
NOW
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I say, my voice less sharp than I’d like it to be.
The colours of Earl’s painting go blurry behind my watery eyes.
So much time has passed, how can it be that Emmett is here, in the gallery?
And he is. He’s really here. What is he doing?
I look at him, and already the anger that I felt moments ago is disappearing.
Replaced by what, I don’t know. I have no words, none at all.
He looks better, that’s what I think. He’s wearing a light grey shirt and trousers, proper trousers. I don’t think I ever saw teenage Emmett in anything other than scratty jeans. Now, he looks polished as if time has taken teenage Emmett and scrubbed the past and all its problems from him.
I’ve now been frowning and weeping for some time. ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask him again, and I’d love to say that my voice isn’t shaky, but that would be a lie.
‘I came to see the painting,’ he answers.
‘Well, it’s there.’ I gesture to the wall.
Someone shushes us.
I go back to looking at the painting and reading the information on the little card at the side of it.
The Edge of Always… date unknown.
I’m aware of Emmett out of the corner of my eye. He’s twisting his hands together where they’re resting on his knee.
‘Luna, we need to talk.’
‘Do we?’
The desire to be cool and calm in this situation is overwhelming.
I’ve played this out so many times in my head already, what it would be like if I ever saw Emmett again, how I would act.
There were versions where I ran into his arms, jumped up, and kissed him passionately, versions where I just walked away because it hurt too much, and versions where I told him everything about what’s happened since we broke up, about how no love has ever compared to him, how I’m sure that loving him back then broke me in a way that I’ve never been able to recover from. In no version was I silently weeping.
‘You’re in the painting, Luna.’
Another shush.
‘Yes, I know.’
I have nothing else. I’m in the painting.
I’m in the painting and I don’t understand why.
I don’t understand why I’m there, and here.
I don’t understand how it can be that past me and present me, two people that are so wholly different that I thought they could never be reconciled, are here, in the same space.
I’m not the person from The Time Before, I’m not the person in the painting.
And yet she’s me, and I am her. And how can that be?
The gallery fills up around us, blocking our view of the painting.
Someone claps their hands, and when I look up, there’s a woman in a suit with many gold buttons talking in rapid French.
I’ve little hope of understanding her until she says, ‘And welcome to this, the opening of our new exhibit showcasing the works of Earl Josef Spencer. I’m Mari Marigold, curator of this space. ’
This is the woman who was quoted in the Rise Art article, the one who said that Earl is her favourite artist.
Mari’s off in French again. I listen intently, trying to follow along, to do anything which might quiet the unease that’s rolling off me, making my limbs stiff and straight.
‘Meet me tonight,’ Emmett mutters.
I don’t reply.
‘Luna, meet me later.’
Nothing.
Emmett belongs in the past.
I think I glean from Mari’s speech that they believe this must have been Earl’s last painting, since the composition is new. It sparks some long-forgotten memory… one that’s been crowded out by everything else that happened that summer…
‘Luna.’
‘I can’t.’ I sound like I’m choking, or else in pain. The words sound like the sort of words you’d force out on your deathbed, right before you cease to exist in the world.
Someone coughs and looks down at where we’re sitting on the bench. They do a double-take when they see me and start whispering to the person next to them. There are now so many people standing in front of us that I can’t even see Mari or the painting anymore.
‘At this restaurant.’ Emmett slides a piece of paper towards me. ‘I’ll be there at seven.’
I just shake my head and leave the paper on the bench next to me.
More and more people are now looking at me from the assembled crowd.
I’ve been so absorbed in myself that I’m only just realising that my literal worst nightmare is coming true right now.
I’m in public, with lots of people, and they’re all staring at me.
I feel myself grow hot. My mouth is open. Someone takes a picture. No, no, no.
Emmett goes to get up.
‘I’ll be there. I think we should talk. I can tell you more about the painting.’
There it is.
I go to say that he should tell me now, that I’ve waited long enough for answers. But Mari is talking at us. At me. I don’t know what, but it’s probably along the lines of, who the fuck are you and why are you in our painting?
Emmett apologises, in French, of course he does, and then leaves.
When we were younger, it was me. I was the one who was always leaving, but twice now, it’s been him. Maybe I never appreciated, when we were young, just how hard it is to be the one who’s left behind.
I’d have more time to ponder this beautiful, if slightly tragic sentiment, were it not for the fact that the stuff of my literal nightmares is being played out in real time.
Everyone, including Mari, is looking at me and firing questions in French.
And no, the French specifically didn’t feature in my fever dreams where I’m the centre of attention (I’m naked in those), but this is somehow worse.
Why didn’t I think of this?
Why didn’t I expect that turning up at the opening might cause a stir? This is what I get for not realising how popular Earl’s work has become. This horrifying situation where people are actually pointing at me.
Mari, who seems to have realised that I’m English, and who is also probably working on the assumption that I’m some sort of an imbecile, since I’ve been frozen with my mouth hanging open this whole time, starts to talk in slow, steady, English.
‘You are the girl in the painting, yes?’ she asks. A man is still taking photos, and I really wish he’d stop.
‘Yes,’ I answer, dry-mouthed and focusing solely on Mari. She looks so well put together, as if she’s the sort of woman who gets shit done. ‘At least, I think I am.’
Mari looks between me and the painting.
‘Yes, it is you. Older now, of course. More, how do you say, wrinkles, here.’ She gestures to the side of her decidedly wrinkle-free eyes. ‘And more sadness now, there is that too.’
Well, isn’t this lovely?
‘But it is your hair. It is very unique, yes?’ Mae and I have always had red hair. It’s quite distinctive, I suppose. I hated it growing up. I don’t mind it so much now. ‘You are still very beautiful, I think,’ Mari finishes.
A public compliment, as if this situation wasn’t despairing enough. I need to get out of here. Like, I cannot stay in this gallery a second longer. I need to be on my own. I knew it was a mistake coming to Paris. This, Emmett, it’s all too much.
I stand up. The crowd have formed a semi-circle around me.
‘I have to…’ I indicate behind me with my thumb.
Mari is talking but I have no idea what she’s saying. It turns out, in situations of high stress, I don’t even understand English anymore.
At the last second, and possibly owing to the adrenaline coursing through me, making me act in stupid, insensible ways, I grab the piece of paper Emmett left with the restaurant details on. And then, with a whole chorus of French behind me, I turn and run.
Outside the MAM, I crack open the water that’s in my bag and take two pills.
I’m half frantic as I set my sunglasses and headphones in place, my eyes darting around like a trapped deer.
It’s as if I expect Emmett to appear out of nowhere, as if that’s just a thing he does in Paris.
Or else some more French people will come and shout questions and take pictures of me at terrible angles.
This is why it’s just better to stay at home.
Neither of those things have ever happened to me in Bamburgh.
I feel weak; I hate feeling weak. I try to do my breathing, four, four, four. It’s meant to calm me down. It’s not working. I’m too stressed. I’ve stuffed Emmett’s little note in my bag and left it at that.
The urge to be alone is strong. It tussles with the knowledge that this is likely the first and last time I’ll get to come to Paris. So, instead of going into hiding, I stumble back towards my hotel and sit in the quiet gardens again.
At least here, alone, I feel more myself.
I check my phone. The people on here understand, and this morning’s video blog has gone down unexpectedly well.
There are fifty-six comments already and a couple of hundred likes.
I have a quick scan of what they’re saying.
Some of my regulars are complaining that it’s not death art, but more people are commenting that they’re looking forward to the mini-series.
There are messages from Mum and Mae, too.
Mum: Call me immediately Luna or I’m going to Dr Dave.
Mae: How was it? Message as soon as you’ve seen it.
I reluctantly reply to Mum.
Me: I’m fine, Mum. Honestly, Dr Dave knows and says it’s okay. I’ll be back on Wednesday.
It’ll be a while till she replies. She has Ashanti yoga on Monday mornings.
Me: The piece is beautiful. I can’t believe he managed to do it in secret. I wish you could see it.
Mae: It’s online you know. Gorgeous. Go Earl! How are you feeling?
Me: I’m alright. Taken my meds. But some stuff happened and I’m kind of freaking out.
Immediately, my phone rings.
‘Mae, you’re meant to be at work.’
‘Gemma says it’s fine.’ Gemma is Mae’s boss and a part-time friend of ours. She gives Mae a huge amount of leeway on account of me and how I am.