Chapter 19
‘I can’t do this.’
I was huddled in the doorway of a little antiques shop in The Lanes, counting the checkerboard black and white tiles beneath my feet to stop myself from hyperventilating.
‘Jennifer Thompson,’ Mum said firmly, her voice crackling in my ear down the phone. ‘ You are the strongest person that I know. You can do anything.’
I managed a weak smile. ‘It’s just—’
‘Do you want me to go with you? I could be down there in ten minutes?’ I heard the faint jangle of her car keys amidst the raucous pub crowd and my heart swelled at the thought of her dropping everything just to be here with me. I took a deep, unsteady breath in through my nose.
‘Thanks, but I think this is something I need to do on my own.’
‘OK, love. Call me after? Let me know how it goes?’ Her voice had that slightly giddy high-pitched tone of excited anticipation, as if she knew something I didn’t.
I nodded, before realising that Mum couldn’t see me.
‘OK,’ I muttered, grasping the phone tightly against my chest long after I’d ended the call.
The Lanes art gallery was abuzz with activity, light and laughter spilling out onto the cobbled street whenever the door opened, an endless stream of silk scarves and crisply pressed trousers coming and going.
It took a few deep breaths before I could pluck up the courage to emerge from the shadow of the doorway, my ankles wobbling unsteadily as I crossed the street.
A man in a smart black suit was manning the door.
He looked up as I approached, eyes widening in recognition, even though I’d never met him before. He held the door open for me.
‘Welcome to the Joseph Carter exhibition.’ He smiled warmly, handing me a glossy pamphlet with Joe’s face on the front cover.
There he was, in glorious black-and-white.
My Joe. I traced my fingers over the lines of his face, a familiar ache blooming in the pit of my stomach that made me just want to turn and run.
I nodded dumbly, one foot still on the street, the other on the kerb, as though my feet were still deciding which way I should go.
‘You’ve come just in time, it’s the final day of the exhibition. Last chance to see it in all its glory.’ The doorman’s words were enough to propel me up the steps and through the door before I could change my mind.
It was busy inside, the air warm and alive with the buzz of conversation, bubbles chattering just as excitedly to each other in the long, thin-stemmed glasses that everyone seemed to be holding.
I grabbed one from a passing tray, the waiter throwing me a judgemental look as I downed it in one, swapping my empty glass for another full one before he could move on.
I joined a sort of unofficial queue, a woman dressed in all black shepherding me along behind a gentleman in a green corduroy suit.
I was grateful to have been given some sort of direction, a set path to follow.
The woman held my gaze for a second longer than normal, something akin to recognition passing across her face before she shifted her attention to the person behind me.
‘Fantastic,’ the man in green marvelled as we stood in front of the first photograph.
It was a black-and-white portrait of an elderly couple.
They were sat on one of the wrought-iron benches that lined the promenade, a tartan blanket stretched across both their shoulders as if they were a single entity.
A package deal. The woman’s shoes didn’t quite meet the floor, the tips of her toes just scraping the concrete as she rested her head on the man’s shoulder with the ease of someone who’d been doing it for a lifetime.
Joe had chosen to take the photograph from behind, their stooped backs facing the camera, and I could see why.
As an onlooker, you were treated to the very same view that the couple were enjoying, the vast expanse of ocean beyond the railings stretching as far as the eye could see, a sea of infinite patterns and colours.
‘Just fantastic,’ the man repeated before moving on to the next photograph, and I felt an overwhelming surge of pride. I had to tighten my grip on my champagne flute to stop myself from tapping him on the shoulder and saying Joe took these. Yes, my Joe. Isn’t he incredible?
The next photograph was also black-and-white.
A young girl wearing wellies that looked about two sizes too big, her face shining with pure, untarnished joy as Joe managed to capture the exact moment she landed in a giant puddle, water fanning around her like the hem of a skirt.
I could almost hear the squeal of delight that her tiny O-shaped mouth must have made, my own mouth shaping itself into an involuntary smile.
I walked slowly along, following the line of people around the room as we moved from photograph to photograph, each invoking a different emotion to the last.
A small crowd had gathered around the next installation, which had been suspended from the ceiling, giving it pride of place in the very centre of the gallery.
I watched the backs of people’s heads turn this way and that, pointing things out to the person next to them, but there were too many people for me to even glimpse a corner of it.
And so I waited, sipping my champagne and experiencing it through everyone’s facial expressions.
People were smiling. Their shoulders shaking with laughter.
Their brows creased thoughtfully. That man looked like he had tears in his eyes.
And that woman – well, she was looking right at .
.?. me? I frowned, peering over my own shoulder, but there was no one behind me.
She was two rows in front, so the fact she was looking in the opposite direction to everyone else wasn’t exactly subtle.
She whispered something to the woman stood next to her who also turned and glanced my way, something about what she saw prompting her to nod in agreement.
I felt my cheeks flush and for some inexplicable reason I automatically looked down at my skirt, my free hand scrabbling blindly at the back to check it wasn’t tucked into my knickers. It was not.
I smiled down at my Converse, the idea of that happening, of the world coming full circle and recreating the moment I first met Joe, tonight of all nights, enough to draw a bubble of laughter from my lips.
By the time I looked up again, a gap had appeared in the crowd, and the image that greeted me made me freeze.
It was the only photograph in full colour, the vibrant blues and yellows and reds almost blinding in their intensity amidst a room of black and white.
But that wasn’t what caused all the breath to leave my body.
It was me. The photograph was me. Or rather a version of myself that was so far from who I was today, I almost didn’t recognise her.
I was wearing my favourite blue dress, the one reserved for special occasions, with its tight fitted bodice and tulle skirt that stopped several inches above the ankle.
My head was tipped backwards in frozen laughter, my arms stretched out almost as wide as the skirt of my dress, which formed a blurred ring around my shins.
Rain was falling all around me, droplets glittering against the bare skin of my arms as I turned my head up towards the sky, welcoming the raindrops as they bounced around my bare feet.
The memory was hazy to begin with, like looking through a fogged-up window, but then the edges sharpened, and I was jolted right back to that day.
It was a Saturday. A perfect summer’s evening.
July, I think. Joe and I were on our way back from a wedding, whose I don’t remember.
Clearly that detail was irrelevant. It was such a warm evening that we’d decided to walk home, Joe with his tuxedo jacket slung over one shoulder, me with my heels dangling from two fingers.
We were talking about everything and nothing.
Whose turn it was to make the hot chocolates that evening and whether we’d ever consider living abroad (after a full list of pros and cons, we settled on no, we’d miss our friends and family too much).
Somehow, we then got onto the topic of who we thought would die first.
‘Definitely me,’ I proclaimed without hesitating. ‘My love for ice cream coupled with your quite frankly ludicrous love affair with cycling means I’m probably already double your metabolic age.’
Joe laughed, loosening his bowtie so it hung around his collar.
‘I always wanted to date an older woman.’ He grinned, wiggling his eyebrows teasingly.
I pushed him playfully away, but he grabbed hold of my hand, hooking his arm around my waist, not letting me go.
‘Well, what with your sociopathic obsession with true crime podcasts, I’m going to say me. ’
‘I do know about ten different ways I could murder you and get away with it,’ I agreed, my voice deadpan.
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Joe chuckled, his fingers tickling my ribs until I squealed. We walked in silence for a while, our steps perfectly in sync. The sun had almost set, its pinky-orange hue flickering across the horizon, like someone had torn a rip in the otherwise ink-blue sky.
‘If I did kick the bucket first though, I’d want you to find someone else.’
‘You mean break my period of perpetual mourning?’ I cried, my free hand flying dramatically to my chest in mock horror.
‘I’m serious.’ An edge to Joe’s voice made me look up and I saw that he was.
Serious. His eyes wide and imploring as they stared down at me, as if he was looking right into my soul, his jaw jutting out in that way it did whenever he was talking about something important.
‘I’d want you to move on, Jenny. To find happiness again.
I’d hate to think that I was ever responsible for holding you back, for pressing pause on your life. ’