The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Twenty Three

"Have you called Roisin? She know you're coming home?" He says, breaking through the haze.

I shake my head. "Nah, she'll start trying to arrange things. Feel she needs to redecorate the entire house or something. Best to just turn up."

He nods. "So you don't know how she's doing then?"

"I assume she'd have called me if it was really bad," I say, though I'm not convinced it's entirely true. My aunt is a lot like my sister in times of need. A lot like me. A fucking island.

"So what are you going to do now? You're gonna meet with The Collective? Do this video?" He sounds excited again.

"I'll meet them." Really though, I need to take a break before thinking about doing anything else. I've worked solidly for the last three years and I honestly can't be fucked even thinking about doing anything else ever again. But the video might be a good idea. I'm coming round to it. It's different. A challenge. I'd never minded a challenge. "I really need to go over and see Niamh and Rory as well," I add. "But that'll depend on how Roisin is."

Pat nods in agreement before relaxing back in his chair and glancing about the room.

"The vinyl's are getting picked up tomorrow afternoon. I've arranged for the two unsold pieces and the un-exhibited stuff from upstairs to get picked up on Monday. I'll let you know when you need to be at home for it," he says before his eyes turn serious. "I'll call her tomorrow and arrange delivery of it and I'll let you know when it's done." He'll call Eloise. Maybe she won't even want the thing upstairs anymore. Part of me would be heartbroken of course, but part of me would be pleased I'd get to keep it for myself.

"Thanks, mate," I say, averting my eyes to glance around the loft. I'd already detached myself from the place but my eyes linger on the pillar near the kitchen for a moment too long. I'm so sorry. "Yeah, well I probably should head, taxi takes about an hour."

He nods. "Need a hand down?"

I shake my head. "I'll manage." I stand from the table, the effects of my maximum strength Irish coffee washing over me as I do. I zip my passport and phone into the side compartment of my rucksack and hook it over both shoulders, then I hang my headphones around my neck. Pat follows me to the door. "Fuck, here, I almost forgot." I stop walking and reach into the back pocket of my jeans to retrieve the white envelope. "Make sure she gets it will you? Send it with the thing upstairs." I hand it to him.

"What about the outstanding payment?"

As I look at the envelope a weird shiver runs down my spine. "That tells her what to do with the outstanding payment." I'm not sure how she'll take the note now. Didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore really.

He gives me another of his looks of pity before reaching forward to open the door for me.

As I turn back to him to say goodbye he moves forward suddenly and wraps his arm around me, squeezing me tight. He's shorter than me and I almost choke on his hair first before I twist my head out of the way. Pat's not really a cuddler. He's only ever cuddled me once before —the night I won the Morley. He was completely rat-arsed. I must look like I need it if he's doing it now.

"I really am sorry, mate. But you're gonna be fine. Once you're home you're gonna be fine."

"Yeah," I say as I put my arm around him. "I'll be grand. See you in a few weeks. Thanks for doing all this, man." I gesture behind him with a tilt of my head as I step back.

He waves away my thanks. "Just take care of yourself, and Roisin. See you back there. Call you in a day or so."

"Don't forget to give her the envelope," I tell him as I head for the lift.

I've always liked JFK as far as airports go. It's less depressing than the rest of them. Quaint almost, with little pockets of isolated seats where you can sit by yourself and play over your whole life. Where it went wrong, where it went right. When it ended, when it began. I'd be fine like Pat said. Once I got home I'd be fine. This was definitely worse than before. I'd been used to not having her before but this was far far worse. Now I'd actually lost something. Now I knew what it was I didn't have.

She was sorry. Fucking sorry. The most pointless word in the English language. I hate it. People use it to fill silences when they have nothing else to say, or they say it robotically without any feeling behind it whatsoever. The need to hate her washes over me again. Maybe I do hate her. Why don't I know?

I used to think I hated my dad but that wasn't hate either, not really. My feelings for him were something else —more complex. A desperate need for forgiveness probably. An even more desperate need for his love. Maybe that's my problem? Maybe I've always been desperate for people to love me despite making it virtually impossible for them to. Or if they did love me then I'd eventually come to make them regret it. I'd likely have done the same to her. But I'd never fucking know. Because she was sorry.

Leah comes to mind. I'd never dwelled too much on her since we finished. But maybe I should have. Maybe how I handled the women in my life was something I needed to dwell on? Handling them, knowing what they wanted and needed, how to love them and let myself be loved by them. I'd never been fully prepared to give them what they needed and wanted — well, except for Eloise. I'd have given her anything. Everything. And look where that had gotten me.

Leah had taught me one thing about women. They didn't care much for unrequited love. I hadn't spoken to her since the night she told me she loved me. The night she told me she loved me and I told her that that was her problem, not mine. I feel an odd stirring in my gut when I think about seeing her now. It isn't the same stirring that comes from thinking about Eloise —that's more like a sledgehammer to every part of my body —but there's a fondness there. It might be nice to see her again. She'd been prepared to love me, had loved me, despite my being a massive complicated dick, and I'd rejected her. Much like Eloise had done to me three days ago.

I pull out my phone and bring up Leah's number, which I'd saved for reasons unknown. Then I type out a text telling her I'm coming back to London and that I'd call her in a few days to discuss her proposition. Then, being the fucking sadist that I am, I go into my photos. Flicking through around ten, each more painful than the last: her making a stupid face at the camera, her writing as I'd sat beside her, her as she'd fallen asleep on the couch with her book on its side next to her, her covering her eyes when I'd tried to photograph her as soon as she'd woken up. The sledgehammer makes a crunching noise as it hits my chest.

I select them all and hit delete.

Then I regret it immediately. Fuck it, what was one more fucking regret on top of all the others?

I order two double whiskeys from the snooty overdone stewardess and down them both before seconds after we'd got in the air. Then I ball up my pillow, switch on my playlist, and close my eyes so I can sleep the entire 6hrs and 55 minutes home.

My last thought before I close my eyes is that I hate her. My last thought before I lose consciousness is that I love her.

Fuck knows how I'll feel when I wake up.