“A bank in Dublin has commissioned ten paintings for their new office. I’m working on a few proposals for them.”
“That’s exciting.” I turn to look at him, but he just shrugs.
“Local boy done good. It tells a good story, explains why they’re spending so much money on useless stuff.”
“Not just any local boy,” I point out. “They chose you. That has to mean something.”
He’s too modest to reply. I finish my coffee and rinse my mug out in the sink, then smile at him. “Show me your paintings?” I ask.
He starts to laugh. “What, no small talk first, no discussion of techniques or your favourite artists? Just a blunt ‘get ’em out’?”
I tip my head to the side. “You want art foreplay?” A little alarm bell starts ringing in my brain. I ignore it, concentrating instead on the way he smiles.
“An artist likes to be wooed. Pretty words, little compliments...”
I want to step forward and curl my fingers around his neck, to pull his head down until his lips are connected to mine. Want him to sweep everything off his old wooden table with a simple brush of his arm, and lay me down on it until we are both gasping.
That’s why I take a step back.
“In that case, please could you show me your pictures because you’re an amazingly talented artist and I so want to see them?” Sarcasm. My sword and my shield.
He catches my change in tone and responds accordingly. “I was just joking. I’m like a man carrying around pictures of his kids. You only have to mention them and I’m waving them under your eye, waiting for you to tell me what beautiful paintings I make.” He inclines his head to the far wall. “I’ll show you what I’ve been working on.”
He tells me about the show he’s planning for a few months’ time, loosely entitled “Bodies of Art”. I stare at the paintings he’s done so far as he explains the concept, marvelling at how he manages to pick out the right shade of colour, uses the right texture to bring his paintings to life. He tells me about the model he’s found with seventy-degree burns, and the psoriasis sufferer whose skin is practically peeling off. He talks of muscle density and bone structure, and I hang on his every word as if I’m some sort of art groupie.
“Did I show you this? It’s the design for Alex’s CD cover.” He pulls out a small, square canvas and holds it up for me to see. The white background is covered with brushes of colour, each blending into the next. The hues mix together to form a shape in the centre. “It’s a bird,” he says, smiling wryly. “The album is called Fear of Flying.”
“The same as their band? It’s pretty.” In fact it’s beautiful, but I feel as if I’ve gushed enough. Like always, the way he layers the colours makes me want to reach out and touch them. As if by feeling them, I’ll be connecting with him.
I wonder if the urge to touch him will ever go away.
“They seem to like it. It’s going to be on their tour t-shirts.” He catches my eye. “I’m going to be famous.”
This time we both laugh.
An old canvas in the corner—one we haven’t looked at—catches my eye. “What’s that one?”
He puts the painting he’s holding down and hurriedly responds, “Nothing.”
Of course, his vague reply makes me want to see it more. I step forward, folding my hands around the wooden frame, pulling it back from the wall. The first thing I see is creamy flesh, then a slender neck, curving down into delicate shoulders.
A nude. I don’t know why this affects me. Maybe because it’s so realistic, I know it had to be painted from a model. A pang of jealousy hits me as I realise the picture shows pretty much everything except her face.
Niall almost runs to snatch it out of my hands. His cheeks burn as brightly as mine. “I can explain...”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
He carries on as if I hadn’t said a word. “I finished it that summer. It was probably the only thing that kept me sane after Digby died. I did sketch after sketch from memory, and somehow it finally came together.” When he glances up, he looks shamefaced. “I’ve never shown it to anybody.”
It takes me a while to register what his garbled sentences mean. I lift the canvas gently from his hands and study it. My eyes follow the curve of my breasts, and the softness of my thighs. I want to cry because it’s beautiful. The girl I was, before everything went wrong, is captured forever on oil and canvas. Unblemished skin, unbroken dreams, they’re all there to see.
“You kept it.” My voice thickens as I try not to sob.
“It was the one thing I did keep. The only good thing to come out of that time. Those last few weeks were senseless. We took too many drugs and did too many crazy things. But somewhere in there was a little kernel of something fucking amazing.”
He looks so despondent, I reach out and take his hand. Immediately, his fingers wrap around mine. “There was,” I agree.
We’re silent for a moment. I’m hyper aware of the way he’s holding me. The way he’s looking at me. The thrum of my heartbeat is almost deafening.