Page 45 of Built to Last
“Do you need a hand with anything? I’m not an amazing cook, but I promise I don’t burn water,” I offer.
She chuckles before replying, “If you wouldn’t mind setting the table that would be lovely.”
“No problem,” I say just as the bell rings.
“Phillip, would you get the door please?”
While I lay out cutlery on the dining table, a beautiful piece that I suspect is Phillips’ handiwork, I watch through the window as Phillip steps out into the back garden with another man and a young boy. That must be his brother and nephew. They’re soon joined by a dark-haired giant of a man who can only be Phillip and Eric’s dad. A patio occupies the third of the garden closest to the house, shielded by a large covering that allows the adults to take shelter from the storm. Unbothered by the downpour, Toby zooms around the grassy area of the large back garden decked out in a long waterproof coat and wellies. It’s not hard to imagine Phillip doing the same when he was that age.
From everything he’s shared, it sounds like Phillip had a wonderful time growing up here and it’s not hard to see why. The house is warm and welcoming, just like his mother, Patricia, who immediately insisted I call her Trish instead of Mrs Blackwell. They have an open plan kitchen and dining room spanning the back of the house and I look over to see her smiling, eyes shiningwith love as she watches her family out of the kitchen window while stirring something on the hob. I’ve only been here for a few minutes, but this house feels like a proper family home, and gratitude swells in my chest that I’ve been invited to be a part of it, even just for one meal.
The bell rings again and my brow furrows in confusion. Phillip didn’t mention anyone else would be joining us today.
“Would you mind keeping an eye on the sauce for a minute while I get the door?”
“No problem,” I reply, accepting the wooden spoon Mrs Blackwell,Trish, is holding out to me.
Moments later, a smartly-dressed man joins the others out in the garden. Unlike Phillip and Eric this man doesn’t bear any resemblance to either Mr or Mrs Blackwell. Maybe he’s a cousin? His copper hair is long enough to brush his sharp jawline, the angles of which are only enhanced by his close-cropped beard. Neither Phillip nor Eric appears pleased to see him and I can’t help but wonder what the story is there. While Eric looks pissed off the man is here, Phillip looks almost panicked, moving to approach the latest arrival but getting waylaid by an enthusiastic Toby tugging at his sleeve for attention.
“Thank you, Rose,” Trish says as she comes back into the kitchen. “Would you mind calling everyone in? I asked Blake to let them know lunch was ready but I can see he’s caught up chatting to Martin.” Another glance out the window does indeed show her husband and the man who is apparently Phillip’s best friend deep in conversation.
“Of course.” I smile, handing her back control of the wooden spoon and finding my way through the utility room to the back door.
“Lunch is ready,” I announce somewhat tentatively, feeling awkward about summoning a group of people I don’t know. Once again Phillip tries to catch Blake’s attention, dartingpanicked looks between his friend and me, but Blake doesn’t notice. An uneasy feeling creeps over me but it’s probably nothing. It’s obvious Phillip didn’t know Blake was coming or he would have mentioned it. He probably just wants to make sure his friend doesn’t tell me any embarrassing stories or something.
Lunch itself is delicious and the conversation never stops flowing as Eric and Phillip share stories about the things they got up to as young boys. Trish asks me more about my artwork and his dad and I talk about the project Phillip and I are working on. Upon discovering I’m an artist, Toby proudly tells me he does painting at school making the adults chuckle while Eric smiles down at his son fondly.
“So, Rose, what do I have to do to convince you to do my friend Kimaya’s gallery show?” Blake asks. I almost choke rushing to swallow a mouthful of the most delicious apple crumble I’ve ever eaten.
“What?” I ask, sure I must have misheard. Wejustmet. He’s never even seen my work.
“From what I’ve seen online your work would be the perfect addition to her show, but if you don’t confirm soon she might find someone else. Itisa Kimaya Chatterjee show after all.” Blake looks at me expectantly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and suddenly the crumble turns to lead in my stomach.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. YouknowKimaya Chatterjee?” She’shugein the art world and known for putting together gallery shows that catapult the careers of up-and-coming artists to the next level.
“Phillip didn’t tell you?” Blake looks between his friend and me, confusion tugging down his brows.
“Tell me what?” The rest of the table has gone quiet, all eyes on the two of us, and an awful squeezing sensation in my chest is making it hard to breathe.
“Really? You told me you would ask her over a week ago,” Blake admonishes Phillip. Ask me what? The cardigan I put on earlier suddenly feels suffocatingly hot and I shift uncomfortably, looking between the two men and trying desperately to figure out what the hell is going on. “Kimaya and I were having lunch—right now she happens to be guest lecturing at Riverbend University where I work, anyway, that’s when she mentioned an artist had dropped out of her next show. When Phillip showed me your work, I wanted to put your name forward as a replacement.”
Blinking rapidly in a losing battle against the stinging sensation behind my eyes I look over at Phillip, hoping there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. Surely, after everything, he wouldn’t go behind my back like this? But one look at the colour draining from his face and I know.
“Would you excuse us for a moment?” I choke out the words, already standing. I need to get out of here but first I need to know why. Why would Phillip do this? He’s known about the show for at least a week from the sound of it. Was he just waiting for the right time to push me into doing it? Or was he never going to tell me, keeping my list of achievements small so I’d feel all the more grateful for his attention and support? My thoughts ping-pong back and forth as we move away from the table.
By the time Phillip and I reach the hallway a vermillion haze of rage has descended over me and my hands shake with the force of my anger.
“When were you going to tell me?Wereyou going to tell me?” I ask, my voice sharp like the cool steel of a deadly blade.
“Of course I was but?—”
“But what?” I hiss. He at least has the grace to look ashamed when I pin him with my glare.
“It just never seemed like the right time. You’re so sensitive about your painting and then you were ill?—”
“So this ismyfault? Are you seriously blaming my chronic illness right now?” I ask incredulously.
“No, of course not.” His expression turns pleading. “That’s not what I… I just mean I kept making plans to tell you but something always got in the way.”
