I close my eyes, summoning up the dream that’s visited me for the past couple of nights. I’m back with Dan. I don’t see him, but I smell him, taste him, feel him keenly, as if I’m wide awake and he’s right there with me. My senses lap it up: the touch of his lips, his breath against mine, the delicious, tortuous waves of pleasure building inside as he thrusts. It’s a nightly elixir that keeps me going. I can only hope it comes again tonight, and every night until we’re reunited.
I hear the bang of a door and open my eyes. Lucy emerges from the kitchen, carrying a wine bottle and a couple of glasses. She casts a disdainful glance in the direction of the mysterious visitor and joins me at the front of the gallery.
‘Right, I’m done.’ She places the glasses on the table. ‘It’s Saturday. Let’s get blasted.’
I stare at her in silence, wondering why the fact it’s Saturday makes any difference. Ever since Wednesday night she’s been on a mission to forget. An hour after flouncing out of the door with Clive, she staggered back in alone, transformed from a loved-up lust-puppet into a weeping, self-pitying shambles. Four bottles of Pinot Grigio just didn’t stand a chance. Inevitably, three evenings have now disappeared under a mountain of used tissues, a thousand unanswerable questions, and even more wine.
‘Why don’t we go upstairs first? I’d like to see my new studio.’
After all, that’s the main reason I’m here. My clothes have already been moved back to Camden. There wasn’t the space for the canvases and paints. It was Lucy’s idea to store them in a spare office above Slaters, the Steves’ suggestion I use it as a temporary studio until the sale goes through.
‘Later.’ Opening the wine bottle, she fills the glasses. ‘Drink.’
Eyeing up the wine, I silently wonder how much more I can take. Dragged along in Lucy’s boozy wake, my brain’s fried and my liver’s threatening to implode.
‘Where are the Steves?’
I pick up the glass. Reminding myself that a real post-break-up Maya Scotton would have slugged back the lot by now, I gulp down a mouthful and wince.
‘Downstairs. Faffing.’ Lucy slumps next to me. ‘I texted Clive.’
‘Not again, Luce.’
‘I couldn’t help it.’
Honestly, I could give her a good shake. Nothing too violent. Just a quick ‘snap out of it’ shake, followed by a well-meant slap on the cheek. After all, by my calculations, this is the fourth time she’s texted Clive. I stare at my mess of a friend, deciding she’s like a pinball, mercilessly flung from one flipper to another, veering between anger, despair and desperation.
‘He’s only going to think you’re a head case. Leave it.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
She shakes her head. ‘Denial?’
‘You didn’t ask him to give it another go? Please tell me you didn’t.’
‘Well …’
‘Oh, Lucy. Did he reply?’
Of course he didn’t. I already know that.
‘He hasn’t replied to any of them.’
‘You’re developing stalker tendencies.’
‘It’s not my fault I fell for him.’
Biting back the urge to scream, I decide it’s time for another flick of the flippers. I can’t deal with misery and desperation, not right now.
‘Give up on being pathetic,’ I suggest. ‘Go back to anger. It’s much more fun.’
‘Is that where you are?’
‘Not sure.’
Picking up her glass, she takes a gulp of wine and gazes out of the window, watching a loved-up couple as they amble past, hand in hand.
‘Bastards. I’m too depressed to be angry.’
‘Just give it a go. For me.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘He’s a shit.’
Not good enough. Way too half-hearted for my liking.
‘You need to go that extra mile. How about he’s a womanising shit?’
‘Still sounds a bit lame.’ She gulps back more wine.
‘Okay, a lying, ruthless, heartless twat of a womanising shit?’
Her lips curl upwards. It’s not much of a smile, but at least it’s a start.
‘I’ll drink to that.’
We chink glasses and finish off our drinks.
‘He’s a bastard,’ she exclaims, with a little more gusto. Leaning forward, she grabs the wine bottle and refills our glasses. ‘In fact, he’s a big bastard.’
‘Excellent.’
I might just have got her on a roll.
‘He’s a big bastard shit,’ she affirms, cranking up the volume.
‘Fantastic.’
‘An even bigger shit than Dan … and that’s saying something.’
I wince.
‘An accountant … called Clive. What the hell came over me?’ She’s got that mad dog look in her eyes now. ‘He’s the king of shits,’ she half-shouts. ‘The shitmeister!’
‘Keep your voice down,’ I hiss.
‘Why?’
‘There’s a punter over there.’
‘And? He’s a man. Therefore he’s a wanker. They’re all a bunch of wankers.’
Oh Lord, I’ve set off something here, opened up a Pandora’s Box of sweariness, and I’m not entirely sure I can keep it under control.
‘Too loud,’ I warn her. ‘And too much swearing.’
‘I can do much better than that.’
Oh, I know she can … and that’s what I’m scared of.
‘They’re a bunch of cun …’
‘Enough,’ I snap loudly before she can finish.
‘You wanted me to get angry.’
‘Yes, but not with him. He might be about to buy a painting.’
‘He’s not buying anything.’ She motions her glass towards the visitor. ‘Look at his shoes.’
I check on the shoes and shrug. I have no idea how Lucy’s learned to rate potential buyers based on their footwear.
‘What’s wrong with them?’
‘Brogues,’ she sneers, slamming her glass on the table. ‘He’s biding his time before he goes to Ronnie Scott’s. Jazz hands.’
Splaying her fingers and waving
