All morning I carry on at work as though nothing has changed. I’ve always had a great poker face and a developed ability to compartmentalise. I chair a meeting, send emails, make calls. Then someone cancels my first afternoon meeting, opening up a rare three-hour break in my diary. The gap scares me. I want to keep busy, not to think. I have a mountain of emails to get through and a strategic mid-term project that needs some thinking time but I doubt my ability to concentrate on either, so I tell my PA that I am going to work offsite. My plan is to find a café with internet, surround myself with distracting strangers who I can watch and perhaps swap an unattached word or two with.
I wander along Piccadilly, trying to stay in the moment, trying not to give in to the grief that I can feel ballooning in my chest, making it hard to breathe steadily. I have cried a lot of tears over my father long before he died. Enough tears. Far too many. I don’t want to waste any more. I am glad of the sunshine; it has enticed people out of their offices and apartments and so the streets are heaving. I concentrate on weaving in between the hurrying pedestrians. Everyone else seems purposeful, determined. By contrast, I feel as though I am floating, directionless. I glance in coffee-shop windows but my original plan of setting up camp in one has lost its appeal. I drift onwards but my shoes are a little tight, and too high for walking in London streets. Suddenly, the heat is uncomfortable; there is a tidal wave of humanity on the pavements and I am a fish swimming in the wrong direction. I feel sick, a little faint. So I dip into the cool and calmer courtyard of the Royal Academy.
I plonk myself down on the steps outside the gallery and scramble in my bag for my water bottle. I sip at it and then lose some minutes. Find some stillness. I am wearing dark blue trousers, so my shins quickly become hot. I take off my jacket and the skin of my arms soon tingles as the sun scorches. Sweat pools on my back. The shock of the news of my father’s death is spreading through me, paralysing me. If it was raining, I would have probably still been rooted to the steps, drenched, so the sun is a gift.
There are a large number of people sat in the forecourt and I am glad of it. I want humanity buzzing about me. Vibrant, alive. Blocking out what I obviously need to think about, process. Everyone is notably more buoyant than usual because of the unseasonably brilliant weather. I try to decide how much I want to commit to being involved. Striking up a conversation with a stranger would at least pass the time.
Waste time.
The thought makes me more nauseous. I don’t want to think about how much time I have already wasted. Time I’ll never get back. You only get one life. My father’s is over. His death has left us both exposed.
The Royal Academy attracts an eclectic bunch. Mostly, earnest grey-haired types. There are worse things to be. Some people are cheats, or liars. Some people dodge their responsibilities. Some people are stuck in the past and waste the now. There are women wearing brightly coloured skirts and scarves, gossiping with their friends about their grandchildren and daughters-in-law. I spot an elderly gent with a yellow tie and hat from a different era, a girl with a leopard-print skirt, a young man with a purple Mohican. Every detail of this kaleidoscope of humanity becomes tattooed on my brain.
There are schoolgirls picnicking on the steps too, chatty, giggling, breathless. My eyes graze, my ears cherry-pick their conversations about sandwich fillings, boys and homework. They are given a two-minute warning that they need to leave. Their noise level rises as they begin to stand up, look for bins to deposit their waste. They need to find the loos, visit the gift shop, take one last look at … As they file past me – untidy gaggles, some still chewing, hungrily, others patting their flat bellies and yet worrying that they’d eaten too much – I am struck by the length of their legs and the smell of them. They look like teens but smell like children: sweat, crayons, paper, chocolate, excitement, a bundle of all that. Something in my heart swells, pinches, then relaxes. Groups of children always leave me with that sense of treasure found and lost. Their skirts are wound up at the waistband, apparently that doesn’t get old.
The schoolgirls vanish under the cool arches, leaving the sanctuary of the gallery and spilling back onto the London streets; the packed tube, the chaotic queues, London proper.
I close my eyes and lean back against the low wall near the steps. I think I must drift off to sleep. My body and mind closing down, shutting out. I’ve always been good at that. Switching off is a survival technique. I don’t know if it’s moments, minutes, hours later when I wake up, disconcerted. I can smell marijuana. The earthy, herby, somewhat sweet scent always slightly embarrasses me as I’ve never tried any drugs in my entire life. I know, extraordinary – and so smelling hash is basically a signal that someone infinitely more daring than I am is in the vicinity. Yet, I am also aware that hash is considered the gateway drug, soft – teens sometimes don’t class it as a drug at all – so I also judge marijuana smokers as faintly loser-ish. I open my eyes, expecting to see an unkempt, beanie-wearing, bloated guy with a chubby roach indiscreetly hanging out his mouth. Instead I am met with the embodiment of sophistication, beauty, confidence.
Love’s first
