The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Twenty Three

Pat nods and walks closer to it, inspecting the pictures, lingering far too long on the two from the lake. When I'd cropped them I'd made sure nothing of importance was showing, but the way he's gawking at her still makes me uncomfortable.

"When's your flight?" He asks.

"What time's it now?"

He glances at his watch. "Half eight,"

"Five hours." I scrub a hand over my hair and face. "I need to pack." I should also shower. I hadn't bothered since I got back but since I'd be sitting next to some poor cunt for seven hours I should probably do the decent thing.

I leave him perving over Eloise and take my coffee downstairs where I top it up with the bottle of Jameson's sitting on the dining table. Pat buys Jameson as a way of trying to refine my palate with what he considered a superior Irish whiskey. Him being English means he's convinced his taste is better in most things than mine. Even Irish whiskey. What Pat didn't realise was that my taste and preference for the shit stuff had come because it was all my dad could afford. He made do.

I weave my way around the boxes holding vinyl records as I slurp at my 'coffee'. He'd started packing them for me about an hour after I got back on Tuesday night. He hadn't gone back to his shithole across town and I hadn't asked him to. He'd taken one look at my face when I'd walked through the door, nodded and left me to it. Then he'd started making calls and cancelling appointments he'd set up for me since it was now clear I wasn't staying on.

Apparently, my 'redefinition' was written all over my fucking face.

There'd been a few more interviews he'd had to cancel too, which on a normal day I'd have killed him for even arranging. I couldn't care less anymore. To be honest, I was having a hard time giving a fuck about anything so it was all relative. He'd also gotten an email from some band who wanted me to do a music video for them. A band I'd photographed once for The LMC in Camden about four years ago in fact. He was practically jumping up and down with excitement as he told me. 

Partially as he was really into them, but also as he hadn't quite grasped the fact that my only interest was finishing Eloise's piece and sleeping for a month. Or forever. The look of disappointment on his face when I'd told him to tell them I wasn't interested was almost enough to make me reconsider. He did what I asked though. TheN they'd come back with a better offer and said the words 'we don't want to talk to anyone else' so I actually had reconsidered.

I'd also been too exhausted to argue with Pat anymore on the merits of whether to do it. I'd meet them when I got back to London and figure it out from there. I guess it would be something I could lose myself in for a while. Presuming I could stay sober long enough.

When I'd heard him apologise to Nicole Weston I'd felt embarrassed, a weird feeling of revulsion rolling over me. Alford had looked revolted too when I'd accused him of fucking her. So Sasha's info had been inaccurate. Course it had. Just one more 'Fuck you Foley' from the universe.

From the doorway of the bedroom I stare at the bed I hadn't slept in since I got home. I see her there, smiling at me, beckoning me forward as she pulls the sheet down away from her body. I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose hard to try and dispel the image. Part of me wants this place to stay here exactly as it is in memory of what happened.

The other stronger, louder, part of me wants to leave it now and never step foot inside it again. Or better yet, destroy it with my bare hands. Then I could properly go back to where I belonged. Where the world fucked me over and I could be angry about it.