The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Twelve

'd memorised her.

She was the most ingrained memory I had. The only one I thought about in order to remember it. All the others I avoided because I wanted to forget them. That's what I should have told her. So why hadn't I? Because I was a coward. Because I was afraid of her reaction. Which would be what exactly? The romantic dreamy reaction I'd always hoped for only happened in films, and if we were in a film I'd have found her down here on the street and we'd have kissed in the rain before going upstairs to have sex to some shitty R&B song. I hated R&B.

"You look like a fucking homeless person." Pat's voice cuts through the vomit-inducing R&B soundtrack playing through my head. I brush a hand through my damp hair and stand. "Why don't you have shoes on? Are you pissed?" He cocks his head to the side, studying me.

"I wish. But I'll be making it a bloody priority as soon as I get upstairs," I glower.

He nods. "And why aren't you upstairs right now though? Why are you sitting in the rain?"

"For the fucking thrill of it, Pat, why the fuck do you think? Cause I locked myself out, and cause apparently no one else lives in this fucking building but me. Or if they do they don't leave and enter it by the front door."

He nods, reaching into his jacket pocket to pull out a set of copper and silver keys which I grab from him and open the door with. I decide to take the stairs back up and Pat follows me, huffing and panting all the way up. Pat's a lot smaller than me, so in theory, it should be a lot easier for him to carry himself up three flights of stairs. Makes me think that what he's probably doing is trying to advertise the fact that he's pissed at having made the pointless journey of coming all the way over here and not finding me dead. The door to the loft is still wide open, though a cursory glance around tells me I haven't been burgled. I'm sure if I had then they'd have come out through the front door to let me in on their way out. My vinyl, camera and laptop - the only things I really give a shit about - are all in exactly the same place.

Pat shuts the door and takes off his black waterproof, shaking it out by the door before hanging it up on the spot where my jacket normally hung. The one Eloise was now wearing. I grab the bottle of Bushmills I left out after making the hot whiskeys, as well as two glasses from the cupboard above my head and walk over to the couch. Eloise's dent on the soft grey cushion is still visible and I sit down on it as Pat comes to sit across from me on the couch to my right.

"So... the photos from Descript got emailed over yesterday - I need to get back to her today. So you need to decide today. I have them on my phone if you want a look?" I draw him a glare as I open the bottle, pouring us two generous sized glasses. "I'll take that as a not right now thanks Pat then," he says with an eye roll, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

I slide his glass over to him before lifting my own and slouching back in the couch, resting my head back on the soft frame. The whisky is hot, smooth and gratifying as it goes down my throat.

"So, how's Eloise's piece going?" He asks as he reaches for the glass.

I feel my face contort. "Eloise's piece? Since when do you know her as Eloise?"

He shrugs. "Since we had coffee and got to know each other,"

I feel my fist curl around the glass. "What you on about? When?" I glower.

"I told you. Saturday. I met her to discuss the advance." Bullshit. He never told me he met her. Eloise also hadn't mentioned it earlier. Why did the idea of her spending time with him piss me off so much?

"You said you spoke to her. You never told me you met her?"

"Didn't I?" He shrugs again which enrages me further. "Calm down man, Jesus Christ. No need to give me the death glare. We met for coffee, talked mainly about you. I'm not looking to get into her married knickers for fuck sake. That's your thing," he smirks. I feel like he has something of mine. He spent time with her. Time I no longer had with her.