I shake my head. Lucy’s standing in front of the triptych now, unusually quiet. I move to her side, fixing my attention on the left-hand canvas. Pleasure. And then the right. Pain. In a flash, it all floods back, the night he stood me in front of these pictures, understanding me completely, telling me I deserved to be loved. I home in on the centre panel, all too aware of a stabbing sensation in my stomach. My throat’s constricting and tears are threatening to betray me. I knew this would happen. The moment I laid eyes on it, I was bound to fall to pieces. Struggling to keep control, I study his body: the muscular form, the taut chest, the mop of blond hair, his face turned towards pleasure.
‘You need to finish this,’ Lucy murmurs. ‘I know it’s painful, but …’
‘I agree.’ Big Steve adds. ‘Creativity’s a wonderful thing. Good for the broken heart.’
A few moments pass in silence.
‘So,’ Lucy breathes. ‘You’ll work here?’
‘Yes.’ My eyes are still fixed on Dan. In spite of all my previous reservations about the triptych, I’m almost excited. It’s the right thing to do. I need to paint again because apart from Dan, it’s the only thing that makes me feel alive. And what’s more, while I’m finishing off the triptych, I’ll feel as if he’s with me.
‘Good. Starting on Monday, we’ll come into work together. I’ll know you’re painting … and I’ll know you’re safe.’
With my agreement in place, we close up the room and wind our way back down the staircase, through the passageway, the office and back up to the main floor of the gallery. While the Steves slope off to the kitchen, Lucy slumps back onto the sofa and I join her.
And then it happens. Slowly, very slowly, Brogue Man inches towards us. I watch him out of the corner of my eye.
‘Nice paintings,’ he says.
‘Yeah, they are,’ Lucy agrees, barely paying attention. ‘I don’t suppose you’re buying though.’
‘I might do.’ He checks his watch.
‘Ronnie Scott’s,’ Lucy whispers out of the side of her mouth. ‘What did I say?’
‘Well, I’d better go. Are you two off out tonight?’
‘Who wants to know?’ Lucy demands.
‘Me. That’s why I’m asking.’
‘We weren’t planning on it,’ Lucy snarls.
‘Oh.’ He shuffles about a bit. ‘You should. There’s a new bar down the road. Really nice. Mangans. Good music.’ He winks at me. ‘You’d like it.’
Half an hour later and much against Lucy’s wishes, we’re sitting in Mangans, a distinctly upmarket wine bar. Reclining on a plush sofa and fighting for space with a bunch of cushions, we nurse two glasses of wine that have set us back nearly twenty pounds.
‘Rich people.’ Lucy scowls at the clientele. ‘Rich people everywhere.’
She’s right. We really don’t fit in here. I scour the room, taking in the super skinny women and super smart men, and then I spot him, standing out like a sore thumb – the ‘art lover’ from Slaters. Propped up on his own collection of cushions, he’s busy reading a newspaper.
‘Why did we come here?’ Lucy demands. ‘This is shite.’
‘It’s posh.’
‘Posh shite.’
And I’m not prepared to leave, not yet. For a start, there’s no way I’m about to abandon a glass of wine that cost the best part of a tenner. But more than that, I’m determined to find out exactly why the brogue-wearing jazz fan wanted us here.
‘I like it,’ I mutter.
‘Really? It’s bloody expensive, and there’s no totty, and oh God, it’s him.’ She nods toward Brogue Man. Finishing his wine, he folds his paper and gets up. ‘He’s coming over. Make him go away.’
‘Evening ladies,’ he smiles. ‘I told you it was nice.’
‘Thanks for the tip-off.’ I raise my glass.
‘My pleasure.’
‘So,’ Lucy growls. ‘Are you the owner? Or are you just trying to get into our knickers?’
‘Neither. I just thought I’d pass on the recommendation.’
‘Well, thank you. You can go now. We’re lesbians.’
Brogue Man holds up his hands.
‘I’m sure you are. Have a lovely evening.’
Almost as soon as he leaves, music kicks into life and warmth floods right through me. I recognise it immediately. The soaring strings are unmistakable. It’s the very first song Dan played for me, on our very first date. I was right to follow my gut. The strange visitor to Slaters has lured us here so Dan can give me a message.
‘What the hell is this?’ Lucy demands, searching the air as if she can actually spot the chords.
‘Ray Charles. ‘You Don’t Know Me’.’ With a shaking hand, I put down my glass.
‘It’s miserable.’ She turns to the bar and shouts. ‘Can’t we have something a bit more upbeat?’
‘Shush,’ I reprimand her. ‘You’re being rude again. Drink your wine.’
‘Two pounds a gulp,’ she complains, sliding into a bad-tempered silence.
Grateful for an end to the moaning, I listen to the song’s progress, content in the knowledge that he’s reminding me, in the only way he can, that nothing’s changed. He’s still there and he still loves me. The rush of warmth subsides, quickly replaced by an onslaught of emotion. I’ve been teetering on the edge all day, and before I know it, I’m sobbing.
‘What’s wrong?’ Lucy demands.
‘Nothing.’ I wave a hand at her. ‘Just leave it. Please.’
While she plunges even further into a foul mood, I sob some more. And the next song doesn’t help matters much. By the time Eva Cassidy’s finished singing ‘True Colors’, I’ve dug out my handbag’s entire supply of tissues, abusing them all to within an inch of their lives. I’m about to pay a visit to the toilet in search of a fresh supply when another song begins. It’s something I don’t recognise.
‘What’s this?’ I ask, convinced that Dan’s selection is
