Page 34 of On The Edge

After the door had closed, Cat looked around the gallery. “Well, it shouldn’t be so difficult, I’ve watched Jess do it time and again,” she said to herself reassuringly. Romantic, slow music from the 1940s played throughout the gallery and Cat looked around the spacious room, admiring the pieces on display. Jess mostly painted women, each with a dreamy quality, yet with bold, vivid outlines, which reminded Cat of the Pre-Raphaelite artist William Waterhouse. Cat truly admired Jess’s exquisite compositions, and understood why so many others did too. She went to the back of the room, which was cut off by a Chinese room divider. Behind that lay Jess’s studio, which to Cat’s surprise was for once pretty spotless. Canvases of works in progress and sketches lay on the table as Cat took in the shading and textures. Some sketches were of local people, including, to her surprise, a very scantily clad Monique. Cat looked away, feeling that she had seen something she shouldn’t. She made her way back to the doorway of the studio, and suddenly in the corner of her vision, she saw herself looking back. Up on a shelf beside the door was her own face, staring out at her. Her red hair loosely fell over her shoulders, as she looked at the viewer with a quiet sadness, shrouded in a green textured fabric not unlike seaweed, which covered her body. Cat stared at the piece, feeling strange emotions stir within. Is this how people saw her? Did she look really like this? The painting was beautiful, such skill inherent within, but Cat couldn’t look at her own sadness any longer.

The hours disappeared quickly. Cat welcomed in a few customers, and enjoyed talking about art. She almost sold a painting, but the client decided to come back with her husband to view a certain piece one final time the next day. She felt satisfied as she closed up the gallery and ascended the stairs to find Jess sleeping soundly on her sofa. A half-eaten plate of pie lay on the dining table, and a dreadful reality show was booming loudly on the TV - families going on holiday together with one member voted off each week. What rubbish will they think of next? Cat turned off the TV. She wrote a note to Jess of the afternoon’s highlights, and quietly stuck it to the fridge.

Cat walked out into the evening air, and strolled around in the gloomy light to the pier she had once sketched before. Admiring the twinkling lights that now flickered on, she sat there with her legs hanging off the pier. The water was low tonight and it lapped gently against the wooden landing; it was the only sound that was heard in the silent evening air. Cat walked back to her car and opened her car boot. She picked up the last cake, wrapped in tinfoil, and summoned up all her courage to face Patrick. She knew they hadn’t really talked in a while, but hoped she could start the conversation again with cake. She bit her lip and willed herself onward. Walking up the street, she came across stray cats along the road. Two large tabbies lay on top of a very nice BMW, and on her approach sat up and looked at her, meowing gently. Cat could never help herself when it came to cats, and petted the two tabbies that jumped down to walk around her legs. It wasn’t long before they smelled the cake and their inquisitive noses went to it. Cat tore herself and the cake away from the all-too-easy distraction, and turned off to the avenue where Patrick lived. She strolled along the terrace of houses, and stopped. She stared at the door before her, with the number seven over a brass horseshoe. She was sure this was the door, Patrick had casually mentioned his address on the night of their kiss. This must be it. Her heart thumped hard in her chest, she was terrified. What would she even say to him? Before she could talk herself out of her nervous gift, she knocked on the door, hoping to god he wasn’t home.

She heard a laugh from within, and a girl with long wavy brown hair opened the door. She was dressed only in a t-shirt that was far too big for her, her long golden brown legs on display.

“Hi!” Her full lips showed pearly white teeth. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, erm..” Cat felt her face grow hot, and her chest grow cold. “I…er.. does Patrick live here?”

“Yes, he does,” she smiled.

Patrick’s voice came from out back. “Who’s at the door?”

“I don’t know,” she shouted, and turned back to Cat, who stood there frozen slightly.

“He’s in the shower” The girl nodded and waited for Cat to say something.

“I’m….I’m… sorry - never mind, I’ve just remembered I have to meet someone.” Cat turned to go and said over her shoulder, “I’ll call him, it was nothing important...” and sped back to her car. She threw the cake in a bin on the way, feeling sick at the thought of the redundant gesture.

Of course he has a girlfriend. How could a musician go that long without having a girl hanging off him? Why did I wait so long to get in touch with him? But he never got in touch with me! Maybe she was always there, and I was just another groupie? Oh god, am I a groupie?

Cat fretted these thoughts over and over in her car until she reached home. She got out of the car and slammed the door. She felt humiliated, angry and hurt. Patrick was having sex with as many girls as he liked, pretty girls who answered his door and wore his t-shirt. How could I be such a fool? Cat quietly let herself in her cottage, aware Johnny would be fast asleep upstairs, and threw her keys onto the kitchen table. She marched around downstairs, unable to sit still. She really wanted to talk to Johnny, but what would she say? A guy she’d met a couple of times and had kissed was now sleeping with other girls? Cat bit her lip and listened for any movement upstairs, but there was only silence. It would be better not to bother him with her small stupid problems. What could he do anyway? It was down to herself to fix things, just like the last time.

All her emotions pent up inside, she suddenly knew she needed a release. She dragged out some paints and canvas from a cupboard, and laid them on the living room floor. Then going to her kitchen, brought out a bottle of whisky and took a large gulp, before slapping paint to canvas in hot, rueful anger.