DISCLAIMER: Some of the characters in this original work of fiction have been created by and belong to the author Keiko Nagita.
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Four weeks...four weeks and he can walk with a stick. Four weeks and he'll be on that damn liner. The wait was killing him. Four weeks felt longer than ten years. He couldn't concentrate, not to even boil a three-minute egg. Eleonor had specifically barred him from the kitchen unless he wanted to drink water. He was a danger to himself and the others with that gas stove. Could not read. His eyes rested so long on the page, they could have drilled a hole in it. In the end, he was reduced to chain smoking while staring at the open ocean in front of him. Where his eyes could not reach. Alternating between day dreaming and nightmares. At the same time, he never felt more alive. Was constantly standing on a knife's edge balancing his emotions while his senses were on high alert and his heart pumped ever more strong to the passing of each day...four more weeks, he sighed.
15th of June 1925
Whitechapel Gallery
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There was something about standing alone in big empty spaces that made her want to self reflect. Everything felt enhanced. The sound of her steps on the wooden floor, the light draft of air cooling her skin, her relaxed breathing when everything else was still around her. The experience was almost meditating. If this big whitewashed room when entering the Whitechapel gallery was her life, and the paintings around her, her life's memories, would she be happy where she stood right now? Hand to heart, despite the pain and the heartaches, she could not dismiss the blessings she had also felt lucky to receive.
She turned around the room, the paintings of her lover surrounding her. On the walls of this nave-like room with its trabeated ceiling, between older paintings Christian had made and various other portraits, there were also paintings which Candy recognised. They were like a visual chronicle of their relationship. Stills of her memories of her life with him.
There were the Grantchester fields, looking serene and sublime, within the haze of a golden sun. And chimneys of London roofs in the sunset. With long drawn shadows, painted by his hand after they had made love one warm afternoon in early May. The bouquet of red camellias she has brought over to his apartment one April morning. She had surprised him with an unplanned visit, wanting to bring some order to his domestic chaos. Much to his amused surprise, she had marched in with the bouquet in her hands. She had instructed him to find her a vase, but they had ended up in one of those big glass jars he used to keep for his brushes. They looked beautiful. She had made coffee for the both of them. He laughed with her bossiness. She had pulled her tongue out, wrinkling her nose. But her plan to organise the main area of his apartment had fell short. Half way while washing his dishes, his arms had slid around her waist and her body glued onto his. His thighs rubbing on her glutes. The smell of him came to mind. Soap, tobacco, turpentine and spike lavender oil. She felt the fine hairs on her arms raising.
