True to his word, Spencer arrives half an hour later with two indistinct tickets and a smile so wide I'm certain I'd be able to see it from the moon. He slips the tickets into his back pocket before I get a chance to look at them and throws his arm around me, steering me towards the little green gate at the end of the front garden.
"Where are we going?" I ask as he threads his fingers through mine.
"That's for me to know and you to find out my little Lizzie-bear."
Lizzie-bear.
He hasn't called me that in months.
I used to hate it. Found it patronising and squeamishly sweet. I used to beg him to call me something else. Anything will do, I would say when he asked for alternatives. But Lizzie-bear stuck until one day it didn't.
I don't want to try and match its demise to a point in our messy relationship timeline. I don't want to wonder if he stopped because of someone else. Someone like Penelope. After all, if I want this to work, like really work, it has to be a clean slate. I can't hold things against him, not when I've said all is forgiven.
So I guess I'm Lizzie-bear again. And you know what, I'm happy about. Ecstatic even. For as long as I'm Lizzie-bear, we're okay.
"So, Spence." I squeeze his hand and stare up at him.
He smiles. It's his happy smile, content and picture-perfect, dazzling like a winking star. I drink it in, a smile of my own unfurling as I bathe in his happiness. He captures my smile the moment he presses his mouth to mine, and for a moment, I forget my own name.
Cheesy, I know, but depressingly true.
"What were you saying?" he asks, his front two teeth sinking into his rosebud lips.
"I...I..."
"Come on," he teases as he throws an arm around me and tugs me into his side. "You remember."
"Stop it." I elbow him, and he doubles over.
"Lizzie-bear," he says, faux horror twisting his features into a rather constipated expression. "You winded me."
"You deserve it, dazzling me like that."
"I dazzle you?"
"Every day."
He grins, forcing me to take a large gulp of air, and brushes his lips against my nose. "You dazzle me too."
"Anyway." I roll my eyes and push aside the giddy feeling that flutters through me. "I was going to ask what you're doing this Thursday."
"I have nothing planned. But my parents are going to be away till Sunday evening." His fingers trail up my arm, dance across my neck and tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "You could tell your parents you're staying with Jess. We'd have the whole house to ourselves."
"As tempting as that sounds," I laugh, "I thought we'd go to a party."
"Nobody's throwing a party this Thursday."
"Nobody you know."
"Who do you know that I don't?" His smile lines deepen, and he bumps his hip against mine.
"Just a girl I met on holiday," I say. "She and her friend are throwing a party, and they invited us."
"A girl you met on holiday?" Suddenly he's not smiling.
"She's kinda, sorta dating Henry. But she's good fun, and I think we could have a good time."
"So, does that mean you'll finally tell me what went down on this little holiday of yours?"
"My little holiday?" I try to smother the accusation that drips through his voice under an unassuming smile.
"Come on, Lizzie."
So I'm Lizzie again.
"Nothing happened if that's what you're asking," I mutter, glaring at the cracks in the pavement.
"It's just that you sure as hell seemed to meet a lot of people, people that want to hang around."
"What's this about?" I sigh, pressing myself into his body.
"Nothing...just forget I said anything."
The temptation to push flickers just as brightly as my desire to forget. Thankfully, the latter wins out, and I bring his hand to my lips and kiss his knuckles. "Consider it forgotten," I say.
"Now come on." He picks up the pace and steers me towards the station. "If we're any slower, we'll be late."
I hate the tube, especially in the summer. It's hot at the best of times, but there's something about the sweltering air that becomes unimaginably unbearable between June and September.
Spencer and I squash onto the first available carriage nonetheless. I swallow a mouthful of sticky air and a frown along with it. Spencer's hand finds mine as I grip onto the slick red pole, and he presses a wet kiss onto my collarbone. An older woman across the aisle rolls her eyes. I return the favour and watch as her thin lips pull down into a cold sneer. The tube doors stagger shut, and the train jerks forward. The woman stumbles, half falling into the lap of another passenger, before righting herself and grabbing ahold of the first available pole.
"Serves her right," Spencer whispers, his voice just loud enough to contend with the roar of the tunnels.
I turn around and wrap my free hand around his neck. He lowers his head until his ear is millimetres away from my lips.
For a second, I consider giving the woman a real show. I'm sure she'd turn five shades of red—or is it fifty shades of grey? All it would take is a very obvious lick, a quick nibble and a kiss.
No.
No, no, no.
I'm not going to become an exhibitionist at eighteen. Mum might just kill me.
"Don't be mean," I say instead, my lips brushing against his sweaty skin.
"Me? Mean?"
"Yes," I laugh, burrowing my face into his neck. "You, mean."
"You wound me?"
"Happy to be of service."
Eventually, Spencer twirls me around and hurries me off the carriage and onto the busy platform. We slip through the crowd, my hand wrapped firmly in his, and follow the streams of people onto the escalators. His arms encircle my waist, and I lean against his chest until his arms drop and my hand is in his again.
"So?" I grin as we hurtle out of the stuffy station. "Where are you taking me?"
"An exhibition."
"What kind?"
"Does it matter?"
"No, I guess not. But I do rather like to know what I'm getting myself into."
He purses his lips, a silent war raging across his face, and then sighs. "It's abstract, I think," he says, the words rushed and uncertain. "But I'm not telling you any more than that."
"I love abstract art."
"You do?"
"Of course. If I could do it, I would, but my brain just isn't wired that way."
It's not wired any sort of way at the moment, but then nobody needs to know that.
"What do you mean it's not wired that way?" he asks.
"Think of it like a radio," I say, watching as he nods slowly. "I'm on FM, and they're on AM. I see the world for what it is; they see it for what it could be."
"It can't be that simple."
"No, obviously not. Art is subjective and stuff. But they're way more imaginative than me."
"Do you want to know what I think?" he asks, brushing his nose against my temple. I only nod. "I think you're selling yourself short."
"Of course you'd say that."
"I'm serious, Lizzie. I've seen what you can do, it's amazing. As amazing and imaginative as a piece of abstract art. You've got to start believing in yourself. I certainly do."
My cheeks heat up until I feel like I might just burst, shooting entrails out onto the street around us.
These are the moments I live for, the reason I took him back. When he's nothing but kind, sweet and compassionate. When he's my perfect piece, and all there is, is us.
"Thank you," I whisper as I peek up at him from beneath my lashes. "I kinda needed to hear that."
"I know," he smiles, pulling me closer. "I always know."
The gallery isn't so much a gallery as it is a multipurpose space, with small windows that run across the top of the high ceilings, bare walls in concrete tones and blinding spotlights. It's a blank canvas, leaving the art to guide you through a story. Not that I'm too certain what that story is.
"It's a scathing critique of consumerism," an attendant whispers as she scans our tickets.
"Consumerism?"
She quirks a small smile and pretends to inspect the tickets. "The artist, Elliot Duke, is supposed to be like Nick, you know, from The Great Gatsby."
"And who are we?"
She shrugs. "He hasn't said."
"Is he here?"
"Probably. He comes most nights. Honestly, between you and me, I think he's a little."
Another attendant coughs.
"Anyway," she says, her voice loud and clear, "I hope you enjoy the show."
"I'm sure we will."
Spencer leads me further into the exhibit, stopping at the first framed piece hanging from the wall. I sneak a peek over my shoulder and cast a glance across the rest of the exhibition. The body of work is a mix of multimedia pieces and towering sculptures, nowhere near the abstract pitch Spencer sold me. Most pieces seem to utilise everyday objects contorted into striking figures with bold splashes of colour and withering comments.
But I'm not here for the art.
At any show, the beauty isn't in the pieces plastered to the wall or, in this case, soaring above, but in the patrons. In the way they move, self-conscious and small. In their stare, which is both parts mystified and scrutinising. It lies in the brave ones who make whispered comments, a wavering full stop following their proclamations, and the aficionado's who ditch all forms of polite pretence in favour of brutal honesty.
I'm no aficionado, and Spencer, surprisingly, isn't brave, leaving us to blend in with the rest of the interested masses who mill around the grey space. That is until we reach the focal point of the room.
It's a gargantuan mass of silver fashioned into the female form. She has pert breasts that point angrily and narrow hips. Strong arms, with a soft curve and delicate hands. From the ground up, you can't help but marvel at her height, but she's not made to be seen from the ground up.
I turn, catching the polished edges of wrought iron steps, and tug Spencer towards them. We spill out onto a protruding mezzanine. It's relatively empty, with small groups leaning against the railing, staring appreciatively at the art hanging on the walls. I scurry past, whispered apologies floating in my wake, and stop only when I'm face to face with the sculpture.
Her eyes glint, emerald green, sending fractured beams of light spinning into the still air like a beacon.
A beacon.
"She's Daisy," I whisper.
"What did you say?" A young-ish man with an impressive moustache and silk shirt whips around to face me.
"She's...she's Daisy."
"How do you know?"
"The eyes."
The plump corners of his mouth curl into a broad grin that seems to cause Spencer's hand to tighten around mine.
"I'm Elliot." The stranger offers me his hand. "Elliot Duke."
"The artist."
"The one and only."
I yank my hand out of Spencer's and press it into Elliot's. His grip is soft, considered, the delicacy offset by the calloused pads across his palms. They drift against my own, and his smile widens.
"You're an artist too," he says, laughing slightly as he releases me.
"Yes," I stutter, "well no. But, kind of." I take a deep breath, allowing the hollow air to flow through me, and introduce myself.
"Elizabeth." My name doesn't sound like my own. It's too expensive, like a treasured heirloom caressed by a velvet plume. It makes me giggle, his smile growing still.
"Yes." I nod, my head rolling forward. "Elizabeth."
"Timeless."
"Like your art."
He turns to the sculpture and offers a full-bodied shrug that starts with the careless loll of his head and ends as he shifts his weight, falling almost onto the railing. "The critics certainly don't think so. They say think the installation is self-serving."
"Isn't that the purpose of art?"
He laughs. "Apparently not when you make it for the masses."
"The pieces aren't for sale?"
He shakes his head. "Unfortunately not. Simply for their enjoyment."
"I enjoy it. Enjoy this." I point to his Daisy, to her emerald eyes and cold sneer. "She's beautiful. Frighting, but beautiful."
"Aren't all Daisy's," he laughs.
"Who is yours?"
He smiles sadly. "You really are perceptive."
"I'm an artist." I wink. "It's my job."
He closes his eyes and shakes his head. Like the shrug, it trickles through his slight figure, the action itself as beautiful as the sculpture. "His name's Milo," he says as he fixes his piercing blue eyes on me. "And, like all Gatsby's, I failed to realise just how vapid he was until he killed me."
"You think Daisy's vapid?"
"Don't you?"
"Careless, yes, but not vapid."
"Aren't they one and the same?"
Any retort, conscious or otherwise, flutters away, and I return my gaze to his Daisy. One arm hangs loosely by her side while the other beacons me forward, the display both part seductive and impersonal. Her posture is regular, her features too. She's well proportioned, with renaissance beauty, but it's her eyes, unnatural and rich, that show her truth, and suddenly Daisy, the real Daisy, is minuscule. Nothing but a pair of gems embedded in a manufactured carcass.
"Anyway." Elliot straightens up, his smile bright and encouraging. "I won't keep you any longer. Your Daisy is waiting."
In my excitement, I'd forgotten all about Spencer.
Elliot slinks off, hurrying down the industrial staircase, and Spencer takes a slow, tentative step towards me. I wrap my arm around his waist once he's close enough and bury my face into his chest.
"Let's go," I whisper.
He kisses my forehead before steering me towards the exit.
I catch Elliot's eye as we leave. He winks.
He's not Nick; he's Gatsby. That is, Gatsby if Gatsby survived. If he saw through the mystery, the opulence, the allure. Gatsby if he'd understood himself and, in turn, those who surrounded him.
It's also not about consumerism. It's about us, the human condition. It's our worst traits laid out.
But if Spencer's my Daisy, is he destined to kill me?
And if I'm Gatsby, am I destined to let him?
***
Do you think Lizzie is regretting her choice?
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