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“It’s a beautiful name,” he stated. “Why wouldn’t I use it?”
I turned around at that. Crazy to think I’d walked into this gallery scared I’d not be able to stave off tears. Now we were face-to-face, I was seconds away from hitting him. Especially as he looked so fucking wonderful.
“I found out that St Florian is the patron saint of firefighters,” he continued, as if it fucking mattered. As if he wasn’t standing two feet away all filled out and healthy and even sporting a fucking tan. “And of chimneysweeps and those caught in floods. He’s a protector, like you.”
Except for when it came to protecting myself.
“I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have come.”
I stepped around him, needing out. The spotlights in the gallery were too bright, the air stuffy, the perfume of a posh woman nearby too overpowering. And people were starting to notice us; I’d raised my voice; the man at the reception desk frowned in my direction. Unseeing, I pushed open the door, the keys to my bike lock already gripped in my hand.
“Florian, wait.” Charles hurried after me. “I’m sorry.”
I stood from where I’d bent over the bike lock. I had to go. Furious tears had started to gather behind my eyes; I would not let him see me like this.
“What exactly are you sorry for?” I manoeuvred my bike roughly out of the rack. “For the art display or for disappearing without a trace?”
Or for breaking my heart?
“Both, Florian,” he said. “I’m sorry for both. Listen: I’ll take the pictures down if you don’t like them.”
Blood whooshed through my ears as I straightened up. How could I not like them? Some of them, anyhow. They showed I’d once meant something to him. That despite hanging me out to dry, he’d cared. Which was not the same as me wanting everyone I knew seeing my every emotion bared.
“Why on earth did you put them up on display?”
“Because I wanted to celebrate you. It seemed a good idea. Obviously, it wasn’t.”
“Not one of your better ones, no.”
“And also because I wanted the world to know how beautiful you are. And… and to know how much I loved you. And how much I still do.”
I turned away. “You don’t have the right to say that to me. And you’ve got a funny way of showing it!”
He loved me. Oh, fucking merde. How did this damned man have the power to rock me so much? “The pictures can stay. It’s not every day a salt harvester has an entire exhibition dedicated to him.”
“Let me come and see you, Florian. Give me a chance to explain.”
“It’s not as if I can stop you, is it?” I sneered. “You know where I work, where I live, where I drink. Why don’t you come and set up your easel in L’Escale, save you the bother of trekking over to the salt flat? Or con me into bed with you again, so you can catch me brushing my teeth or taking a piss? Sketch that and put it up on the fucking wall!”
He let me go after that hissy fit, which was a good thing as, mid-rant, I experienced an overwhelming desire to grab him and kiss his neck. And at least now I could blame my wet cheeks on cycling into a head wind. And he’d not discover that every sentiment I’d hurled had hidden other, more closely guarded ones, such as how much I’d missed him, how much he’d hurt me, how much I still fucking loved him.
And how readily I’d take him back.
CHAPTER 31
CHARLES
I let him go. This was the beginning, not the end, even if Florian didn’t know it yet.
I’d lost my mother and my sanity. I would not lose him. Not without a fight, anyhow. And I was stronger now, strong enough to soak up his blows and keep pushing forward. I had time too, plenty of it, if I lived an average lifespan. Because for as long as there was a chance he’d take me back, then I had no plans to be anywhere else.
I sat on my hands for a week. I took my medication and stayed close to home in Ars. I finished some consultancy work arranged with Marcus, although most of his phone calls went ignored. I’d set up an alarm system, mapped out with my therapist, that so far had worked well and kept my inner navy blue pacified. No more than three hours of work a day, and on no more than three days a week. I also had two phones, a work phone and a personal one. Outside of the three hours, the work phone was switched off. Marcus didn’t have the number of the personal one.
I painted of course; I endeavoured and failed to capture the changing colours of the chameleon-like marshes. The vivid blues that melted away to grey in the time it took me to mix the shades and load my brush. The violet hue edging the mackerel skies at sunset. I gathered handfuls of samphire and cooked it very badly.
I penned letters to my mother that would never be read. And at night I dreamed in pearlescent silver, of Florian.
The cooperative building sat bold and welcoming on the outskirts of Ars. You couldn’t miss it if you drove into town. The architect had designed the hangar from sustainable materials, in keeping with the eco-friendly nature of the island and indeed, the work of the salt harvesters. Solar panels powered it. But all that had come at a cost, a debt the harvesters would be paying back for many years. Accounting for this, Selco had used it as a weapon to exploit them.
