Page 79 of The Edge of Always

I’ve trailed off, so I finish with, ‘Plus, Paris is lovely – who would want to leave?’

He laughs. ‘I have that thought every time I go.’

We finish our breakfast in companionable silence. Emmett watches as I tip my face up to the sun, letting it soak into me.

Time is moving at super speed today, I’m sure. One short second I’m checking out of my hotel and the next we’re being ushered towards The Edge of Always. Mari is meeting us here, and I haven’t even thought of what I’ll say to her. It’s different, being here when it’s empty, when the art, not people, take up all the space.

We sit on the same concrete bench in front of the painting as we did two days ago. How was it only that long? Once again, I’m staring at my own face. Younger, full of life, and I’m thinking how it’ll still be here once I’m gone. I’m immortalised in this painting and yet I’m looking at a person I barely know anymore, though I’m certain that I had no idea who I was then, either. Maybe some people just never know. We remain enigmas, even to ourselves, our whole lives.

‘I had the strangest thought, the first time I saw it,’ I whisper to Emmett. I don’t know why I’m whispering. There’s no one else here.

‘What’s that?’ he asks. He’s so close to me. Too close. It’s throwing out my senses.

Now that I’ve started this conversation, I don’t want to finish it. But I can’t think of anything to say so I just admit, ‘I thought for a short moment that Earl had painted both of us.’

Emmett doesn’t say anything, but he tips his head to the side and studies the piece some more.

‘He definitely did paint you. That much is obvious.’

My face takes up so much of the painting, my hair splayed out around me, caught by the wind I presume.

‘Yes, but look in the right corner. There’s a shadow, some of the colours there are greyer. It felt like you, I don’t know why. It made me think of you.’

Emmett tilts his head. ‘Not so strange, I don’t think. I had the same thought.’

‘You did?’ I’m surprised. I just assumed that I was living in my Emmett-centric world as per. But he nods.

‘What is that Earl used to say? That art is about what you feel, not what you see. Well, I feel longing when I look at that. And love. And wanting things to be different. I’d say that’s a pretty accurate description of how I felt back then.’

Oh.

Emmett is looking right at me, those green eyes, those eyelashes… they’ll be the death of me. I think he’s about to say something more when Mari, the curator, comes bustling into the space.

‘Ah bonjour! Welcome to MAM, though you have been here before, yes?’

I’m being kissed by a tiny French woman and reminded of the last time I saw her. Like two days ago, she has many buttons on her suit jacket, they’re all gold and shiny.

‘Bonjour,’ I say. ‘This is my friend Emmett, he knew Earl when we were younger too.’

Mari looks at Emmett and smiles.

‘Bonjour, madame,’ he says, charming to the last.

‘You are happy with the painting?’ She gestures behind her.

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘it’s brilliant.’ I wish I’d said something more impressive, but I feel self-conscious. Does describing a picture of yourself as gorgeous make you an egomaniac?

‘Luna is an artist too.’

I shoot a look at Emmett. Why is he telling her that? I’m not an artist.

‘C’est fantastique. Tell me, what do you paint?’

I can’t very well accuse Emmett of lying, so I’m forced to answer in the present tense.

‘Er, anatomical drawings. Hearts especially.’

‘Ah, I see. They are very technical, are they not?’