by Olivia Fox
We’re meeting again. He suggested it. And yes, I know I should have said ‘no’ but I’d just been virtuous in turning down the kiss, and - OK - fine - I’m weak God damn it. So that's the plan. Not a date - just a ‘meet-up’. Next weekend. He’ll show me some exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery, and it'll be friendly, polite, unromantic. So there.
Yours,
L x
10
Seb was waiting for her by the ticket gates as Lily came out of Embankment. He’d obviously seen her long before she noticed him, and a mischievous grin danced on his face, bright and warm as the Winter sun.
"Morning, gorgeous. Miss me?" he said, smiling widely as he reached out his hand.
She felt a giddy grin stretch across her face and fought it unsuccessfully. Who was she kidding; she fancied his pants off and it was written all over her. She may as well have carried a flashing neon sign saying as much. LILY WANTS SEB. NAKED. It was a small miracle no one was pointing and staring.
"Ready for a good ol' platonic date then?" he said. "Hand holding's allowed, right?"
"I guess,” she said, then faltered. “Well, actually, if we’re going to do this properly, then no. No hand holding. Just, you know, walking, talking, the usual friend stuff."
As she pulled back, Seb instinctively reached for his tobacco; his default, she guessed. His expert hands rolled on autopilot.
"You're the boss." he sighed. "No hand holding. How about eye contact?"
"Alright, Lord Harper, less of the sarcasm."
Seb lit up, and inhaled deeply, "Been to the gallery before?" he said, as they bustled hastily past rowdy tourists and bellowing street traders.
"Uh-huh. Not recently though. I used to love gallery hopping, but Tom always got like a bored kid in galleries and museums - you know - quick lap around the room then he'd be whining and sulking - kind of took the shine off. I guess I got out of the habit,” she said, instantly wanting to kick herself. Great. Good one Lily. Start telling the hot man all about your ex-boyfriend.
Seb took a deep drag, averting his head to exhale. "You couldn't have gone alone?"
She hesitated. "Short answer, yes, I suppose so. Wasn't quite that simple."
Lily thought about this; thought how possessive Tom had been over her free time. Of course, she wouldn't have used that word back then, 'possessive', she'd have told herself it was doting, or some such nonsense; when in reality, she'd known for a long while Tom was just plain old jealous. He hadn't trusted her. Thought she'd nip off with some other fella if he let her have too much freedom. Oh the irony. It was different when Emma had been there to escort her, but on the couple of occasions Lily had insisted on doing something purely for her own interest, it'd ended badly.
The last time had been a few Summers ago, and Tom's behaviour had been so out of control that Lily had almost left him. Of course she wished now that she had. Lily had taken a specialist evening class with the London School of Journalism, writing arts reviews, something she'd always wanted to do. Something she might still be doing if Tom hadn't gone totally ape shit when he realised the class was all male. To make matters worse, the tutor, Luke, was younger than average, self-assured, and pretty hot in an unkempt sort of way. It wasn't like she'd planned it, just luck of the draw, and to be honest she'd have been glad of some female company to break up the self-important pseudo-intellectual banter of her class mates. She stuck with it though, even though Tom sulked before each class and grilled her for information afterward. But halfway through the course, things came to a head. Luke had phoned Lily at the flat and left a message on the answer machine. To this day she still didn't know entirely what he'd said, but she imagined it was probably largely innocent. Luke had a way about him which was naturally flirty, or might seem that way if you didn't know him, but he was like it with the guys too, not just Lily. Anyhow, whatever he'd said, Tom had heard it first and was convinced Lily was having a fling.
When Lily rolled in, hot and tired and laden with shopping bags, Tom had been waiting.
Lily only half noticed him at first.
"Can you grab the frozen stuff." She’d said, pulling her damp hair from her eyes.
Tom had said nothing.
She’d looked at him properly then. "What?" Silence.
"What? What's going on?" Lily had repeated.
"You tell me."
The beginnings of panic took root, snaking round her chest and squeezing. "What? What have I done?"
"You know what you've done."
"I haven't got a single sodding idea what you're -" she’d started.
Tom had snapped into action, then. He grabbed her shoulders, shaking her so hard she could almost feel her bones rattle.
"You know! You just won't fucking admit it!" He’d yelled, just inches from her face, his fingers digging into her.
"I haven't done anything...” Though petrified, she’d forced herself to look him in the eye, and desperately tried to sound calm, “I...I don't know what you..."
"Lying fucking bitch!" he’d spat, pushing her to the ground.
And that was about the size of it; no black eyes, no broken bones. Just fury and fear. She'd come close to fearing him before; had often been twitchy when he quizzed her for details of innocent acquaintances with men. But this time, for those few minutes, he was raging.
Lily had edged slowly, quietly to the door, while Tom smashed mugs and punched walls. Finally he just seemed to burn out, slumping down onto the sofa and crying. Lily ran. Her phone had fallen onto the living room floor, but her Oyster card was firmly stashed in her pocket, with enough credit to get her to Emma’s house.
In a teary 2hr phone call, that evening, Tom had apologized for his behaviour, though he refused to entirely accept there'd been nothing going on behind his back. The next day, he’d called again, begging her to come home; he'd cried again too. The day after that, she’d gone back to him on the proviso that he went for counselling. All was, once again, reasonably rosy. Unsurprisingly though, the idea of casually visiting a gallery alone had seemed like more hassle than it was worth.
"So would I be correct in thinking your ex was a right piece of work?" Seb asked.
"Yep. That’s a pretty fair assessment,” she agreed. “Although most people would probably say the same about their exes, I suppose."
"Oh, I don't know about that. I've only had a couple of relationships and I'm on good terms with both of those exes."
A couple of relationships, thought Lily, and a few hundred orgy partners.
"Are you counting Ana as an ex?"
Seb reached an arm in front of Lily, who was wrapped in her own thoughts and oblivious to the oncoming traffic. "No, I'm not counting her at all. No, there's my first girlfriend, Josie, now married with four children; we get on great. I'm godfather to her eldest. And there's Maria: we were together two years, and it just fizzled. She moved back to Manhattan and bought the Sphere Gallery. We still click as friends. We keep in touch. Actually, I've got an exhibition opening in her gallery next week. My first solo show."
"You're going to New York?" She realised as soon as she’d said it that her reaction should have been more along the lines of ‘well done’, but she couldn’t help the instant disappointment she’d felt.
"Yes. I think you should come too.”
Lily stared at Seb, disbelieving.
“It’ll be fun. A month in New York. As a friend, I mean," he added. "All purely platonic." He stopped briefly to stub out his cigarette.
A band was setting up in the middle of Trafalgar Square, and an excited crowd spilled out onto Charing Cross road.
Seb grabbed Lily's hand. "Just so I don't lose you in this lot."
They eventually squeezed into the gallery’s rotating doors and emerged windswept inside the high ceilinged entrance hall.
"This way," he said.
"Tickets?" quizzed Lily, as they passed the booths.
"No, it's fine," he said, digging into his pocket to retrieve a green plastic card. "Free to ex
hibitors. So what do you think?”
“About what? New York? You’re not seriously asking me to go?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Why not?”
It was crazy. He knew full well why not.
“And please don’t say Ana,” he said.
“Yes, Ana. And also work. I’ve only just landed this job. Doubt they’d give me holiday on the spur of the moment. But otherwise - you know - maybe. If you were single, and if I had a spare grand to blow.”
“I’d cover your bill, of course, but never mind. Another time,” he laughed. “Down here.”
He led her to the end of a white-washed corridor, lined with painted portraits. Salman Rushdie, Germain Greer and Terence Conran hung unmoving on the walls, eying the couple as they made their way to the photography exhibition. Lily felt suddenly hyper aware of Seb’s being here with her. Her pulse raced. He was quite a presence. Tall, beautiful, confident. Women were checking him out, left, right, and centre. For pity’s sake, Lily, he’s not yours, she told herself. Stop getting so damn possessive.
“Did you just say you’ve got work here? Really?”
“Yep. Prepared to be won over by the depths of my artistic genius. Feel free to kiss my shoes.”
The words should have been smooth and droll, but there was an odd tightness to his voice. Like he was embarrassed. Seb Harper, embarrassed! Lily had to calm herself, she could feel her lips tweaking upward, compelled by his sudden adorableness. But it wasn’t Seb’s brief flicker of vulnerability that had her thighs clenching. It was that last bit he said. The bit about his shoes. Was it wrong that the idea of kissing his undoubtedly well worn Converses kind of turned her on? Was it wrong that her knickers suddenly felt wet and heavy between her legs?
Seb flashed his card at the lad manning the entrance, and swung Lily round to view the first few portraits. “I know, I’m a huge show-off, but I’ve got a good reason for bringing you here. Honest,” he said. “OK, so here’s the game. You’ve got to tell me which one’s mine without looking at the labels.”
Though still flustered by his proposal, she nodded. “Right, you’re on.”
“Of course this will require some honesty on your part, but I trust you not to cheat.”
“I don’t cheat.” Unlike some.
“Good.”
Lily studied each of the 60 or so photographs in turn, and did her best to avoid reading the labels. She realised early on that she had very little to go on. There were none like the ones she’d seen back in his room. And the range was extreme. Snap-shot black and white reportage of war torn orphans; hyper-clear colour shots of aged Russian body builders; reconstructions of old masters; simple, beautiful, emotional close-ups; well known celebrities; unknown babies; paupers; priests; where to start?! Seb hung back, hands in pockets, whistling benignly whenever Lily tried to dig for clues.
She stopped in front of a black and white, full-frontal nude woman, possibly mid-twenties, with extreme scarring along her entire right-hand side. She was beautiful though. Uninhibited. And she definitely ticked the ‘naked’ box on Lily’s very patchy list of Seb’s interests. She turned to Seb and raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“Nope. Bit issues-y for me. Great shot though,” he said. “My girl’s fully clothed.”
“But she’s a she!”
“She is.”
OK, thought Lily, got to be smarter about this. “So, fully clothed, female…” What else? She thought back to Seb’s crowd scenes. If she’d been less rampantly horny she might have paid a bit more attention. But they were long exposures - she knew that much - with one figure, in each, standing stock still. Frozen in time. Time.
“So ‘time’ is a theme, right?”
“Warmer.”
“So time equals action shot… maybe?”
“Colder.”
“Damn. OK, fine. No action. So time as in what…? Age?”
“Much warmer.”
An older woman? Who’da thought!
“Her! Is it her? That pic there?”
“That’s the one.”
The photograph showed a woman in her early 70s, well dressed in a bohemian blouse and skirt, with huge shell earrings. She sat in front of a wall, itself covered in photographs. On closer inspection, the photographs made up a time-line of sorts; baby photos on the far left blended into childhood snaps further right, which mixed with pics of a striking, red-haired adolescent girl. All the photos were of this one woman. They told the story of her life; her marriage, her pregnancy, her adventurous fashion sense, her love for her son. The ‘real’ woman looked to one side, away from the photos, to the small section of bare wall which sat to the right of the photo; the rest of her life. Lily read the label below the image:
Roza Faulkes, by Sebastian Harper: The late Dame Roza Faulkes, beloved fashion designer. Faulkes’ deep friendship with her photographer, Harper, is felt in this intimate portrait. Harper comments, “Roza believed in self-honesty. She was scared of dying but accepted the inevitability of it, and felt enormous gratitude for her tremendous life. A passionate and brave woman.”
“I’m amazed,” said Lily.
“In a good way I hope?”
It was easy to get lost in that photo. So many stories, stretching across a lifetime. “Of course in a good way,” she said, “It’s really… just beautiful. I don’t know what else to say.”
“You remind me of her,” Seb said, “Your expressions, the way you look sometimes. It’s why I wanted to show you. Honestly I’m not just showing off.”
“How did you know her?”
“She was our neighbour, when I was a kid. Her son, Elliot, was my age so we were always in and out of each other’s houses. Is my age, I should say. He’s still alive, happily married to that first ex I mentioned.” He smiled, perhaps to show that this really wasn’t a contentious issue. “Roza was the only one who really supported my photography. She had a massive falling out with my parents over it when I was young. I was meant to join the family business, you see.”
“But you had other ideas?”
“Damn right I did. They eventually got their heads round the idea I was going to Art school, but conned themselves I’d come back to the business afterward, once I’d got my ‘photography phase’ out of my system.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Get it out of my system? Well, no.” His fingers entwined with hers. She didn’t stop him. “Hence my ongoing status as black-sheep-Harper. Want a coffee?”
“Always.”
“Good. I want to tell you the whole story.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m sick of skirting round the issue all the time.”
What issue? She had to be careful. It would be so easy to get drawn in. She couldn’t afford to be getting so emotionally attached. He was married. Married. But she didn’t let go of his hand as he led her downstairs into the busy cafeteria.
They pulled two metal chairs up to the only free table, and as Seb queued for coffees, Lily sat waiting, playing restlessly with packets of sugar.
A thousand years later, he sat back down, with two Americanos and a look of determined resolve.
“Thanks,” she said. “OK…”
“OK. So, I’ve made a decision. You’ve made it pretty clear that at some point I’m going to have to either trust you or get lost. So that’s what I’m going to do; I’m going to trust you with my story and you can decide whether I’m worth your trouble. The problem is - some of this is more about Ana than me. So I’m being a selfish prick, telling you. Thing is, I’m past caring.”
“I would never say anything to anyone,” she said, “with or without the crazy-arse thirty-two page document. You can trust me.”
He seemed thoughtful, studying her as she spoke. He nodded a fraction. “I met Ana at University. We were best mates the whole way through. Totally on each-other’s wavelengths. And yes, I was attracted to her at first, but that lasted all of a few days. We were too similar. We liked the same artists, music, jokes… liked the same girls…”
Huh? Lily did a double-take as she replayed Seb’s words.
“Same girls. Ana’s gay? Your wife is gay.”
He nodded. “Other than the odd moment of hetro-experimentation, yeah I’d say she’s pretty much one hundred percent a girls’ girl.”
Lily’s mind was racing; trying desperately to squeeze this round new peg of information into a square and logical hole. It just wasn’t going to happen.
“But, why on earth…” she started, then thought better of it. “No - go on - I’m listening.”
“It was a massive secret. Her family are the most ridiculously pig-headed, bigoted people I’ve ever met. ‘Homophobic’ doesn’t even come close. Plus her inheritance depended on her marrying. I guess they thought wanted to ensure there’d be little Pancheva babies. She was expected to settle down, take on the ‘baronesa’ title, act like a ‘lady’. And well, we were both pretty young, and we both needed a way to dodge our parents’ expectations. So we got married. Big sham. My parents could hardly insist on my becoming a lawyer when I was marrying into major money, and hers finally stopped hassling her about moving back to Spain. It was win win. Grayson, knew from the beginning. Now he is a lawyer and a half. One of Harper Cane’s finest. I’ve known him for years, and - believe me - he’s totally benefited from our odd little set-up.”
“And Ana’s gay? You’re sure about this? It’s just, she told me she loved you. And all that stuff she said about not wanting to loose you- what was that?”
“Manipulation. She’s scared. She doesn’t want to risk losing her money. She’d do anything to keep the sham going, and she’s freaking out because she knows I’ve had enough. Ever since Roza got really ill, it kind of re-grounded me, put a sharp focus on what I wanted in life. I want what she had; real passion, not just endless fucking about. As I said before; the sex eventually gets boring when it means nothing. It’s addictive mind you, but after a while it’s just a quick empty hit.” He tilted his head back and sighed. “Anyhow, then I saw you working at dad’s dinner party and I’d been feeling pretty shitty. Ana and Gray were back home entertaining, and I was making myself scarce, wondering why the hell I was bothering trying to change, and there you were. Beautiful, shy, funny, and - as I said - looking a lot like Roza.” He lifted his mug to his lips, watching Lily for her reaction.