go to seek comfort. They never fail to make me feel better. They’ve never let me down yet. Right now I need them more than ever.
Seeking solace, I walk, as�€ce, I wal«€ as�€ce, if on autopilot, in through the doors, eager to immerse myself in the art. To lose myself and block out everything else. Only today the paintings don’t make me feel better; the sculptures don’t lift my spirits; even Rothko’s Four Shades of Red doesn’t work its usual magic.
Unknown
I think back to the last time I was at a gallery. It was...
I leave when the gallery closes. It’s early evening, the clear sky is now a purplish bruise, and for the first time I can feel summer nudging into autumn. As if while I was inside the gallery there was a shift, a change, a coming to an end. I set off walking. My feet are sore and I’m not sure exactly where the subway station is, but somehow the feeling of being lost suits my mood.
I’ll just keep walking until I come across one, I decide, zigzagging blocks, meandering past the park.
Until before you know it I’m in the Village and the streets are lined with busy restaurants and bars, and people are milling around outside on the pavement, smoking cigarettes and chattering, their voices filling the evening air. I keep walking, absently catching snippets of conversation, until all at once I stumble across another gallery.
I slow down. Sounds of glasses clinking, the hum of conversation, wafts of perfume and aftershave float towards me. Outside the gallery are gathered a small crowd of people.
For a moment my heart races. It’s a gallery opening. Maybe Adam is here.
With my breath held tight in anticipation, I glance around, my eyes skimming the crowd.
Then I see a figure. He has his back turned to me, but he’s wearing a T-shirt, baggy jeans, and he’s got dark, floppy hair . . . My heart races. It’s him. It’s Adam.
It’s like a shot of adrenaline. A jumble of thoughts shoots through my brain as I step towards him: relief, apprehension, hope, fear.
‘Adam.’ I hear an urgent voice say his name and suddenly realise it’s me. ‘I need to explain.’
He stops talking and turns round.
Only it’s not him. It’s a stranger with a passing resemblance to him. He looks at me questioningly.
‘Oh.’ I feel a crash of disappointment. ‘I thougŠ€ent. ‘I t«€ugŠ€entht you were someone else.’
‘Who would you like me to be?’ he jokes good-naturedly, and his friend laughs.
I try to smile, but my face won’t quite do it. Abruptly I feel tears prickling. ‘I’m sorry. I made a mistake,’ I stammer, and turn away sharply.
If only I could say that to Adam. But I’ll probably never get the chance, I realise, with a heavy clunk of dismay. There are over eight million people living in New York – what’s the likelihood of ever seeing him again?
And fighting back tears, I hurry away.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I arrive back late to the apartment with a giant bag of Kettle Chips and a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Usually they’re my fail-safe, cheer-up, get-out-of-a-crap-mood card, but tonight not even New York Cheddar Cheese can make me feel better, I reflect, letting myself into the kitchen and putting the half-eaten packet on the table.
Maybe the wine will do better.
I screw open the top. I once read an article about why winemakers have started using screw-tops in the twenty-first century. It said something about being a better way of sealing the wine, as corks can go mouldy, apparently. Personally, I think that’s a load of rubbish. Screw-tops are in demand because of all the heartbroken single girls who need to get the wine faster.
Pouring a glass, I glug half of it back, then pick up my discarded Kettle Chips in a resigned ‘OK, let’s try again stance,’ like a weary couple giving things another shot, pad into the living room and flick on the light.
‘Aaarrgh.’
I hear a strangled yelp and spot a couple lying entwined on the sofa. At exactly the same time they see me and spring apart in a flurry of adjusting bra straps, fiddling with belts and hastily brushing down hair.
‘Oh, er, hi, Lucy,’ murmurs Robyn. Face flushed, she smoothes her dress. ‘I didn’t think you’d be back so early.’
‘Um, no, I guess not,’ I say, frozen in the doorway. Now I know how my dad must have felt when he blundered in on me and Stuart Yates in the conservatory when we were fifteen.
‘You’ve met Daniel