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She leans forward. “Sweetie, I know you’ve been hurt, more than once. Rachel did a real number on you. And unfortunately, there are no guarantees that it will work out next time. That really sucks. But you’re very young to turn those experiences into a reason to stop dating. And before you say anything, I’m not talking about sex. I know you use Tinder and have one-night stands. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s just physical. It’s hollow and unsatisfying. I know—I went through that stage after I broke up with Rich, before I met Jackson.”
Her late teens were a tough time for her. She was angry and resentful, in pain a lot with her arm, and she missed Christian. She struggled with survivor’s guilt, like we all did, and questioned her faith for a few years. But then she met Jackson, and everything seemed to come right for her.
“Not everyone’s lucky enough to meet their soulmate,” I tell her.
“I don’t believe in soulmates,” she says.
“Really?” That surprises me. I thought she was into all that.
“Not in the sense you mean. Or at least, there are different sorts. I think we’re soulmates, of a kind.” She smiles.
“Aw,” I tease. “You’re getting soppy in your old age.”
“Maybe. Kids tend to do that to you. I cry at most movies now, especially if there are children or animals in them. But what I’m trying to say is, I don’t think there’s one perfect girl out there for you, Damon. Oddly, I think you’ve been looking for her, but I don’t think she exists. Jackson and I don’t have a perfect relationship. We bicker, and I think he’s too untidy, and he hates the way I dither over things. But he’s the best fit I’ve found. Sometimes people fit for a while. Emmi and Bridget and Rachel all fit for a time. You haven’t had three failed relationships—you’ve had three successful relationships that came to an end.”
“Glass half full, eh?”
“Kinda. I don’t know what I’m trying to say here. Baby brain. Just… if you like this girl, I think you should tell her. Screw Alex, and screw anyone and anything else that stands in the way. If you like her, go and get her, Damon. Life’s far too short for anything else.”
She stops talking, and I can see her eyes shine. She’s thinking about Christian again. Despite her words, she doesn’t usually get emotional when she talks about him.
“If he was here, he’d tell you to,” she adds. Then she leans forward and kisses Eddie on the forehead.
“All right,” I say softly. I clear my throat. “You want some chocolate cake?”
“Oh my God, yes, more than anything in the world.”
I laugh. “All right. I’ll go and get us some.”
I order some cake, and the two of us spend the rest of our hour together talking and playing with Eddie, bathed in the light of the autumn sun.
*
Later, after I finish work, I go home, order some Chinese food from Uber Eats, and take it out onto the deck to eat. My house is high on the hills surrounding Wellington, and it has a great view of the city and the harbor beyond. It has a large deck and its own pool, and to either side, trees hide me from prying eyes. The sun is close to setting now, and everything’s painted with tangerine-colored light.
As I eat, I think about Kennedy, and her statement that Christian is still with us, watching over us, and I feel a deep yearning for the faith I lost as a child. Like Kennedy, I spent a lot of my teenage years furious at God and the world, but whereas she eventually accepted that Christian’s death was part of God’s plan, I could find no comfort in that thought. No God I wanted to worship would be so cruel as to take away a boy of twelve, who hadn’t even started living. I told myself I didn’t believe in God and turned my back on my faith.
So why does the thought of Christian watching over Kennedy and her baby fill me with such a warmth it brings tears to my eyes?
It’s getting dark now. I rise from the chair, take my plate through to the kitchen, then continue walking through to my studio. I don’t have a lot of spare time where I’m not doing anything. I work long hours, and when I am at home, I’m usually either working out, gaming, or watching TV. Painting is my only real hobby.
The big glass windows look out over the deck and the lawn, which are partially lit by the solar lamps half-hidden at the edges of the pathway. I walk slowly down the length of the room, looking at the two canvases already set up on easels that I’m working on. Both are progressing well, but I’m in the mood to start something new tonight.
First, I switch on my record player and put on a vinyl copy of Bowie’sHunky Dory. OnceChangesfills the room, I’m ready to start.
Usually, I paint from photos of statues. I enjoy the process of turning them into real women, and breathing life into the cold, smooth marble. Tonight, though, I have a real-life subject to draw from.
I Bluetooth my phone to the projector, turn it on, bring up the photo of Belle standing in front of the window at the hotel, lit by the rising sun, and project it onto the plain white wall. The sight of her standing there, her hair tumbling around her shoulders, takes my breath away. I’m not sure I believe in angels, but if they do exist, they might look something like Belle.
I go over to the new canvases I had delivered a few weeks ago. I ordered a selection of sizes, including a couple of the biggest size the art store had. I take out one of them now—four feet by five—and carry it over to a free space. I bought an extra-large easel some time ago, and although the canvas is a little large for it, it does sit on the lower shelf, and the stand enables it to lean back at a slight angle, which makes it easier to draw on.
When I’m happy it feels secure, I choose a piece of willow charcoal and a rag, and take them over to the easel.
For a few minutes, I just stand there, looking at the photo of Belle on the wall, and thinking about how I could transpose it to the canvas. I want to make her into a Greek goddess, and turn the sheet draped around her into a diaphanous gown. I’ll have a look at some pictures later, and think about colors and lighting, but for now I want to try and capture her shape and form.
In my head, I divide the photo up into nine large squares. Then I do the same on the canvas, placing light marks with the charcoal to indicate the grid. Only then do I start to sketch.
With the grid in place, it’s easier to get the proportions right. Even so, I erase lines with the rag from time to time until I’m happy with them. I used to go to art classes in the evening, and my tutor there taught me how to look for shapes in figures—the horizontal line of the collar bone, the beautiful curve of the spine, the triangle of the hips, the vertical lines of the femurs and lower legs. So I begin with triangles, circles, and squares, then gradually add more detail once I’m content with the basic structure.
