‘Happy fucking birthday,’ I mutter, thinking of the three cards sitting at home, one from Mum and Dad, one from Sara, and one from Lucy. I’m not surprised there’s nothing from Dan. After all, since the songs were played at Mangans, there’s been absolutely no contact. For some reason – and there must be a good one - he’s opted for silence.
I get up, move to the window and watch the clouds scudding across the sky. Two months in limbo. Two whole months since I last saw him. I can barely believe it. I’ve watched summer retreat and autumn quietly take its place, breathing a last rush of colour through the trees: red, gold, bronze and yellow. It’s in full force now, but it won’t last long. The leaves are already losing their grip on life, spiralling to the ground in ever increasing numbers.
I’ve spent the days here at Slaters, burying myself in painting. Nights and weekends, holed up in Camden, slugging back unhealthy quantities of wine, suffering through Lucy’s new-found obsession with cooking, and half-watching an endless stream of soppy films. It’s an uninspiring story, punctuated by the odd outing to a pub and regular deliveries of roses, all quickly consigned to the neighbour’s skip. And all the time the ache has grown, consuming every part of me. There’s no relief from it, not even in sleep. Over the past few weeks, Dan’s presence has faded from my dreams.
No wonder frustration’s a constant companion, plaguing every waking moment and blitzing me with countless questions, unending possibilities. It’s prompted me to search the internet, and that hasn’t helped matters. I’ve found nothing apart from a brief article about the CEO of Fosters recovering from a motorbike accident, and rumours of expansion. More than once I’ve picked up the phone to call Lily, always stopping before I go too far. It’s a bloody miracle I’ve somehow managed to keep a hold on faith, clutching at it like a comfort blanket. But it’s tattered now, worn and fraying at the edges. I’m beginning to doubt my own memories of what happened, the promises he made. I’m beginning to doubt everything.
I hear a door bang down below, the sound of voices in the stairwell. Giving up on the grotty Soho back street, I take my place back on the stool, and survey the room. Propped up at the far end, the triptych’s finished, waiting for a suitable home. And it’s lured me in a new direction, away from landscapes, further into the world of figure painting. I’ve been working on a series of self-portraits. Gazing repeatedly into an old mirror and using larger canvases, five feet by three, I’ve begun to mark out my time in isolation.
The first portrait’s leaning against a wall next to the stairwell. I’m sitting on a couch, wearing a long grey dress, legs curled up beneath me, gazing out of an open window at a vibrant blue sky. Summer light floods in from outside, playing against the rough texture of an olive-green wall and illuminating my face. It’s partly an experiment in still life, partly an exploration of composition. Leaving the space uncluttered to the right, I’ve focussed the details on the left-hand side. Beneath the window and next to the couch, there’s a wooden three-legged stool, adorned with a simple jam jar filled with pure white sweet peas, all glowing against the shadows. I’m more than pleased with the end result, how the lines draw attention to the flowers, how I’ve captured the texture of a red throw on the couch, the delicacy of the sweet peas, the sheen of the glass jar.
And now I’ve moved on to a second picture. This time I’m wearing a black dress. On the floor in front of the couch, with my knees pulled up to my chest, I’m staring straight ahead, into nothing. The window’s still open, but the light’s weaker, colder, barely touching the uneven plaster of the wall. The jar of sweet peas remains on the stool, the flowers faded, limp and lifeless.
‘Amazing work.’
I’m startled by a man’s voice. It’s deep and low, laced with an American accent. I find the owner standing in the doorway. Immaculately dressed in a tailored grey suit, he’s tall and perfectly proportioned, with thick black hair that’s a little overlong, giving him a rakish edge. His charcoal eyes sparkle with mischief. I take it all in, acknowledging the fact that he probably sends women wild in the head and weak at the knees … but he doesn’t have that effect on me. There’s no quickening of the heart, no sharp intake of breath, no twinges down below. Thanks to Dan, I’m immune.
‘I’m sorry …’
‘Gordon,’ he beams, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth. ‘Gordon Finn. Pleased to meet you.’
Striding forward, he holds out a hand. I slip my fingers into his, allowing him to squeeze the life out of them, while I wait for more information, but nothing arrives. He just carries on beaming and squeezing.
‘Can I ask what you’re doing up here? I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that …’
Just that what? I wonder. Just that you might be some hired nut-job coming after me on Boyd’s behalf? Well that’s a ridiculous notion. For a start, hired nut-jobs don’t wear beyond-the-radar-expensive suits. And secondly, nobody comes up here without being shown the way by Lucy, or one of the Steves.
‘I’m just taking a look around.’ He releases my hand. ‘Lucy said it was okay.’
Then I realise. He’s American. Some American chap. It’s been ages since I last asked about the gallery sale. The new buyer was being difficult, finding problems at every stage, and the longer the process dragged on, the more pissed-off the Steves became. Eventually, I thought it best to keep quiet. But now he’s here, the prospective owner of Slaters. And there’s a distinct possibility he’s acting for
