After five minutes or so of increasingly frantic knocking, and a final exasperated exclamation of “I know you’re in there, old man,” Julian’s neighbor finally gave up. Old man? Really.
Julian’s cottage was more than a home, and certainly more than a financial investment. It was everything. All that he had. It housed all his memories of the past and the only vision he could imagine of the future. Every time Julian looked toward his front door, he could picture himself carrying his new bride over the threshold, heart bursting, convinced that the woman he held in his arms would be all he’d ever need. When he stood at his stove, he could picture Mary in a pinny, hair tied back, stirring a giant pot of her renowned boeuf bourguignon with a ladle. When he sat by the fire, Mary sat on the rug in front of him, knees pulled up to her chest, the sharp bob of her hair falling forward as she read the latest of her romances, borrowed from the local library.
There were the uncomfortable memories too. Mary, crying silent tears, clutching a love letter she’d found pinned to his easel by one of his models. Mary standing at the top of the spiral staircase leading to their bedroom, hurling another woman’s stilettos at his head. Often, when he looked in a mirror, Mary looked back at him, her eyes filled with sadness and disappointment.
Julian didn’t avoid the bad memories. If anything, he encouraged them. They were his penance. And, in a strange way, he found them rather comforting. At least they meant he could still feel. The pain they caused gave him momentary relief, rather like drawing one of his artist’s scalpels across his skin and watching it bleed, which he only did on very bad days. Apart from anything else, his skin took so much longer to heal now.
Julian looked round the walls of his home, almost every inch covered by a jigsaw of framed paintings and sketches. Each one told a story. He could lose himself for hours, just staring at them. He’d think back to conversations he had had with the artist, advice and inspiration shared over carafes of wine. He’d remember how each had come to be here—a birthday gift, as payment for Mary’s endless hospitality, or purchased from a private viewing because he’d particularly admired it. Even their positions on the wall had meaning. Sometimes chronological, while others were thematic—beautiful women, London landmarks, peculiar perspectives, or a particular use of light and shade. How could he possibly move them all? Where else could they go?
It was nearly 5:00 P.M. Julian took a bottle of Bailey’s out of his drinks cupboard and decanted some into a silver hip flask, shrugged on his overcoat, and, once he’d ascertained that the coast was clear of irate neighbors, left for the cemetery.
He spotted that something was different about the Admiral’s grave from some distance away, but it took a while for it to sharpen into focus. It was another letter—black writing on white paper. Were his neighbors leaving notes for him everywhere? Had they been following him? He could feel his irritation building. This was persecution.
As he got closer, he realized that it wasn’t a message from his neighbors at all. It was an advertisement, and he’d seen it before, just that morning. He hadn’t thought much of it then, but now it became clear that it was designed specifically for him.
EIGHT
Monica
By Saturday, Monica was starting to lose faith in her brilliant plan. It had been several days since she’d put the poster up in the café window, but there’d been no sign of Julian. In the meantime, she’d had to politely turn down a whole slew of applicants for the position of art teacher, with ever more ridiculous excuses. Who knew there were so many local artists looking for work? She was also, as an ex-lawyer, painfully aware that she was breaking every employment law going, although part of her rather enjoyed the idea that, for the first time in her life, she was doing something not entirely by the book.
The other problem was that every time someone new walked into the café, Monica found herself wondering if they’d been the one who’d picked up the book she’d left on the empty table in the wine bar and read the horribly embarrassing ramblings of a desperate spinster. Argh. What had she been thinking? If only she could delete it, like a badly judged Facebook post. Authenticity, she decided, was totally overrated.
A woman came up to the counter, holding a tiny baby, not more than three months old, dressed in the most adorable, old-fashioned smocked dress and cardigan. The baby fixed Monica with her big blue eyes, which looked as if they’d only recently learned how to focus. Monica felt her stomach lurch. She recited her mantra silently: I am a strong, independent woman. I do not need you . . . As if the baby could sense her thoughts, she let out a piercing wail, and her face went tight and red, like a human version of the angry-face emoji. Thank you, Monica mouthed at the baby and turned to make the peppermint tea. As she handed over the mug, the door opened, and in walked Julian.
The last time she’d seen him, he’d looked like an eccentric Edwardian gentleman. Monica had assumed that his entire wardrobe was inspired by that era. It appeared not, because today he was dressed in New Romantic style, circa mid-1980s. He wore drainpipe black trousers, suede ankle boots, and a white shirt, with frills. Lots of them. It was the sort of look that would usually be finished off with a generous helping of eyeliner. Monica was relieved to discover that Julian hadn’t taken it that far.
He sat down at the same table in The Library he’d occupied last time. Monica walked over, rather nervously, to take his order. Had he seen her advertisement? Was that why he was here? She glanced over at the café window where she’d posted it. It was gone. She looked again, as if it might have magically reappeared, but no, just a few sticky patches left behind by the Sellotape she’d placed in each corner. She made a mental note to remove the marks with a bit of vinegar.
Well, so much for that plan. Her irritation quite quickly morphed into relief. It had all been a stupid idea anyway. She approached Julian a little more confidently, now that it appeared he’d only dropped in for a coffee.
“What can I get you?” she asked, brightly.
“I’d like a strong black coffee, please,” he replied (no fancy cappucinos for him, she noted) as he unfolded a piece of paper he was holding, smoothed out the creases, and placed it on the table in front of him. It was her advertisement. But not the original, a photocopy. Monica felt herself blushing.
“Am I right in thinking that this was meant for me?” Julian asked.
“Why, are you an artist?” she stammered, like a panelist on Question Time, scrabbling around for the correct answer, not sure whether to tell the truth or to obfuscate.
He held her gaze for a while, a snake hypnotizing a small vole. “I am,” he replied, “which is why I think your advertisement was posted on the wall of the Chelsea Studios where I live. Not one single copy, but three.” He jabbed at the paper on the table, three times in emphasis. “Now, that might have been a coincidence, but yesterday, I went to visit the Admiral in Brompton Cemetery, at my usual time, and there, on his headstone, another copy of your advertisement. So I figured that you must have found my little notebook, and must be talking to me. By the way, I’m not sure about the typeface you used. I’d have stuck with Times New Roman. You can’t go very far wrong with Times New Roman, I find.”