What Goes Down: An emotional must-read of love, loss and second chances

by Natalie K. Martin

  Janice tilted her head to one side. ‘You said the same thing last time, remember? And the time before that. And what happened? We sold every last piece and even sent a few people home disappointed that they’d missed out.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘We can’t do this merry dance every time you have an exhibition, Seph. You know I trust you but I think it’s time for you to let me in. I need to see what you’ve got.’

  Seph’s fingers toyed with the stag pendant hanging from the chain around her neck. She was running out of time, and now she had her back pressed against the wall with a looming deadline that was approaching much too quickly. She was supposed to have come back from France refreshed, with renewed perspective, focus and inspiration. Instead, she’d come back to a life that felt like it was in more of a mess than ever.

  ‘I just need a little more time,’ she said.

  ‘What makes you think I have more to give? I need to get things finalised. If you want to back out or if you’re not up to it, then now’s the time to say, because after this point there’s no going back.’

  ‘Have I ever let you down before?’

  Janice remained quiet for a few seconds, staring at her with determined, dark eyes. Seph understood her predicament. All she could do was hope that Janice would cut her some slack.

  Janice sighed heavily and flicked her ash again. ‘I’ll give you two more weeks until they need to be ready, and not a day more.’

  The corners of Seph’s mouth lifted into a small, relieved smile. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t make me regret this.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  She had absolutely no intention of disappointing Janice. She was damned lucky to have her in the first place. Seph was certain there were few other artists, if any, who could get away with having an exhibition without showing the gallery owner a single piece first.

  ‘How are things otherwise? Everything alright?’ Janice asked.

  Seph tapped her finger on the metal surface of the table, resisting the urge to ask for a cigarette. She’d quit in France for the billionth time but the breeze was blowing wafts of smoke her way, and the craving was gnawing at her insides like a demon trying to get free.

  ‘Everything’s fine.’ Seph smiled, shoving the craving away.

  ‘So why have you turned up looking like something my cat leaves in her litter tray?’ Janice stubbed her cigarette out and leaned forward, scanning Seph’s face. ‘It’s not just exhibition nerves, is it?’

  Seph shifted in her chair uncomfortably.

  ‘You know you can talk to me, Seph. It’s what I’m here for.’

  Janice wasn’t just a mentor. When they’d first met, Seph had been in her last year at university, grieving for her uncle who’d just passed away and under a cloud so dark she’d thought she’d never see the light again. Her lecturer had put her in touch with Janice and, under her mentorship, Seph had found a way to cope with the loss, finding an abstract beauty on the canvas where she couldn’t in real life. Her paintings became less dark and more ethereal, filled with colour that, eventually, somehow spilt into her own heart again. Her art literally became her heartbeat. Janice would probably never really understand how instrumental she’d been in all that, which was why Seph was determined not to let her down. She was one of the easiest and least judgmental people Seph knew and over the years had taken on a role of second mother, friend and occasional therapist combined.

  ‘Things are fine, honestly. I just…’ Seph hesitated, wrapping her hands around her mug to stop herself from reaching for the shiny cigarette packet.

  She wasn’t a sharer by nature. She preferred to deal with things herself instead of opening herself up all the time and right now, she felt far too delicate. Besides, finding out about Nico felt deeply personal and a little too raw.

  ‘It’s just family stuff,’ she said.

  ‘Well, we all have that,’ Janice said. ‘Seph, you’re an artist and a damned good one. You just have to remember what we spoke about all those years ago. Life is going to deal you crap hands and, when it does, you have to use them. Do what you do best. Channel it. Paint.’

  Seph nodded. Janice was right. If she didn’t do something constructive with her emotions, they ran the risk of becoming destructive and making her do stupid things like drinking a whole bottle of wine alone in bed just to find some quiet time. She wanted to get this series and exhibition sorted. No, she needed to. As hard as it was right now, she knew that this was part of the cycle. She wasn’t being dramatic when she’d told Ben that this was part of the process. Seph knew she had to dig and dig, right down into the depths of her being to find the images that would end up hanging on Janice’s gallery walls. And she knew that until it was done, there’d be little to no chance of letting her mind rest. The only trouble was that now her work had to compete for space with the news about Nico.

  ‘Take these shitty feelings and turn them into something good,’ Janice added.

  ‘I will.’

  Seph nodded again, because she had no choice. This was who she was. It was what she did. And somehow, she’d have to make it work.

  As if to cement it all, Seph left Janice in the cafe to drop into her local art supplies shop. Buying new brushes and restocking on oils always helped her to feel hopeful. It was a ritual she usually only did at the start of a series, as if new equipment meant a new, fresh perspective but after her conversation with Janice, it felt like the natural thing to do. Call it superstition or placebo, but when she left the shop with the paper-wrapped bundle, she felt considerably lighter.

  Making her way home, Seph wheeled down the cycle lane on Dalston high street with her hangover finally subsiding. From the very first time she’d come to visit her uncle George here, she’d fallen in love with the place. Back then it had seemed like an exciting corner of London where people spoke in languages she couldn’t understand and the air was infused with the scent of foreign food.

  George had shown her all around the Capital over the years, taking her on night buses where they’d talk with everyone from drag queens to homeless people who rode the longest routes to keep warm all the way until the terminus. They’d explored Chinatown, amused by the strange, imported produce in the supermarkets and eaten food she couldn’t even begin to pronounce. They’d rollerbladed in Hyde Park and taken long walks by the Thames talking non-stop about everything from art to travel to Coronation Street. They’d been all over London, but nowhere held the same magic that Dalston did.

  It was a typical summer Sunday, with the pavements on either side of the road full of people taking advantage of the sunshine. The once unassuming and ever-so-slightly dingy streets she’d been introduced to all those years ago had since been transformed into a hipster’s paradise. She stopped at a red light and dropped her sunglasses down onto the bridge of her nose, watching a young couple pushing an expensive-looking pram and carrying paper bags from the organic supermarket up the road. Seph tried to ignore the guilt of knowing that, deep down, she was one of the people responsible for the ever-growing gentrification of the area. If anything, she was a stereotype herself.

  She bought organic wherever possible, owned a bicycle, voted Green and was a compulsive recycler. One of her favourite things to do was curling up in one of the gigantic armchairs in her favourite coffee shop, sketching and people watching before coming back to her converted warehouse on a street where all the other buildings had received the same fate. She told herself that it was all for practical reasons. That warehouse living was much cheaper than finding a flat in London, eating organic was better for her health, that being a vegetarian and riding a bicycle gave her a smaller carbon footprint and that being in a creative environment was better for her work. But the truth was, it was a lifestyle choice. She liked it. Living in a large space meant that she and Ben could work from home instead of shelling out for studio space somewhere else, and they could have people come to stay or throw parties without worrying about where to fit everyone. Dalston was slo
wly being dotted with artisanal bakeries, boutiques and shops, including one that stocked a small selection of the greeting cards she made to keep things ticking over. It had changed drastically from the place she’d first encountered as a little girl, but it wasn’t the appeal of kimchi and kombucha that had made her want to live here. It was George, and the memories of the time they’d spent together.

  Moving to London was supposed to be the time of her life. She’d dived head first into life in the Capital, studying for her art degree, partying with new-found friends and spending time with her uncle. And she’d loved every minute of it, until the start of her third year when George died and she’d raged with the injustice of it all. She’d hated everything. Nothing about London had felt good after that. She’d hated the strangers who would sit next to her on the bus and the constant hum of traffic below her bedroom window. The never-ending buzz of energy that had once been so enchanting was as welcome as a swarm of bees.

  Seph rounded the corner to her street and pulled at the brakes, slowing down. She looked at the grubby blue sleeping bag in the small alcove next to the fried chicken shop and was just about able to make out a patch of brown hair. She got off her bike and dropped a few coins into the worn paper cup on the floor, quietly so as not to wake him. Come rain or shine, Joe was always there, always happy for a two-piece meal from the shop next door and a chat.

  His surprise had been evident the first time she’d stopped to say hello. It had made her feel overwhelmingly sad, because it told her that she was in a small number of people who’d stop to give a couple of minutes of their time as well as loose change. It was something George had always done, too. She had so many memories of her uncle stopping and talking to people that everyone else walked past without ever noticing that it became a natural instinct for her to do the same. Sometimes, she wondered if she’d have noticed Joe if she’d had a different uncle. It was difficult to know what was nature and what was nurture, especially now, when she felt like she didn’t even know what her true nature was.

  Seph held the handlebars of her bike and walked it down the street looking at her home up ahead. How had Joe had ended up where he had? What traumas had he been dealt to make him fall out of society and end up living in a shop doorway? When she thought back to how she’d felt after George’s death, it scared her to remember how little she’d cared for anything. All she’d felt was empty. Thinking about something like paying the rent had been incomprehensible. She’d been lucky to have her parents and childhood home to go back to when it had all got too much. Maybe Janice was right. Everyone had crap to deal with and, when she thought about it, things could be much worse right now. At least she had a roof over her head, food in her fridge and a job that paid the bills, even if it didn’t always pay for much else.

  Seph fumbled around in her bag for her key. She might not be any clearer on what to do about her mum, dad and Nico yet, but she was going to put Janice’s advice into motion. She was going to sit in her studio and paint, and she’d stick at it regardless of whether she liked the outcome or not.

  SEPH

  Five

  ‘I’d say I’ve got news, but I’m fairly certain you know the truth about Nico.’ Seph stared at the rectangular block of granite inscribed with her uncle George’s name. She sat down, crossed her legs and rolled the sleeves of her T-shirt up to her shoulders before taking off her sunglasses with a sigh. ‘Thought so.’

  There were times in her life that Seph wished she could turn the clock back to, so she could scrub them all out and stop them from happening. The night she’d sat with George and her parents in a swanky restaurant to be told he had cancer was one of them. She’d never forget the shock and cold fear that had cut right into her when he’d dropped his diagnosis into conversation as she’d tucked into her starter. Bowel cancer, advanced and terminal. The waiters had glided between the tables around them, taking care of diners who were enjoying a meal in one of London’s top restaurants while George had told her that chemo would only extend his life a little, at best.

  ‘I found out about him a couple of days ago,’ Seph said to the headstone. ‘He emailed me to say happy birthday and, by the way, I’m your real dad. How’s that for a present?’ She laughed bitterly. ‘Turns out everyone knew apart from me but nobody ever thought to tell me the truth, including you. And I’m so angry with you for not being here to talk to about it.’

  She shook her head against her irrational emotions. The anger she felt towards George wasn’t because he’d undoubtedly taken part in the charade about her true parentage. It was because he wasn’t there for her to be angry with.

  George had been more like a wise, fun older brother than a stuffy uncle, always on hand to deliver advice or listen when she felt overwhelmed. And then he’d got sick. He hadn’t even tried to fight the cancer that was attacking his body and stealing him away day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute.

  He’d refused chemotherapy, as well as everything else that was suggested, from Traditional Chinese Medicine to special diets coming from the States. To this day, Seph often wondered what might have happened if he hadn’t given up. If he’d have fought it. Maybe he’d be here now, and they’d be sitting together, having a real conversation instead. Maybe he wouldn’t have withered away like a decaying leaf and left them all behind. By the time he died, he’d been unrecognisable. He’d become gaunt and skeletal, his eyes sunken into their sockets. The memory of him looking like that, being in so much pain and being snatched away so quickly, that was what made her angry.

  Seph put the small potted cactus she’d brought with her right in front of his headstone. He’d been adamant that he didn’t want any flowers at his funeral or grave, and opted for cacti instead. They were his favourite plant - prickly on the outside and soft on the inside - just like he was. Along with opting for cacti over flowers, George had also demanded that Fleetwood Mac’s album, Rumours, be played during a visit, starting with “Dreams”. Seph scrolled through her phone until she found it and pressed play. It was typical of him, taking care of everything and everyone, even when he was dying. He’d sold his salon, allocating money to pay for his funeral. The rest, along with his savings, had been left to Seph, her mum and his partner, Ed. He’d even chosen his own headstone and pre-ordered the food to be served at the wake. He’d joked that he’d haunt them all if they served rubbery sandwiches. Instead, they’d nibbled on goat’s cheese tartlets and grilled tiger prawns.

  Seph sat quietly for a while, listening to the music and imagining that he was sitting next to her. Her anger over his death wasn’t new. It always showed up when she came to visit, but it was inevitably followed by a sense of reluctant acceptance that was undoubtedly helped along by the music. She suspected it was why George had been so specific with his track listing.

  ‘It’s so messed up,’ she said eventually, shaking her head. ‘You know how Mum always goes on about being open and honest, and yet she’s gone and done this.’

  Seph picked a blade of grass and twiddled it between her thumb and index finger. Since the initial shock about Nico had worn off, she was coming to realise that she was more hurt about being lied to than anything else.

  ‘It just doesn’t make any sense,’ she continued, splitting the blade of grass down the middle with a frown. ‘I mean, people walk away from their kids all the time, and they don’t all lie about it, do they?’ She looked up at the headstone, wishing as she had so many times before that he could talk back.

  George had always given such great advice. She missed him and his words of wisdom now more than ever before. Despite her growing enthusiasm after coffee with Janice yesterday, Seph hadn’t stepped foot in her studio yet. Instead, she’d decided to take advantage of the sunshine and spent the rest of the day in the park with Ben. It wasn’t procrastination; it was process. He’d read while she’d lain with her head on his stomach, trying to get in tune with her innermost feelings - the ones beyond the anger and confusion - to see what was really there. It was how she norm
ally dug her way through to the central theme that strung a common thread through a series, but she’d been blocked by unanswered questions about Nico.

  ‘I haven’t spoken to Mum since and I have no idea what to do about meeting him or even replying to him,’ she said. ‘It’s like a broken record in my head. It’s all I can think about.’

  By rights, she should be walking around like a zombie from a lack of sleep. Last night, her body had been relaxed after being in the sun all the day, but her mind had raced. She’d recited Nico’s email over and over again in her head until finally dropping off at four in the morning only to wake three hours later.

  Seph lay on her back and stared up at the sky, covered with a criss-cross of white streaks left behind from aeroplanes, until her eyes watered and burned. She blinked the moisture away and looked at the sky again. It was so bright and clear that it looked like a photograph and held something about it she could never replicate on canvas. The grass was soft on the back of her arms, and the earth felt warm and supporting beneath her. She stared at the never-ending expanse of pastel blue sky, taking comfort in the idea that her uncle was close by, in some kind of way.

  A while later, she became aware of her skin tingling under the sun and looked at her watch. Her eyebrows rose at the time. It was after midday. Had she really been lying there for an hour and a half already? It only felt like five minutes. Seph sat up, looking around and blinking against the light. How could so much time have passed without her even noticing? Maybe she’d fallen asleep. It would hardly have been surprising, given how little of it she’d got last night.

  Fleetwood Mac was still playing on a loop, and she slowly stretched her arms above her head. She dropped her hands into her lap and looked at George’s headstone for a while, staring at the tiny specks of white in the granite, glittering under the sun. At least he’d opted for burial over cremation. It meant there would always be a place where she could come to visit and feel like he was still somehow around. Like he was on the other end of a telephone instead of not being there at all. It wouldn’t be the same talking to an urn or thin air.