To my left, I notice Digby has stopped jumping with the music. His face is almost bloated, but his lips are pale and blue. Though he isn’t dancing anymore, his body is still moving, being pushed to and fro by the crowd like a piece of flotsam on the tide.
“Are you okay?” I have to shout it twice. I lean in to him and touch his arm. It feels like fire.
“Yeah, I just need to take a break.” He’s still swaying. “I’m going to get a drink.”
I open my mouth to offer to go with him, but the music changes and Niall’s arms tighten around my waist. I turn to look at him, and he’s smiling down at me, and for a moment it bleaches the thoughts right out of my brain. All I can focus on is his mouth. I press my own lips against it, closing my eyes, feeling the fire light up inside my belly.
When I open them, Digby is gone. I tell myself he’ll be fine, that he’ll get a drink and come back and we will all be dancing again, celebrating the final hours of our hedonistic freedom. There’s no point in looking for him, he could be anywhere, doing anything, and he’ll be back in a few minutes.
Of course, he isn’t.
21
I spend most of the weekend working. In a strange parody of what used to be our marriage, Simon and I sit at the dining-room table, staring at our respective laptops, occasionally breaking away to make each other a cup of tea. He tells me about his current case—some decade-old dispute about boundary lines—and I regale him with stories about the food orders I’ve had to negotiate. It’s easy and light, a contrast to the tension of the last few months.
Not once does this new entente make me regret my decision. If anything it reinforces that it was the right one. We’ve renegotiated our positions, found new ones that make us comfortable in each other’s company. If we were teenagers, I’d say we’ve entered the friend zone.
On Monday I fight through the morning rush hour to meet Niall. He surprised me by suggesting we meet at nine, offering to have coffee and pastries. I agreed readily, even though I always thought he would be the type to lie in.
His studio is based in an old warehouse, converted into a collective of small yet useable rooms, most of which have been populated by arty types. There are potters and basket weavers, painters and sculptors. When I see the light pouring in through the tall Victorian windows, I realise exactly why they’ve all clustered here; the brightness of the sun whitewashes the brown bricks of the warehouse. It illuminates, making everything appear so clear. Beautiful.
I walk along the first-floor balcony, heading for the little garret on the corner of the building that houses Niall Joseph, Artist. Though I’m carrying a huge bag full of notes and catalogues, the thing that’s really weighing me down
is this sense of desperation. The need to see him again pulls at my soul. The closer I get, the more my heart starts to speed, my breath shortening as his door comes into view. I have to remind myself that we are friends, this is a business meeting. It’s nine o’clock on a Monday morning, for God’s sake, but I can’t get this inane grin off my face.
It’s the smell of coffee that hits me first. The aroma of roasted beans escapes through the cracks surrounding his metallic door, overpowering the earthy smell of paint and the sharpness of turpentine, beckoning me over until I’m knocking at his door.
“Hi.” He sounds breathless when he opens it, but it’s his smile that steals mine away. The light floods in from the window behind him, casting a hazy glow behind his body.
“Hi yourself. Do I smell coffee?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, that’s the bitter aroma of my lost dreams.”
He takes my bag without asking and I follow him into his tiny enclave, looking around to get myself acquainted. One of the walls is lined with shelves full of paints and brushes and everything else he might need. The one opposite has sketches tacked to it—all at various stages of completion, from light etching to thicker pencil strokes. The third wall has a whole load of canvasses stacked against it, and it’s these that draw my eye. I remember how impressed I was with his works when I first saw them at Elise’s gallery. The ones in here are just as amazing.
When I look over at Niall he has his back to me, fiddling with the coffee machine.
“How do you like it?” he asks without looking round.
“Your studio?”
“No, Beth, how would you like your coffee?” He turns to look at me, amusement lighting up his eyes.
“Lots of milk and two sugars, please.”
He does as I’ve asked, muttering something about sacrilege.
“What?”
“Coffee isn’t ice cream. It’s supposed to be strong and bitter.” He hands me a mug, his fingers touching mine for the briefest of moments. “I bet you love a nice latte.”
“And I bet you only drink espresso.” I take a sip; it’s warm and delicious. “You’re a coffee snob.”
When he laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkle up. “I take coffee very seriously.”
I can see that. He has a corner of his studio dedicated to it. A grinder, a pot of beans, a coffee machine and mugs are all lined up like a shrine to caffeine. There’s something so very Niall about it. I like these little nuances in his personality, the small insights into what kind of man he is. A good one, I think.
“What are you working on?” I walk over to the wall where he’s tacked his sketches, studying the lines of his pencil, wanting to trace them with my fingers. When he stands behind me, his arm brushes against my shoulder, and I hear his soft breathing as he stares along with me.