Page 10 of The Edge of Always

‘Merci,’ I say again, smiling stiffly, and wondering if I’ve done enough to seem like the friendly sociable person I was in The Time Before. ‘Well, I’d better…’ I make a strange hand gesture towards the door.

‘Oui, say no more. Paul’s on the corner is very good. Best croissants,’ she makes a kissing sound with her lips.

‘Okay, that’s good to know. Thank you, au revoir.’

‘Au revoir,’ she calls after me.

Outside, I take a deep breath, in and out. I look up at the weak morning sun and let it soak into my bones for a second. I can do this. Or at least I think (hope?) that I can. I spot Paul’s straight away and hurry towards it. The street is everything I would expect of Paris, with tall grey buildings and Juliet balconies.

I’m sure that half of the world is on this boulevard. People push past me, but I use my headphones to block out some of the hustle and bustle.

At Paul’s, I order the biggest croissant I’ve ever seen, with pistachio cream. There’s a small park opposite, and I settle on a bench to eat, pleased to have found somewhere quiet already.

The croissant is good. I snap a picture and send it to Mae.

Me: *image attached* I wonder if all my Deathers would be quite so morbid if they were eating pistachio croissants on the regular.

Mae: She’s alive!! That looks so good.

Me: It really is.

Mae: Have you recorded anything yet?

Me: No, too tired yesterday. I might do a quick intro while I’m sat in a park. There aren’t many people around.

Mae: Go for it! And send a pic of the painting please.

I also fire a quick message to Mum explaining what I’m in Paris for and reassuring her that I’ll be back in a couple of days.

There’s only an hour until the exhibit opens. On the journey here, I’d thought long and hard about what Mae said, about doing a Spencer special for my blog. In a way, it makes perfect sense. I did know Earl’s art better than almost anyone on the planet. I could let people know about the man behind the paintings. The Deathers would get it; they’re the ones who understand.

I want to record right now.

Except I’ve never recorded in public. Is it a bit of a wanker move? Does it matter?

I pull out my selfie stick from my rucksack and hook it up to my phone. I made some notes, things that I could say about Earl, during yesterday’s mammoth journey. It’s less prep than I usually do; I typically write and practise a script beforehand, but it’s better than nothing. I set a smile on my face and hit record.

‘Good morning, Deathers, and welcome to the Art of Dying. This week, I have something special for you, a mini-series if you will. You see, I’m in Paris and I’m going to be looking at the work of Earl Josef Spencer. I know what you’re thinking: what’s Spencer got to do with death and decay? But fear not Deathers, I think you’ll like this. You see, a new Spencer has recently been discovered, and I’m something of an aficionado on his work. I’ll also hunt out some death art, just to keep you all sated. I’ll be vlogging daily, direct from Paris. Stay tuned to see why this painting might be especially important to yours truly.’

I re-record it to smooth out the bits where I stumbled, and again when someone jogged past and I felt too self-conscious to keep talking. I just stared at myself on my phone screen like a lunatic, wondering if Mae was right on the fringe front, but admiring my eyeliner flick.

Once I’m happy, I upload it. It feels good, as if I’ve achieved something, or else taken some small crumb of control. That’s what Mae doesn’t understand. The Art of Dying isn’t just about hiding in an online world to avoid the real one. It’s the only part of my life where I feel I still matter.

The walk to the art gallery is short but beautiful. The pavements of President Wilson Avenue are so wide, there’s a market taking place down the middle of them – stalls selling seafood, flowers, cheese, olives, and so much bread that it assaults every sense. The sun is shining and there’s a light breeze from the Seine, which should be absolutely perfect, except I’m so nervous, I feel ill. My hands are shaking; it’s like I’m having an out-of-body experience. My headphones play Edith Piaf’s Non, Je ne regrette rien, and while I appreciate the authenticity of the moment, it doesn’t exactly help matters. Unlike Edith, I have many regrets, many.

At first, I don’t realise that I’ve joined the back of a queue. There’s a hustle of people, all waiting by the entrance to the MAM. It’s huge, both the building and the queue. I read about it on the way here. Apparently, the MAM was built in the 1930s and has 15,000 works of modern art. It’s only when I hear the words ‘Spencer’ more than once that I realise that these people are here for the same reason that I am. They’re waiting to see the new Earl Josef Spencer. They’re waiting to see the painting of me.

I’m full of something that feels like pride, for Earl. I wish he could be here for this; people actually queuing to see his work. He’d have just laughed and tried to make them all a cup of tea. He’d have found a way to find out what each of them needed and taken care of them. Some artists shy away from the real world, preferring instead to operate in some liminal space between life and art. I’m one of those artists, or I was. But not Earl – he loved people, and people loved him.

Mum always thought it odd, that as kids we wanted to spend so much time with an old man. But it never felt odd, or weird to us. Earl felt like family.

I’m ignoring every one of my rules about crying in public. Tears are dripping onto my cheeks by the time the doors open and we lunge forward en masse towards the museum entrance. I’m still crying as I pass my things through the security monitors, thinking of Earl and the fact that he won’t get to see this, and all the people who came to admire his work. But also for me and everything I lost back then. For Emmett, too, I suppose.

I’m out of practice when it comes to dealing with all this feeling, but like, it’s fine. I suppose if you can’t be an emotional wreck in Paris, where can you be one?

No one looks twice at my puffy eyes when I tap to buy a ticket for Earl’s exhibit.

Outside, the MAM looks like the Pantheon, with smooth pillars carved from stone. Inside, it’s a bright, white space, most famous for the enormous La Fée Électricité by Raoul Dufy. I promise myself that I’ll stay and see this later. For now, though, I follow arrows directing us to Earl’s exhibition space.