Page 41 of The Woman Who Said Yes

‘Erm, I’m at an exhibition,’ Sam says as the background noise fades. My guess is that he’s stepped outside, and that’s when I realise.

‘Oh, you’ve gone to Lucy’s exhibition!’

‘Yeah, just thought I’d drop in.’ The words hover awkwardly.

‘That’s… that’s great!’ I enthuse, as if it’s somehow amazing that Sam has managed an outing all by himself. ‘Well, have fun,’ I add. ‘Hope you enjoy it…’ And with that – and his somewhat stilted ‘thank you’ – we finish the call.

23

SAM

It was breakfast that had done it. Or rather, Theo’s no-show at breakfast. Sam had been up as usual, bacon and eggs at the ready even though it’s hardly been jolly of late, this weekend routine he’s clinging onto. In fact, he’d wondered, as the bacon sizzled, whether he was hanging on to the tradition long past its sell-by date, and if he should just put a stop to it. Not today, though. ‘Theo! Breakfast!’ he’d called out.

No response. He’d gone to Theo’s room and rapped on his bedroom door – again, nothing – and opened it tentatively. Sam had definitely heard him coming home late last night, but there was no sign of him now. He wasn’t in the bathroom either, having one of those never-ending showers that drastically deplete the reservoirs supplying London.

Sam had texted:

Where are you?

Just out, came the reply. No further details supplied. So Sam had eaten alone, with little enthusiasm as his chest was tight with worry at why Theo might have ventured out of his own accord before noon. On a weekend, this is virtually unheard of. He’s not a kid, Sam had reminded himself. He’s a grown man of twenty years old, and why should he inform his father of where he’s going, or indeed utter a courteous ‘Bye!’ whenever he’s heading out? Perhaps Sam should lower his expectations and abandon the quaint tradition of verbal communication altogether?

Then Lucy had messaged.

Really hope you can make it to my little exhibition today. A few of us are going for a drink after, would be great if you’d like to join us.

And she’d attached an invitation with the address, presumably in case he’d lost the flyer she’d given him (which, in fact, he had).

What was this – a kind of date? Sam dismissed the possibility immediately. For one thing, she must be a decade or so younger. She’s an artist having her first solo exhibition, he told himself. She’s just trying to round people up. He knows how hard that can be – to entice the public into coming to anything, even with the bribe of free booze. ‘People need to know we’re here,’ Farrah announced as Christmas approached. ‘We need more walk-ins, Sam. Up our profile a bit.’ She’d cajoled him into putting on a festive evening with drinks, snacks and music, and a local artist was booked to do speedy on-the-spot sketches of people as they arrived. It had been a huge success. Even Theo had come, which had amazed Sam as he hardly ever drops by the shop these days. He’d fully expected him to say he was busy.

Sam had wished he was around today, just so they could hang out for a bit. Something was going on – he could feel it. But how to break through that brittle outer shell? He had no idea. Nor did he know what to do about Lucy’s invitation. However, he’d already arranged with Farrah that she’d take care of the shop today, and unusually, he was all up to date with his framing jobs. Plus, going out had to be better than wondering what Theo might be up to.

He’d replied:

Great, thanks a lot, I’ll drop by.

As he took the Tube to Hampstead, Sam wondered if that had sounded a bit wankerish. ‘I’ll drop by’ – as if he’d be squeezing it in among his many other engagements (why can’t he just be normal?). And by the time he approached the gallery, so many people had shown up already that they were spilling out onto the narrow cobbled lane. This led Sam to come to two possible conclusions. One, Lucy had underestimated how many people would turn up. Or two, she hadn’t just invited him as part of her rounding-people-up mission.

Yet more people were strolling towards the little redbrick gallery with its multi-paned bow window and wooden planters bursting with pink and yellow spring blooms. Affluent, arty-looking types, mostly – the women in brightly coloured dresses and wide, stiff trousers that reminded him of sails. Eva would have a name for them. A few metres from the entrance, Sam stopped. The rest of the lane was all immaculately kept terraced houses, apart from an antiques shop with a rocking horse outside.

Ridiculously, Sam felt a little uneasy about entering the gallery alone with all those people chattering loudly, giving the impression that they all knew one another – that this was some kind of exclusive Saturday afternoon club. Get a grip, he told himself. You’re a picture-framer, for crying out loud. You’ve seen art before. He’d just have a quick look at Lucy’s prints and exchange a few pleasantries, then leave.

Sam stepped in, and Lucy swooped over and introduced him to several people whose names he made a concerted effort to try and retain. ‘Sam, this is Cleo and Zara and Jacob and Tori and—’ But they all disappeared from his consciousness as his phone started ringing. He whipped it from his pocket, thinking it might be Theo, and saw Andie’s name displayed. Sam knew that she and Eva were out shopping for wedding outfits together. Had something happened? Had Andie blurted out that they were seriously worried about her marrying Dom, and Eva had taken it badly? Had she told her about them trooping all the way out to that Boggis Road address? ‘’Scuse me, I’d better take this,’ he blustered, and headed for the door.

As it turned out, she had only wanted to see what he thought of a photo Eva had sent him. Sam hadn’t seen it at that point. As he’d gone to look at it – confusingly, Andie seemed to be all tangled up in some kind of blue material – he’d accidentally cut her off. When he called her back, it was all so weird and awkward, and in all the years Sam had known Andie, it was the first time he’d ever wished he hadn’t accepted her call.

* * *

Sam has paced to the end of the street and back. He has admired the rocking horse and peered into the antique shop’s window and still he’s feeling flustered. Finally, he steps back into the gallery. A young woman offers him a glass of white wine, and he takes it gratefully and turns to study one of the linoprints on display. ‘Beautifully framed, isn’t it?’ Lucy remarks, having appeared at his side.

‘Not bad.’ Sam smiles. ‘Anyone would think you’d had it professionally done.’

Her gaze seems to land on the phone in his hand. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Oh, yeah, just a friend,’ he says quickly.

Lucy nods, and Sam says, truthfully, that he really likes her work. ‘I’ve never seen linocuts quite like these,’ he tells her. ‘They’re so delicate and intricately done. Where did you learn how to do that?’

‘I’ve done short courses,’ she explains, ‘but there’s been an awful lot of trial and error along the way.’