‘Yes, nine o’clock. Champagne and the gallery owner’s speech. The mayor will be there.’
‘I want to come. I want to stand in front of the painting. I want to not leave.’
Rory studied him. The painter’s eye, the one that read surfaces for what they meant.
‘Bring Gemma,’ Rory said.
‘Why Gemma?’
‘Because Gemma calls you on your panic in real time and I’m too close to see it. Too... involved. Bring Gemma. She’ll stand next to you and drink prosecco and tell you to stop.’
‘That’s… actually sensible.’
‘I’m occasionally sensible.’
‘It’s unsettling when it happens.’
Rory’s mouth twitched. The half-smile returning. Half a grin. The damage of the previous night was still in the room, in the foot of distance, in the red edges of his eyes. But the half-smile was there. Alive.
Neil kissed him. In the empty gallery, under morning light, in front of the painting. No audience, no performance, no people with wine and opinions. A private kiss in a public space, his mouth on Rory’s, the ring cold against his lip, the taste of morning, and the night they’d both survived.
‘Take me for breakfast, Rory. I know of a good café close to here.’
‘You know a café close to Whitmore gallery?’
‘I know several cafés. I’m a complex man. I have a varied social calendar.’
‘You know one café. And it’s the one beside the school where they do the saddest bacon rolls ever.’
‘It’s an excellent café.’
Rory took his hand. Laced their fingers. The paint on his knuckles, the serpent visible at the wrist. They walked out of the gallery together, under the half-raised shutter, into the April morning.
Neil wore the good trousers. Gemma wore the green dress again. They arrived together, on purpose, because the arriving was part of the exercise, and Gemma’s elbow against his was the steadiest thing in the postcode.
The gallery was different that night. The crowd smaller; collectors, serious buyers. Less performance. More looking.
Neil walked to the final wall. Stood in front of the painting. Gemma beside him, prosecco already in hand, here to work, and the work was keeping her ex-husband’s spine in one piece.
A man in glasses studied the canvas. Looked at Neil. Looked back.
Neil’s hands started for his pockets. Gemma caught his wrist. Held it. Enough, but not hard.
‘Stay,’ she said. Quiet. A request, from the woman who’d watched him button himself shut for ten years and was asking him, this once, to leave it off.
He did. Present, at least. The man in glasses dipped his head, not recognition, not comparison. Appreciation. Of the painting. Then moved on.
It passed. Like weather. Like the cramp he’d once described, temporary, manageable. The fear came and the fear left and the body was still standing.
He turned around and looked for Rory and saw him standing alone in a corner, holding an untouched champagne glass. He looked small, so unlike himself.
Neil stepped closer and his hand found Rory’s. The gallery saw. The gallery continued its business. Nobody changed the channel.
Gemma found them. Prosecco in hand. Eyes red-rimmed in the specific way that meant she’d been crying in the toilets and had repaired her makeup and the repair was imperfect.
‘You look…’ She stopped. Shook her head. Started again. ‘When we were married, I used to watch you get dressed. Every morning. Shirt, belt, shoes… like you were putting on armour. I never knew what you were defending against.’ She looked at the canvas. ‘Now I do.’
‘Gemma…’
