Page 7 of The Edge of Always

‘Ask that museum curator, the one from the article. It sounds like she loves Earl’s stuff,’ Mae says eventually. ‘She’s bound to tell you more than some randomer since you’re in it. It’s obvious it’s you.’

And it is obvious that it’s me. My hair is shorter now, but Earl has the colour of it in summer exactly right. Pale red, like the surface of Mars. I’m looking straight ahead in the painting, not smiling; if anything, I’d say that I’m somewhere between sad and resigned in it. My mouth is set, and my eyebrows are straight. It’s a look I often wear now.

‘She might.’

I don’t want to sound miserable; it annoys Mae, and she’s obviously excited about this, so I just let it go. I try to fold some of my stuff before giving in and just ramming it in the case.

‘I bet being in the painting will get me more followers. Even if it isn’t death art.’

I’m trying to smooth the edges of what feels like a frayed conversation and doing as bad a job of that as I am at folding. Mae doesn’t say anything, but she rolls her eyes, and I know exactly what she’s thinking. I’ve listened to her lecture on how I need real human connections too many times not to know what’s going on in that head of hers.

‘You’re the one who wanted me to have a goal,’ I protest.

‘Yeah, but like a real-life one.’

She doesn’t get it. And I’m glad she doesn’t.

My commitment to smoothing edges evaporates, and I snap. ‘Can you please not have a go at me now? You know I can’t handle stress.’

Mae’s shoulders slump but she doesn’t say anything and in return I’m hit with a potent dose of guilt. It’s fine for her, with all of her relentless positivity. She’s the one who gets to step up all the time – she has no idea what it’s like being me. But still, Mae’s the only person who manages to make me feel guilty about my being miserable.

We sort in silence for a few more moments until I give in.

‘Fine, one vibrator,’ I tell her. ‘But I’ll pack it once you’ve left the room.’

She claps her hands together really fast, tension apparently forgotten.

‘You’re going to have the best time.’

We take turns trying to close the small suitcase. Mae has to sit on it to get it to shut.

‘You’re sure that I should go?’ I’m biting my nails again, eyeing my suitcase like it’s harbouring an unexploded bomb. Mae looks right at me. She’s wearing a baggy jumper with a yellow smiley face on it and leopard print leggings, and I’m 100 per cent certain that every single thing she’s wearing is mine.

‘I’m sure. You’re going to Paris, not Jupiter, and you heard what Dr Dave said. You’ve got everything else that you need.’

I nod. The truth of the matter is, deep (deep) down, I think she’s right. It might be self-involved, and it probably is, but it’s been so long since I’ve thought of myself as the main character in my own life that I have no idea what self-involved even feels like anymore. I have self-pity nailed, but, that aside, I think Earl would have wanted me to go. I let him down once; I can’t do it again.

Mae starts to bundle me out of the door – the bus leaves in half an hour.

‘Now your train back is booked for Wednesday,’ she tells me like I’m literally a child. Mae has assumed the role of eldest sibling with ease. I have assumed the role of younger sibling in need of help with… less ease.

‘I know.’

‘Which means you only have two full days to see the sights of Paris.’

‘I know.’

‘You’re sure you don’t need more time? This might be your only chance.’

She means to see the painting, but we both know there’s more to it than that.

‘I have to come back on Wednesday, I’m running Art Therapy at the hospice, remember?’

‘I know, but it’s hardly life or death.’

Mae hugs me so hard it knocks the wind out of me.

‘It’s three days.’