‘I haven’t ever told you about my ex, have I?’ she said. They were alone in the mirrored chamber now, and Megan led Ollie into the centre of the room where their reflections wouldn’t be distorted. She couldn’t really have a serious conversation with him when his feet were the size of boats and his head looked like a huge lump of tofu.
‘I hate him already,’ Ollie joked, but his brow was furrowed with interest.
‘His name is Andre, and he’s quite a famous photographer. I applied for an internship at his London studio about five years ago and he invited me in for a chat.’
She stopped, suddenly aware of how sleazy the next part of her story was going to sound. Ollie already had his nose curled up in distaste.
‘You can probably guess what happened next,’ she said. ‘But it wasn’t as bad as you’re imagining it to be. I was a grown woman, not a teenager, and he’s only six years older than me. It’s not as if he was some perverted old man leering over a young, impressionable girl. Although,’ she added, giving a small shrug, ‘I was impressed by him. In the beginning, at least.’
‘What happened?’ Ollie prompted. He’d folded his arms as she started talking and looked almost defensive. She hoped it was because he was feeling protective on her behalf rather than wary of her words.
‘I wanted to enter this competition. You won’t have heard of it, probably, but it’s only open to upcoming talent – people like me, who have never won an award for their photography.’
He nodded.
‘I’d been working on the project for months, and at first Andre was encouraging. He was always critical of my work, but that was part of his job as a mentor …’
‘And an arsehole,’ Ollie put in.
‘Yes, that too – but you have to understand that I was in awe of him at this point. I thought that everything he said was gospel. It was only when I started to question his ideas that things turned sour.’
‘So, he’s an egomaniac?’ Ollie guessed.
‘Oh, very much so.’ Megan gritted her teeth as she pictured her ex-boyfriend: his velvet jackets and his wavy, unkempt hair, that permanent smug snarl plastered across his narrow face. Thinking about him now made her flesh creep off into a corner to hide, and she shuddered involuntarily before continuing.
‘On the day I had to submit my work for the competition, I couldn’t find it.’
‘What do you mean?’ Ollie looked puzzled. ‘I thought everything was digital these days?’
‘It is.’ Megan shook her head now as the memory of her past anguish assaulted her once again. ‘I had the files saved on my laptop and on a memory stick, as well as on Andre’s private computer. He wiped the lot.’
‘What a bastard!’
‘He was.’ She nodded. ‘He is.’
‘But why?’ Ollie’s expression was so wounded that Megan felt an overwhelming urge to kiss him. She had known he’d be angry at such an injustice, and it was immediately and undeniably attractive. But no – she mustn’t let herself get carried away. Look what had happened the last time she kissed Ollie. Closing her eyes for a split second, Megan shoved the feelings to one side and went back to her story.
‘He told me that he did it to protect me – can you believe that?’ Megan grimaced as she conjured up the conversation in her head. ‘He said I’d have embarrassed myself and him if I’d entered, but in reality he was just jealous. He was threatened by me – and I know that sounds really arrogant, but it’s absolutely the truth.’
‘It doesn’t.’ Ollie held up a hand. ‘You’re incredibly talented, Megs – even I can see that, and I don’t have a single artistic bone in my body.’
Megan smiled at this before continuing. ‘When I realised what he’d done, it was as if the drapes fell from my eyes,’ she recalled. ‘I could suddenly see him for what he really is – a nasty little man with a spiteful nature, minimal talent and the personality of a paving slab.’
‘Wow!’ Ollie’s eyes widened. ‘Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you.’
‘I told him he could stick his internship and the relationship,’ she went on, smiling grimly as she remembered the look on Andre’s face when she’d yelled at him. ‘He didn’t like that very much.’
‘Well done you.’ Ollie put his hand up for a high-five, but she didn’t move. ‘There’s a “but”, isn’t there?’
‘Andre didn’t appreciate being put in his place,’ Megan told him. ‘The photography world is very small, and he’s bad-mouthed me to just about everyone in London.’
‘Prick.’ Ollie was looking mutinous.
‘This exhibition, the one I have booked in for May …’ Megan said, and Ollie nodded. ‘It’s the first time I’ll have shown my work since the whole Andre thing ended. It’s been three years since we broke up, but it’s taken me until now to feel ready to face that world again, and those people who were so ready to write me off.’
‘Oh Megs …’ Ollie unfolded his arms and pulled her into a hug. ‘I had no idea.’
‘I just want a chance to prove to everyone that he was wrong,’ she said into his coat. ‘I want to get some recognition on my own terms, without needing Andre …’ She hesitated. ‘Or anyone else.’
She felt his body stiffen at her words and knew he must finally understand why she was so reluctant to have another relationship. The last man she had trusted had betrayed her in the worst possible way, and she needed to know that she could make it on her own. She didn’t want to need someone or feel vulnerable – what she wanted was to concentrate on achieving her dream.
For a time, they just stood in companionable silence, and Megan gradually relaxed her weight against Ollie’s chest, listening to the methodical rhythm of his heart and enjoying the sensation of closeness that for so long had been missing from her life. There was so much else she wished she could put into words for him, but she couldn’t articulate what she was feeling even to herself, let alone share it. For now, it was enough to simply feel understood.
‘I think we should get going,’ she said eventually, lifting her head and smiling at him. ‘That monastery further along the hill is supposed to be amazing.’
‘Right.’ Ollie blinked as he gathered up his backpack from the floor. ‘Whatever you say.’
They had to make their way back down the slippery, snow-covered slopes and steps to reach the path, but there was far less merriment between them now than there had been on the journey up. Ollie seemed to be lost in thought, and had been unusually quiet ever since she finished telling him about Andre. Megan hoped he understood why she’d kept it a secret until now. It wasn’t something she really liked talking about, and only her family and very closest friends were aware of exactly how much the whole experience had affected her. It wasn’t that she had any lingering feelings for her ex – on the contrary, she was actually repulsed by him now – but she did remember with acute clarity just how bad it had felt in the immediate aftermath of their break-up. Despite his actions, she and Andre had been together for a long time and she had loved him. No matter how angry she’d been, switching off her feelings had proved to be trickier than she’d imagined, and she was still fearful of getting hurt. Perhaps if she’d met Ollie before Andre, then she would have taken a chance on him, but she hadn’t.
She tried to force her mind away from the subject as they continued walking, staring upwards to where the stripped branches of the many trees sagged under their piggyback of snow, and flocks of small birds flew in hurried circles high above the hill, their beating wings warming their fragile feathered bodies. Everything else around her was serene and magical, but despite such beauty, Megan didn’t find herself moved enough to bother lifting up her camera. This was the problem with discussing feelings and digging up the relics of her past – they killed her creative mojo. To make this exhibition a success, what she needed to be was focused, but at the moment all Megan felt was confused.
‘I’m just going to nip to the gents,’ Ollie said, veering away to the right as they reached the entrance to
the Strahov Monastery.
She nodded and returned his smile, then stepped off the cobbles and spent the next few minutes kicking a disgruntled figure-of-eight pathway through the snow covering the lawn. Ollie’s question back in the Mirror Maze had left her guts churning with a mixture of dread and of something else, which Megan couldn’t quite find a label for. Clearly he had been thinking about that first shared kiss and, if Megan was completely honest with herself, she often did, too. At the time she had convinced herself that it was the wrong thing to do, but all of Ollie’s actions since that day had been so lovely and warm. She didn’t want to lose him, that much she was sure about, but what if this friendship she so cherished wasn’t enough for him?
In many ways it was a blessing that the Strahov Monastery was much like a museum, both in the fact that it was filled with interesting historical artefacts, and also that it had that uniquely silent atmosphere. After just ten minutes spent examining books dating back to the thirteenth and fourteenth century, collections of stuffed animals, armour and trinkets, plus some truly beautiful jewellery, Megan was already feeling much calmer. Ollie had wandered off in the opposite direction to her after they’d paid their entrance fee, and she was enjoying taking her time at each display.
There was so much history here, she thought, her eyes coming to rest on a book which had been adorned with gold and silver decorations and large precious gems. ‘Strahov Gospel Book’ she read on the label, her mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ as she saw that it dated from the ninth century.
When Megan thought about the world existing at that time, and indeed all of the centuries before and since, right up until this exact point in the calendar, it did make her recent freak-out seem rather silly. Wars had been fought, cities burned to the ground, empires built and destroyed. Hell, this monastery in which she was standing right now was over 800 years old – the things it must have been witness to in that time … Scholars had come here to study, visiting dignitaries to pray, local people to pay their respects over many hundreds of years. But today, this grand, striking, monumental and truly awe-inspiring place was being forced to bear witness to her silly internal turmoil. Megan all at once felt small, insignificant and, most acutely of all, really bloody foolish. What she needed was to lighten up, and for that she needed Ollie. Making her way quietly across the wooden floor, she came to a halt just behind him.
‘Are you okay?’
It was barely a whisper, and at first Megan thought Ollie hadn’t heard her; then she saw him smile.
‘There’s a cabinet full of dried out, very dead fish up that end,’ he told her under his breath. ‘Even funnier than the Mirror Maze, if you can believe that.’
Feeling overwhelmingly relieved to have her friend back on his usual cheeky form, Megan let Ollie take her hand and lead her down to the other end of the room by the gift shop, where there was, as promised, a truly hideous and downright hilarious menagerie of toothy, crusty sea creatures.
‘I’m pretty sure I went on a blind date with her once,’ Ollie said, pointing to a particularly snarly-faced specimen.
Megan burst out laughing. She still had her gloved hand in Ollie’s, and she could feel her skin becoming clammy beneath the material.
‘Go on many of those, do you?’ she enquired. She’d meant it to come out nonchalantly, so was appalled to hear an edge of genuine trepidation in her voice. If Ollie realised this, he didn’t rise to it.
‘A few.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘But not for a while now. Fish lady put me right off.’
‘That one looks like Andre,’ she told him, keen to join in on his joke. Pulling the glove off her free hand with her teeth, she pressed a finger up against the glass, only for one of the staff members to immediately hurry forward and point at the ‘do not touch’ sign.
‘Yeah, Megan – stop touching stuff,’ taunted Ollie, dropping her hand for a moment and skipping away as she raised a playful fist to hit him.
They were both hushed back into silence when they reached the doorway facing into the Philosophical Hall, and Megan felt Ollie’s fingers grip hers a fraction tighter as he gazed up at the stunning fresco on the vaulted ceiling above them. The entrance was open, but roped off, and when Megan lifted her camera to capture the array of colours from the intricate artwork and the oak shelves packed with books, another member of staff appeared out of nowhere to inform her that she had to pay extra for taking photos.
Ollie curled his nose up a fraction at this news, but Megan didn’t hesitate to hand over some coins – there was no way she could leave this magnificent place without capturing a memory of it for herself, and for others. It was breathtaking.
‘Feeling inspired?’ whispered Ollie, after she’d fired through at least fifty frames.
Megan could only nod. She knew she must look mad, with her cheeks flushed and her boots up in the air as she crawled around on the wooden floor on her tummy, trying out different angles. She wanted to see the arcs of light from every possible position, find a corner of the hall that nobody had discovered before, not even in all the centuries it had been standing. She wanted to bring something new to this place, something magical. This was what she did, what she was passionate about, and for the few minutes that she was in this bubble, nothing else really mattered.
It was only after she had clambered back up on to her feet, finally satisfied that she’d captured an image she could be proud of, that she realised Ollie hadn’t moved. He’d stayed right where he was, watching her in action, and she blushed right to the roots of her blonde hair.
‘What are you staring at?’ she said, brushing what felt like eight centuries’ worth of dust off the front of her coat.
‘Just you.’ Ollie narrowed his eyes a fraction. ‘Doing your thing.’
‘You must think I’m a right weirdo,’ she said, a half-laugh escaping her mouth as she spoke.
‘I thought that already.’ He grinned at her. ‘But actually, I don’t think you’re weird at all. I was, in all honesty, thinking how nice it was to see the real you. I don’t think you’ve ever shown her to me before.’
‘It was an accident,’ Megan admitted, astounded at her own honesty. ‘I just saw that room and I …’ She stopped, searching for the right word, but Ollie silenced her with a raised hand.
‘There’s no need to explain,’ he assured her. ‘But I do think I understand you better now – and I mean that in a good way.’
Megan thought back to the night they’d met, to Ollie’s confused yet sympathetic expression when she’d pulled back and put a stopper in the bubbling pot of their shared chemistry before it spilled over into their lives, and wondered if maybe, just maybe, he might finally be beginning to appreciate exactly why she’d done it.
20
Hope waited until Charlie was snoring before slipping out from beneath the sheets and tiptoeing into the bathroom for some much-needed time alone. Dropping her towel, she stood naked in front of the full-length mirror, frowning as her eyes ran over the drooping skin around her breasts. She did what she could to stay in good shape, but fifty wasn’t thirty, and there was only so much of a battle you could really put up against gravity. She still had decent legs, she thought, turning to the side to admire her defined calf muscles. Despite what some people may think, being a housewife didn’t mean that you sat around on your bottom all day watching daytime telly; it meant you were always on the go.
She pulled the skin across her stomach taut and sucked in her breath until her ribs were visible. Would she look better like this, with no excess flesh? Charlie seemed to fancy her just the way she was, but Hope had to admit that she wasn’t completely happy with her appearance. It should be enough that Charlie found her desirable – and for a while, in the beginning, it had been the hook on which she had hung her self-worth – but now she had to admit that she’d been left wanting. It wasn’t simply about what Charlie – or any man, for that matter – thought of her, it was really all about how she saw herself. And what a silly thing to be concerned about
anyway: looks. There was so much more to being a person, so much more that Hope knew she wanted to enable her to feel good about herself: things like her own money, her own home and – God forbid – perhaps even her very own career one day.
She let go of her stomach and watched as it sagged back to its original position, the redness where her fingers had dug into the flesh turning slowly pink. The scar was still there, the skin on either side of it puckered inwards where the doctor had run his blade across. She had so wanted to give birth naturally, but after almost fourteen hours she had no choice but to admit defeat and let the medical professionals take over. It was the only time she could remember seeing Dave cry. Hope, by contrast, had been oddly calm – a fact she later attributed to all the drugs that had been pumped into her – and it was she who ended up comforting her husband as he wept tears of fright all over the blue scrubs that the nurses had hurriedly thrust in his direction. When Annette had at last been lifted out and placed in her arms, Hope could remember thinking that everything was going to be perfect. Dave had been entranced from the first second, his eyes widening as his tiny, perfect daughter squirmed against Hope’s chest, never crying, just cooing like a newborn baby bird.
While she and Charlie had been making good use of their king-sized bed, the light outside had faded and she could now see the moon through the open bathroom window. It was a three-quarter one tonight, and so bright that she squinted as she gazed at it. Steam from the bath she was running rushed out of the gap, and she leaned across to breathe in the cold air on the other side of the glass. It smelled clean and fresh, and Hope felt her brain start to wake up. It would have been easy just to snuggle down next to Charlie until the morning, but she was restless. There was so much more of the city to explore, and she didn’t want to waste another second trapped up here away from the sights. Slipping her body below the bubbles, she lay for a few seconds with her eyes closed, feeling the fatigue of the day ease away.
A Year and a Day Page 13