The Mad British

by Leick, Hera

  The image of James’ fingers touching mine while I glide a paintbrush down a strip of canvas flutters into my consciousness. It’s enough to force one foot forward. Then the other. The space between the door and me seems to fold over, and I find myself in front of the lift doors.

  My hands are trembling so much it takes several attempts to get the key card through the reader successfully. The floors blink by, and before I know it, I’m standing in the foyer, staring at the door. I turn the key and step through the doorway.

  My hearts sinks to the floor like it’s been chained to a heavy weight. The walls are bare. Everything else seems to be untouched, neat, and very white.

  I pivot in a circle, panic slowly building in my chest, and I scan the blank walls until I spot the crates against the wall. I tear open the top one. Anger is nestled inside, packed in bubble wrap. My paintings have been packed away. I’ve been packed away.

  A yellow Post-It stuck on the bubble wrap catches my eye. I reach in the box and peel it off. It reads: This is one of my favourites, but I know it isn’t one of yours—JH.

  All of a sudden, the truth rains down on me like a ton of bricks. All this time I thought it was about James having the control of our relationship. But I was so wrong. James and I had both painted our life together. It was both of us.

  One beautiful mess.

  And now it is gone.

  Because I was a coward.

  I don’t realise I’m crying until I feel a hot teardrop smack the top of my hand. "I want it all back," I whisper.

  I can’t wait a second longer. My fingers fumble with my mobile and I drop it to the carpet several times before hitting the right buttons. The call goes straight to voicemail. "Shit," I mutter, dropping it to the floor again. I phone James’ office, but Diana tells me he has taken the day off.

  I start pacing nervously as I try another number. This one picks up. "Adelaide?"

  "Preston." I lean against the doorframe.

  "You okay? Where are you?"

  I draw in a deep breath to compose myself. "Preston, I-I. . .” In the background I can hear traffic and wind and a loud car horn. "I need to find out where James is. Please. Please I need to find him."

  "Okay, okay. Calm down, Adelaide. I just left him."

  "Oh. . ." I lean my head back and allow a few more tears to escape. "Preston, everything got messed up and then I left, and now I think he thinks I hate—"

  "Adelaide."

  "Yes?"

  He clears his throat. "I know where he is."

  "Where?"

  "Before I tell you, can you promise me something?"

  "Yeah, okay. Anything. What?"

  In typical Preston-fashion, he waits a moment for dramatic emphasis. "Promise me that no matter what goes down, you'll allow yourself to be happy."

  "What?"

  "Promise me you won't start thinking you can't make someone happy. Because you have, you know. We're all—” He stops for a second. "We're all screwed-up, beautifully flawed people, and if we're lucky, we find someone just as flawed and screwed-up as we are, and they love us and we love them because when we're with them, we forget that we're flawed and screwed-up and life seems a little more tolerable. The truth is, you can be flawed and happy, and happy with someone, because love makes you see the good parts in that person and the good parts in yourself, and the stupid crappy parts don't matter as much, to either of you, because you love each other that much and you don't care about the crap when you're together."

  I’m silent as I let those words sink in. My voice is strained when I finally speak. "Preston?"

  "Huh?"

  I smile through tears. "Sometimes I think you've got the heart of an artist."

  "Bollocks," he responds gruffly, but I can hear the emotion behind his words. "Don't get too excited. I think I got that out of a chick magazine. Camilla keeps them in the bathroom and I get bored when I forget my iPhone."

  I laugh and play along. "Of course."

  "I've got a reputation to uphold. So, do you want to know where that sexy bastard is or not? I can send a car." My eyelids fall shut, concealing the empty, loveless, colourless home from my vision.

  All the colour has gone from my life, and all that is left is white empty space.

  There is only one thing that can fix this.

  "Tell me."

  Hecreated a world of hurt in me, but I still love that Hatter like mad.

  29

  Queen

  PRESTON’S DIRECTIONS HAVE sent me to the square outside the train station. Already it’s crowded with travellers jostling each other to make their trains, souvenir carts packed with knockoff merchandise, and taxis lined up on one side with buses on another.

  A loading zone is blocked off with trucks, and something on the other side of the barrier is making a lot of noise. Finding James in this chaos will be like finding a needle in a needle stack.

  The inside of the station is equally crowded. My foot is nearly run over by a harried mother toting two little boys and an enormous rolling suitcase. The noise and commotion is almost overwhelming. I trip my way through the crowd toward no particular destination, turning in circles trying to catch sight of him. . . Preston said he was here. . . so where is he?

  I move with the crowd down a flight of stairs, and round a corner, the desperation beginning to catch in my throat, and then I halt, feeling a cold sensation in my bones.

  There is a reason for the construction vehicles outside.

  A wall between two flights of escalators has been cleared and there are anchors drilled in, a lot of anchors, to support the weight of the new painting being installed. The escalators have been closed off on one side and scaffolding has been put up, and a smallish indoor crane is beeping as it lifts the huge painting into place.

  "Hold it!" A bald man wearing an orange vest pulls a lever and the crane stops its ascent, and the other workers balancing on the scaffold bring it gently to the wall.

  I creep closer to the work area, barely able to breathe round the lump in my throat.

  This is madness.

  I hadn’t expected anything on this kind of scale. The best I was hoping for was to move it to another gallery, or maybe his parents' house, or donate it to a museum or. . . something that was less public than thousands of people seeing my work on a daily basis.

  My eyes dart away from the painting and toward the passing crowd. The senior group coming down the working escalators point toward it, and a few Chinese tourists stop to stare for a few moments and then continue on their way. A young businessman on a mobile half listens to his conversation while craning his neck up.

  "Doesn't have a head," a worker standing nearby observes.

  "Ah, it's art," his co-worker states, dismissing my life's work with a wave. "My wife just spent three big ones on some painting of a cottage with flowers. Says it’s some famous artist guy who's the Painter of Light or something. Maybe it'll be worth something someday."

  "Would be better if we could see her tits." The first worker chuckles. "Then it doesn’t matter she’s got no head."

  I quickly move away from those two. And then stop. For the hundredth time this morning, my breath catches in my throat. A familiar figure in his long black Ralph Lauren coat stands only a few feet away, his back to me, conversing with someone wearing a very stained overcoat. I strain to hear.

  ". . .there is too much black," the mystery man assesses. "They got too heavy with the black spray paint and it takes away from the whole thing."

  "I don't think she used spray paint for this," James replies.

  The other guy turns slightly to face him. "You know the artist?"

  "Yeah. I do." My heart warms a little, hearing a sense of pride when he speaks.

  "Awww, ain't that the shit." The overcoat guy pats his pockets. "Gotta light, man?"

  "Don't think you can smoke in here."

  "Shit. PC all over the bloody place these days. I can't burn in a public building but that skinny punk with the spray cans c
an do the outside and nearly choke us all to death. You know that guy? Blonde punk with the tattoos and attitude? He’s sprayin' all this shit near the alleyway. Told him to stop but he just said sod off because it’s a mural he’s working on. Or gorilla art or some shit. I dunno. I don't see no damn King Kong on it, neither. It turned out piss-ugly anyways."

  I watch James incline his chin toward Victory. "What do you think of this one?"

  The man in the stained coat pulls a toothpick from his pocket and sets back on his heels. "Huh. For one thing, it's got people lookin' at it. That's a good thing. Everyone who gets off the escalator, they all look at it coming off, and then some just stand there and watch it. If it was bad they wouldn’t even bother to look."

  "Good point."

  "And I'm in the minority but I like that she ain't got no head. That way you can think of a lady you know and just stick her head on."

  I feel my mouth turn up. Snooty art critics had written lengthy columns on this one, and a homeless guy is the only person so far that has discovered my intention.

  I watch James cram his hands in his coat pockets and look back down at the much shorter man. "What's your name, man?"

  "Me? Call me Stayne, my man."

  James nods toward the door. "Want to get a cup of tea?"

  "Shit man, I'll get whatever you're buying."

  They turn to leave and I find my voice. "James, wait!"

  Nothing short of a nuclear explosion would have distracted my attention from the figure in front of me. He halts in his tracks and turns slowly to meet me, his face draining of colour.

  This is different. I’ve seen almost every emotion from him but this one.

  I try to take a step forward, but my foot feels like lead, my body pinned under his gaze like a butterfly under glass. "Wait, please don't—"

  Stayne interrupts the moment. "Hey man, looks like you two got some shit to deal with. . . Another time, my man?"

  James snaps out of his reverie and shakes his head. "What. . .? Yeah. Sorry, man." One hand comes out of James’ pocket and passes a bundle of notes into Stayne’s hand. "Here, on me."

  Stayne chuckles and pockets the cash. "Shit, thanks son." He pulls a cap out of his sleeve and stretches it over his head, clapping James on the arm and tips his cap toward me. "Miss."

  Now that we’re alone, I don’t know what to say. So I don’t say anything. I raise my eyes to Victory, which is now looming over the space we’re in like a headless deity. James moves next to me, and I feel his sleeve brush up against my arm. I suck in a deep breath and try to keep focus.

  After a minute of silence, he speaks first. "How does it look?"

  Something hard and hot forms in my chest as I search for words. He beats me to it, again. "It looks different hanging above you instead of at eye level. It seems bigger, somehow."

  I look up at my Victory. “You’re mad, Hatter.”

  He doesn’t take his eyes off me. “I’m in love.”

  The thick silence descends again like a black cloud and we both waste the seconds between emotions coughing and shuffling.

  My mad beating heart tells me I’m going to lose it soon.

  "Can I tell you something?" he asks, moving to face me ahead.

  I look to the ground and examine the stone pattern in the granite floor. "Okay."

  "I love this painting."

  "Uh," I stammer and look at him. "I hope you do. You paid a lot of money for it."

  "You don't understand. I really love it."

  I can’t think of anything to say. "Thank you."

  "Do you want to know why?"

  It’s too much to keep looking in his eyes, so I focus on the bottom of his chin instead. "Yes."

  God, yes.

  A moment of silence stretches into a minute. The station keeps its usual hum of life going in the background. The announcements from overhead mix with the clamour of hundreds of shoes clacking or squeaking on tile, all blurring together with shouts and murmurs and laughter and chatter. Communication from every direction, except from the two figures standing in the middle of the floor like statues.

  Every instinct, every urge and desire and need, is banging around inside my head to pull him closer. Just a little bit would be enough to feel safe.

  I wait. Half of me wants to run, to escape the uncertainty of our future. But the part that aches and knows life without him will be infinitely worse, keeps me rooted to the spot, a silent mantra running through my head: Please help explain this, James. Help me fix this. Help me fix us.

  When I look up into his eyes, the black cloud vanishes, and I see a fighting chance.

  “Valentine’s Day. I’d just come off a bad date with the usual boring stiff, with the flawless hair, flawless nails, flawless tone to her flawless voice, never going off her flawless pitch. My life is filled with polished, picture-perfect girls who are flawless—”

  “Okay, do you have a point in telling me how you’re surrounded by flawless girls?”

  A cocky smile tugs at the corner of his lips. God, I've missed that smile.

  “On the outside, Adelaide, they’re flawless on the outside. But if I tell you about the inside—Christ, all she talked about was money and politics. Another date to suffocate me to an early death with the broken record that played in my life every day.” Without knowing how it had happened, he had moved closer to me. “But then this girl literally gets stuck in my world. On the surface she was another picture-perfect woman. She was wearing a flawless couture dress with flawless designer shoes, but when I looked closer—it’s hard not to when your stuck in a small confined space, right?—I noticed she had split ends—”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Adelaide, let me finish. You had messy just-got-out-of-bed-and-really-don’t-give-a-damn hair. It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. You even had a splodge of dry blue paint on the back of your neck. And then you gave me lip. You bit back. You were beautiful and witty and you made me laugh—laugh. Jesus Christ, I couldn’t believe it. I was laughing with a girl who wasn’t soulless or flawless for once in my goddamn life. How the hell could I let that go?” He is silent for a moment.

  “Then I met that deadbeat date of yours and I wanted to rip his goddamn head off. How could someone like him have someone like you?” He shakes his head.

  “All I wanted was to get to know this hot-tempered, crazy beautiful woman with split ends. I was gutted that morning when I woke up and you were gone. Then you came back knocking on my door and I couldn’t bloody believe it. It was my second chance to get it right. I didn’t want to take the chance you were never going to call. And honestly, I couldn’t wait. I had to see you again. I found the gallery you mentioned and went down there, and then I saw it. . . It was extraordinary.

  "I just couldn’t believe you could do it—not you personally, but anyone. I couldn’t believe that a human being could pick up a brush and take an idea from their head and put it down like that. I fell in love with this painting because the crazy brazen card-counting woman I met, made it, and it's a part of you. I can feel that when I look at it. I can feel you. And I knew then you were something special, and don’t ask me why, but I knew this would be my only chance for love. If I had let you go, I would’ve never have forgotten you. I’d always live with regret. I couldn’t see how I could ever move on from someone like you. Not after Victory blew my world apart.”

  Warmth radiates through my body and I lift a trembling hand to stroke the stubble on his cheek. He closes his eyes briefly, while his hand goes up, covering mine.

  “When you finally gave in and started going out on dates with me, I got to know what lies beneath, and you were so bright and funny and friendly, and you had this energy about everything and everyone. It's irresistible. People fall in love with you, Adelaide. I fell in love with you so fast I didn’t care if I crashed and burned.”

  I see the vulnerability in his eyes. He has never opened up like this to me before, and probably not to anyone else, either.

  �
�And now whenever I want to, I can walk in here and look at it and I can be reminded of you. I'm probably not making sense any more, but I don’t bloody care, a lot of things remind me of you." He breaks our contact to reach into his pocket and pulls out a small grey object.

  "Like this thing. Sometimes I think I can see what you can in stuff like this. I don't think I can do it all of the time, because that's just not the way I can be, but sometimes. . . sometimes I think the impossible."

  My hand shakes as I reach out and take the stone from his hand, turning it over in my fingers. James reaches over and clasps my hand round it.

  The knot in my throat finally eases enough for me to speak. “I trusted you—”

  “I know you did and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for hurting you the way I did, for lying, for keeping things from you, for saying what I said. It was uncalled for and there is no excusing—"

  “Let me finish, James.” He nods for me to continue. “Art is my life. It’s who I am, it’s beautiful and I’d be nothing without it—but there is an ugly side too. There are so many fakes circling around. Fake paintings of originals, fake artists who steal other people’s works, and fake pretentious buyers who only buy art for art’s sakes and not because they truly understand or feel the piece.”

  I look down at the small rock in my hand, brushing my thumb gently over it. Never in a million years would I have guessed that the cocky-mouthed suit I got stuck in the lift with would gift me with something so simply beautiful.

  “When I met you, I thought you were a cocky bastard, another yuppie who didn’t have an ounce of real in him. You proved me wrong that night. You wanted nothing other than to get to know me. The real me. It was like you valued what you saw and not because you wanted to hang it off your arm like cheap eye candy.”

  He is quiet, his eyes a brilliant blue. The only light I can see through all the darkness.

  “If I’m honest, the real reason I left that morning wasn’t some kind of payback, not really. I was scared of getting hurt again because I saw something in you.” My lips release a quiet sigh. “I only knew you for a little while, but it’s the little things that catch you.”