The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Two

"Let me introduce you to some people, Aidan. I know George Dahmer from The Circle is dying to meet you," Nicole chirps grabbing hold of my arm and pulling me away from her husband. Both her own and Eloise's.

I grunt my thanks at them both and let her pull me across the gallery, past my paintings to where the photos are, and to a small fat guy in a tweed suit, red shirt and green bow-tie. "George, darling," she says interrupting his conversation with another less eccentrically-dressed man. "This is Aidan. Aidan this is George Dahmer, he's the senior art critic with The New York Circle."

I stretch out my hand to him and he switches his champagne to the other and takes my hand, shaking it firmly. I try and offer him a genuine smile. He's important. Could likely make or break me in the city. Except I'm having a hard time caring.  Because all I can think about is that Eloise Airens is here, with her husband.

Well-dressed George chats to me in detail about a couple of my pieces, as well as the Morley and the New York art world in general. How ever-changing it is, how exciting it is when "someone like me bursts onto the scene."

I converse with him in the way I normally do with these people. With self-deprecating humour and very little recognition of my own ability. I tell him like I always do, that winning the Morley prize was as big a shock to me as it was to anyone.  I tell him that I'm mainly using the money from it to chance my luck at selling depressing overrated Northern Irish art to New Yorkers because I have no other discernible talent. This makes him bark a belly laugh that draws the attention of half the gallery.

At every opportunity I turn my head in the direction of the ladies' toilets, waiting for her to come out, desperate to observe her with her husband, desperate for another kick in the fucking balls.

Her being here had to mean something — it had to. I hadn't thought about her properly in so long. I tried not to. There was a time when I literally never stopped. When I almost let thoughts and fantasies and memories of her ruin my life.  I couldn't have been in love with her, but it had felt like love. I'd stared at her for weeks in that class. Memorising every curve of her body, every feature of her face, every freckle and eyelash.

When I turn my head again I see her emerge from the bathroom and hurry across the gallery towards her husband. When she takes his hand and he pulls her into him the tightening in my chest intensifies. It's accompanied this time by a surge of resentment, of anger. I bite the inside of my lip hard as I watch them whisper to each other, the intimacy between them like a torture scene I can't look away from.

I never saw her like this. Natural, her easy fluid grace loud and hypnotising. I saw her poised, posed, and totally closed off. Except once.

The day I saw her reading in a coffee shop had imprinted itself on my brain. I could sketch it from memory it was so clear. Even reading and picking at a chocolate muffin she had more grace and elegance than I'd ever seen on another human.

The cafe is busy. The clinking of crockery and the sound of milk being steamed means I can't concentrate on the article I'm reading, a five-guitar review of some album that was complete pretentious shite.  I close the magazine, roll it up and reach down to shove it into my rucksack.  When I lift my head up, that's when I see her.  She's wearing old fashioned black-rimmed glasses — like maybe they belong to her grandad or dad — and her hair is piled on top of her head but it's her alright. I'd know her anywhere.

She looks almost normal in here. Still beautiful, still leagues above any other girl I'd ever seen, but almost approachable. Almost. I'd never seen her outside of the class. She was just there when we came in and there when we left. It was weird seeing her here. Moving. Breathing. Smiling. She picks off another bit of muffin and slips it into her mouth as she keeps her eyes on the book she's reading, mouth softened into a smile.