Page 50 of Never Too Late
‘Clearly he knows the history you have with Paris.’
‘He does.’
‘I’m a little surprised he spoke to me at all then.’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll bitch about you later.’
His laugh was as warm as I’d remembered, wrapping around me as we huddled close under the umbrella.
‘It was all a long time ago, Tomas. We’ve all grown and had lives since then.’ It was easier to say the words walking along, not looking at him. It made it easier to avoid thinking what might have been. ‘Now I’m here, though, I realise I should have come back to Paris a long time ago but at least now I get to share it with my daughter.’
‘Then I hope she loves it as much as her mother.’
‘Me too.’
‘The gallery is just here.’ He pointed to the next window front along, slowing as we approached. I stepped away and looked at the single large painting displayed in the window. Tomas followed, keeping the umbrella above me.
I’d have known that scene anywhere. The sparkling blue of the lake, the deep, rolling green of the trees behind and to the right, rows and rows of deep purple lavender that when you got close would be alive and humming with the sound and movement of thousands of bees.
‘It’s beautiful.’ I turned to look at him. ‘Sorry. That’s probably a very banal description of your art.’
‘I prefer that you use the words that first come to mind when you think of it.’ He paused, both of us looking at the painting. ‘You remember?’
‘Yes, Tomas,’ I replied, my eyes remaining on the image in front of me. ‘I remember.’ I could hear the tension in my tone. Looking at the painting, I could feel the breeze on my skin, smell the heady scent of lavender in the air and remember the mixture of nerves and thrill that had raced through my body on that day. The fact that Tomas thought I’d ever forget the place I’d lost my virginity to him sparked a flash of anger in me. I squashed it back down and gave myself a mental kick. What did any of it matter now?
‘I apologise.’
‘Don’t be silly. I shouldn’t have snapped,’ I replied, pasting on a smile. ‘I’d blame it on jet lag but I don’t think a few hours on the Eurostar qualifies.’
Tomas flicked his own brief smile back. ‘Shall we go in?’
The gallery was sparse-looking. Plain, white walls that wouldn’t compete with the art, a couple of uncomfortable-looking but likely extremely expensive chairs were placed opposite a marble-topped desk with gold hairpin legs. Lights were artfully installed in order to highlight the pieces to their best advantage.
‘It doesn’t open until next week. There’s still a little tweaking to do with the set-up.’
I looked around, my mind tumbling back to halcyon days when we’d jump on a train to somewhere and spend the day together in quiet company, Tomas transferring the scene in front of us to a canvas balanced on a homemade easel he’d knocked up from some bits of wood he’d found in a skip we’d passed on the way back from a bar one night. I’d sit or lie beside him, reading, doing coursework or just dozing in the warmth of the sun. How simple those days had been. No Internet to drag me down rabbit holes, no social media to doom scroll as I sat beside him. Just us and nature and paint.
‘Do you want to just look around? I can wait over here.’ He pointed towards one of the uncomfortable-looking chairs.
‘Would you show me?’
His shoulders relaxed a little and his face creased into that beautiful smile once more.
‘I’d love to.’
We moved to the first painting. The warm cream walls of the Palais du Luxembourg resting stately in the background, its neutral walls acting as the perfect foil for its gardens where fiery accents of brilliant oranges and warm, rusty reds contrasted with swathes of cornflower blue, the colour of summer. I could practically feel the sun as it warmed the stone of the building and the bare shoulders of the woman in the white sundress, bending to smell those same flowers.
Next was a riot of colour in the Parc Floral de Paris. We had loved spending days there, the colours changing with the seasons.
‘I can smell the flowers.’ I turned to him and found his eyes on me. ‘You always loved painting there.’
He nodded in agreement. ‘Like many gardens, there is always something new to see, to paint. I love their everchanging nature.’
‘Sasha told me they host jazz festivals there now.’
‘That’s right. Do you like jazz? I didn’t think you did but… it’s been a long time.’
‘It has. And no,’ I screwed up my nose, ‘not really. I mean some is OK but the freeform, to me at least, still sounds like a lot of notes just thrown in and left to get on with it.’
