SEVEN DAYS

by Silence Welder

  “When I said I didn't feel anything,” she began, “that wasn't entirely true.”

  “Tell me.”

  An announcement over the loudspeakers [LMB1] interrupted them.

  “Our bookshops will be closing in ten minutes' time. All customers wishing to make a purchase, please make your way to the checkout desks. Thank you.”

  That meant that it was 1950[LMB2] , which only gave her 40 minutes to grab her gift for Peter and get to the restaurant by 2030.

  “I've got to go!” she said.

  “You were about to say something radical.”

  She was already on her feet and rushing out of the room.

  He caught up to her by the lifts and advised her to take the stairs. He followed her down the stairwell and even nipped ahead to open the door for her at the bottom.

  “Thank you,” she said, breathless. “I don't mean to seem ungrateful. I had a great time. I lost track of how long we were up there.”

  “Me too,” Mark said. “I'd say that I'm sorry, but I'm only sorry that you're leaving me.”

  She gave him a pained smile before entering the smaller of the gallery's bookshops, where Mark quickly found his recommendation and handed her a colourful book that would fit easily into her handbag. It wasn't by the fabled Mark Nightingale this time. It was not nearly so impressive as the book that he had thrown into a bin. She flicked through the pages. There was very little criticism. Most of the space was taken up with pictures of the artworks, some of which had been in the exhibition they had just seen.

  “Peter won’t like this,” she said.

  “Explain it to him,” Mark suggested.

  “What? About how he's an artist and he should interact with the paintings?”

  “Precisely,” said Mark.

  “Peter doesn't really interact,” she said.

  “Then why are you seeing him?”

  “I'm not. I mean, I am, but not yet. I mean, I will be, tonight, but I'm not actually seeing him seeing him. I mean, if he wants. Yes. And I want. But I'm not sure.”

  “You’re next.”

  She didn't have time choose another book that Peter might prefer. She tipped her handbag onto the counter to find her wallet, paid with her credit card, shoved the book into her handbag and waved away her receipt to save a few more seconds.

  “I've got to tell you,” said Mark. “It's none of my business and I don't know this guy, but I hope he takes good care of you.”

  That wasn't really what Judy wanted and it was a good thing too, because Peter was more capable of taking care of the bill than taking care of her. She expected very little from him. That used to make her feel strong, but now it made her feel sad. The thing she needed from Peter was his attention and his reliability. Speaking of which, she had to get a move on.

  “I'll be lucky if he's even there at this rate,” said Judy.

  “He'll wait for you,” Mark assured her. “I would. They could close the restaurant and I'd be sitting there in the dark, waiting with a gin and tonic for you.”

  “That would be silly, because I'd be locked outside.”

  “I never said I was smart.”

  A girl in a white T-shirt scowled at them both.

  “Excuse me; I'm going to have to ask you to leave now. The shop's closing and some of us have homes to go to.”

  Judy was taken aback.

  “Wow,” she said and then to Mark, laughing, bubbling with confidence: “Good luck having to work with her.”

  The girl looked at Mark with a frown.

  “He doesn't work here,” she said.

  Judy looked at Mark's white T-shirt and at the girl's. The girl's T-shirt had a black Tate logo at the top left.

  “Of course, he does,” Judy said, but when the girl simply stared at her, she tugged at Mark's jacket to reveal the logo, except there was no logo.

  The shop assistant looked annoyed and also embarrassed on Judy’s behalf. It was a strange mixture. It was horrifying in a way.

  “He doesn't work in the bookshop,” she said. “He doesn't work at the gallery. Whatever he told you, you're going to have to argue about it outside. Now. We’re closed.”

  The girl shut the doors behind them and bolted them top and bottom.

  “I thought you worked in the big shop,” Judy said, as if in a dream. “You whizzed us through the queue at the exhibition. You nodded to all the staff. Was that an act?”

  “I'm a member,” Mark said, “not an employee. I never said I worked at the gallery. I said you had bad taste in books. I wrote the one you were holding, remember?”

  “And I told you it was a good line, remember? But it’s time for the joke to stop now. I just want to know your real name. Who are you, really?”

  “Mark Nightingale,” he said.

  “Be straight with me. You’re a bit young to be writing 300 page books on art.”

  “There were some pictures too.”

  “You’re cute,” Judy said, smiling. “But let’s not part on bad terms. I get the impression that you’ve got something to hide and that’s a shame.”

  “It’s also untrue,” he said.

  She sighed sadly, looking him up and down one last time. Damn, that body, those eyes. If he could have been a little more mature, she might have been seriously interested in seeing more of him. Much, much more.

  “Good luck with the next woman you try this on,” she said, “but maybe you should just try being honest. That way she won’t be disappointed in the end. Like me.”

  She strode away, resolving not to react to any thing with which he tried to sway her.

  “The exit's the other way,” Mark said.

  Judy stopped, embarrassed again.

  …Okay, one last thing.

  Chapter Two: Friday Night Date

  Picasso: “Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life”

  As she ran across Millennium Bridge, people ducked and left and right to get out of her way.

  A tourist with an expensive-looking camera spun around.

  “Sorry!” she cried.

  She approached a couple who were walking hand in hand. The man wanted to go left and the woman wanted to go right, so they ended up splitting up so Judy could run between them.

  Again, she shouted an apology, but she was secretly pleased to have broken up the happy scene, even if only for a few seconds.

  She normally thought of herself as an open and kind person, but being open and kind hadn't got her very far in life. Look at what happened at the gallery. If she hadn't been so open, Mark might not have treated her like an idiot.

  He probably thought that claiming to have written a book on erotic art would attract her to him. Sure, it had got her attention, but she was deeper than that.

  She growled out loud, making a small child cry.

  Again, she yelled an apology.

  She was horrible when she angry. Fortunately, the evening breeze coming in over the river was cooling her skin, removing the redness and returning her to a state of mild panic, rather than rage.

  If she kept up her pace, she'd be able to hail a taxi and she'd get to the restaurant about fifteen minutes late. Peter would have chosen the table already and would be grumpy, but that was okay. She'd appease him with the book in her handbag and that wasn't all she intended to offer tonight. Now that she had been worked up, she decided to go in pursuit of satisfaction.

  She imagined Peter's face should she climb up onto the table and demand that he make love to her. He'd be terrified.

  She'd have to be subtle, but she could do that. She was the very definition of…

  “Balls!”

  She retrieved the snapped heel of her shoe. She closed her eyes, aware that while she had factored in how long it would take to get across the bridge with a broken heel, she had not factored in swooning over a gorgeous guy in an art gallery.

  This, she reminded herself, was what happened when she didn't stick to her plans.

  She took a few deep breaths while people
she had passed by a few moments ago now passed her.

  “I'm not going to panic,” she said. “I'm not going to panic.” She put the broken heel in her handbag, removed both her shoes, and kept running.

  Her feet thudded on the solid, metal bridge, creating a sonorous vibration beneath her. She thought back to the scaffolding in the gallery, both that in the Turbine Hall exhibition space and the other in the crowded room upstairs. The skeletal bridge was not dissimilar and her interaction with it, though unintentional, was musical. Mark would have liked it. He would have said something about fulfilling the bridge's potential or some nonsense like that.

  Potential wasn't beautiful. Potential was unknown. The unknown was terrifying.

  * * * *

  She didn't panic until she reached St Paul's Cathedral and saw the traffic. It was Friday night, but even so it was busier than usual. A lot of people were probably going to that stupid exhibition. Indeed, there were posters all over the place advertising it. Red lips, sometimes horizontal, sometimes vertical, beckoning people to come and see.

  “Save your money,” she told a group of sightseers as she ran blindly across the street, which was not as dangerous as it sounded, because the cars, buses and even motorbikes were not moving an inch.

  The engines that hadn't already cut out were rumbling, echoing how she was feeling.

  She spotted half a dozen taxis in the stew of traffic, but it was true gridlock and the only cab with its 'For Hire' light showing like a beacon in the dark was heading in the wrong direction.

  Judy waved to him frantically and he looked at her as though he was insane. He mouthed something, perhaps about not being a magician, and turned back to his newspaper.

  Doubled over with exhaustion, she admitted that she had done all she could do, aside from hijacking an ambulance and turning on the siren.

  There was no ambulance.

  It was time to admit defeat and call to say that she was going to be late. She felt awful, because it had always been a point of pride between them that they were never late for anything. She could hear Peter's voice in her head as she searched for her phone.

  “That's not an explanation. That's an excuse.”

  Working as a manager in an office, she knew some workers who seemed to pride themselves on turning up late. She was inclined to share tirades on tardiness. She had thought it was funny to be above all that, but here she was, about to ask Peter for forgiveness. Her mouth went dry at the prospect. It was ridiculous, but she was afraid.

  She had mixed feelings when she was unable to find her phone. On the one hand, it meant that she didn't have to talk to him. On the other hand, it meant that she would have to turn up shamefully late at the restaurant without giving him prior notice. Not only that, but she had just lost all her contacts, personal (there were not many of those) and work. Without her phone, she was completely disconnected.

  She looked back towards the bridge. She'd dumped her broken heel in the bag and perhaps she hadn't closed it up properly before taking off again. Maybe someone had seen it tumble from her bag and crack on the floor. It was what she deserved for being so stupid.

  With such dark thoughts in mind, she threw her handbag back over her shoulder and strode shoeless in the direction of the restaurant.

  Of course it started to rain then. Her tan tights spotted and then the soles of her feet became soaked as she stepped on cracks and in puddles and rivulets.

  She jogged for a while, but after a minute of that she gave it up. She was about as wet as she could get and she was tired of running. Late was late. Wet was wet. She would just have to get over it. Peter too.

  When she finally ascended the steps to the restaurant, she saw that Peter was in the foyer. For a moment, she was elated to think that he was just taking off his coat and that he was late too, but he was in fact doing up the buttons.

  He looked good. He was tall and broad-shouldered and immaculately tidy. He'd smell good too. He always did. She wondered if he made the effort for her or if it was a thoughtless parcel of his morning routine. She wondered if she was just part of his routine too.

  Not this evening though. She'd already broken that part of their routine and, for better or worse, he’d have to deal with it.

  “Hi,” she said as she squelched into the foyer. “I'm so sorry I'm ...”

  “What happened to you!?” Peter cried, looking her up and down, open-mouthed. She'd never seen him so animated.

  “You like it?” Judy said, twirling. “It's the wet look. Apparently it was big in the 80s.”

  “You look a state!” he said, appalled.

  Someone giggled. A woman gasped at the sight of her. Judy looked around for a reflection, as if she needed it. Rainwater was running down her face in rivers. She could have wrung out her fringe.

  She did.

  “I couldn't get a taxi,” she said, sniffing.

  “I'm not surprised,” he said. “You look like a crazy woman.”

  “A little sympathy would be nice, Peter,” Judy said. “I ran all the way here. And I lost my phone.”

  “Why aren't you wearing shoes?”

  “Look, do you want to eat or not?”

  “Not,” he said. “I've eaten.” He said it as if she should have known better than to have expected otherwise.

  “I'm only half an hour late.”

  “Make that an hour,” he said. “I didn't think I'd get through three entire courses before you arrived, but you made it happen.”

  “Peter,” she said, stamping a soaking foot. “Can we at least argue at the table? People are staring.”

  “I'm not arguing,” Peter said.

  “Now!” she said.

  The attendant seated them in a quiet corner, surprise surprise, near the kitchen. Before he could slink away, Judy grabbed his arm, leaving a wet patch where her fingers had been.

  “Gin and tonic,” she said. “Emphasis on the gin.”

  “You don't normally drink,” Peter said, shifting uncomfortably, meeting the disapproving gazes from the other tables with apologetic grimaces.

  “Maybe this is a night for doing things we wouldn't normally do,” she suggested, leaning forward. “You could join me.”

  “I have to keep a clear head,” Peter said, sitting back. “I've an early start tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow's Saturday,” Judy reminded him.

  “Book Club at the library,” he said. “I run it now. I have responsibilities.”

  When they'd dated, for only a few weeks, Judy had suggested that he had so many responsibilities that he didn't see his responsibility to their relationship. That had been the beginning of the end.

  “Great,” she said. “But is there nothing I could say to tempt you to lie in instead? Nothing I could do?” She reached across the table for him, but he didn't take her hand.

  “The regeneration of the library depends on clubs like this.”

  What about the regeneration of us? Judy thought.

  She held up one hand, wincing.

  Fortunately, her drink arrived then. She grabbed the waiter again, gently this time, while she breathed in the aroma of the gin in tonic and then knocked it back in one.

  “That was great,” Judy said. “Another one, just like that. And then I'd like to order food.”

  The waiter winked at her.

  “Right away,” he said.

  “Will you stop that?” Peter chided her. “This is my regular.”

  “Our regular,” she corrected. “Stop what?”

  “Grabbing everyone.”

  “I didn't grab him.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “It's just touching, Peter. Have you forgotten what it's like?”

  “No.”

  “It's nice.”

  She reached across the table again, hoping for his hand. He just stared at it as if it was an expensive starter and he didn't know how to eat it.

  “What's got into you?” Peter whispered.

  “It's Friday night,” Judy began. �
��I've had a shit week at work. I'm exhausted. I'm soaked to the skin. I've lost my phone, which contains the numbers of everyone I've ever known and all the dates for everything I have to do for the rest of the year. I want to have a little drink and talk to you. Just talk. About something nice.”

  “So talk,” he said.

  “That's not quite what I meant,” she said, searching for strength and inspiration.

  “You obviously have an agenda,” he said. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “How about art?” Judy suggested.

  She regretted it immediately.

  Part of her wanted to keep her extended visit to the gallery a secret. Her early moments with ‘Mark’ had been magical, although she was resigned to thinking of him in inverted commas. Although there had been hundreds of people around them that evening, she had felt as if she was both giving and receiving a private viewing. She felt as though she was seeing the work in a way that nobody else could; it had been unique and unrepeatable.

  Not finding out his true identity irritated her. Aside from his slippery act of deception, he'd been near-perfect. At least, he had seemed so.

  Judy looked into Peter's eyes, searching for his solidity, which she desperately needed right now. He seemed concerned for her, but more for her mental health than her emotional well-being. His eyes were flat, reflecting the lights above them, but offering nothing of their own.

  She told him about the naked bulb and the naked flame and other visual puns. She left out any mention of Mark. She recalled that there had been a take on the Blackpool beach sidings with the heads cut out, so people could put their faces on cartoon bodies. She asked Peter if he would have had a go, as she had, and he didn't know how to answer her.

  “Look,” Judy said, and she pulled the little book out of her bag.

  Peter turned it over in his hands and flicked through the pages.

  “I was late because I was getting you this book. It's a gift for you.”

  He didn't say thank you.

  “And then it seemed silly not to have a quick look at the exhibition as well,” she added. “A lot of those works were in the gallery. I thought it would give us something to talk about.”