Page 32 of The Edge of Always

I flush with shame. Guilt, for lying like I did back then. I try to swallow around it, but it’s as if my jaw won’t work properly.

‘That’s what the woman at MAM thought.’ I talk slowly. ‘She said that they assumed it was one of his later pieces.’

‘His last. I know it.’

‘But where’s it been since? All his other work came to light years ago.’

Emmett shrugs. ‘Private collector, apparently. I wish we knew who.’

‘Me too. But I suppose it’s not that uncommon. There’s no way Gregor would be around to ask either. I just wish I could meet the person who had a picture of me hanging on their wall for two decades. It’s a bit weird when you think of it like that.’

‘Very weird.’ He smiles. Those teeth. ‘What did you make of it? The painting?’

‘I love it,’ I rush out. It’s the truth. I can’t remember the last time I felt so moved as I did in front of Earl’s art this morning. ‘Just, there was so much movement in it; he caught the wind in my hair perfectly. I can see why people say it’s a divergence from his other stuff. It was more whimsical, I think, the colours, the shadowy figure in the corner. I loved it.’

‘Earl would be happy that you like it.’

‘Mm hm.’ My throat feels thick all of a sudden. Earl. I hope he’d be happy.

Emmett leans across the table, as if he’s about to touch my arm, but thinks better of it.

‘I never said…’ He’s looking at me so intently as he speaks. ‘How sorry I am for what happened back then.’

In the background, the pianist continues to play as finally, something is freed within me and the words I’ve been desperate to say come pouring out.

‘No, you shouldn’t be sorry. It’s me, I’m the one who… ruined everything. It was my fault. If it helps, I’ve hated myself ever since.’ It’s the truth.

I mock cheers and have a drink. Emmett looks tense, there’s a stiffness about him, but you’d have to know him well to notice it. It’s in the set of his shoulders, his jaw.

‘It doesn’t help. Luna, we both know that what happened then, it couldn’t have happened any other way. I don’t want… fuck, I didn’t want you to feel like this. I should have reached out, before. I’m an idiot.’

There are a few moments of uncomfortable silence. I’m already tiring, on the food front. I wish I could go back to my body from The Time Before and apologise to all the horrible things I said about myself. Now, I’d give anything to feel properly hungry and strong.

‘Please don’t feel guilty, Luna. You were young, we both were… I can’t bear it,’ he finishes.

He’s right. I felt so old when I was eighteen, but I know now that it’s all relative. Maybe we always feel old because in that moment, we’re always the oldest we’ve ever been. But time marches on, regardless. And what was once the frontier of our experience melts into the past.

So, I thought I was old at eighteen. I thought I was worldly-wise and in love. But now I know that this, now, this is what feeling old is like. Ground down and exhausted. At least I’m not naive anymore. I’m not sure there’s anything worse than ignorant naivety. At least for me.

‘How long are you in Paris for?’ he asks, and I’m jolted out of my trance.

‘Only another day. I’m going back to MAM tomorrow to try and speak to the curator, see if she can tell me anything more about the painting. Then it’s home on Wednesday morning. I run an art therapy session at the hospice on Thursdays.’

I mean, in reality, no one is going to die if I don’t run the class. Well, they might die, but not because of that.

‘So you didn’t give up art entirely.’

‘It’s not quite the same thing. And I haven’t given it up – I’m just on a hiatus.’ A hiatus spanning several years.

‘And why was that?’

‘No real reason. How long are you here for?’ I ask, changing the subject.

‘Until Friday,’ he answers after a drink. Emmett looks like he’s going to say something, but stops himself.

‘That’s a good thing that you do, at the hospice.’

‘I enjoy it,’ I answer honestly.