Page 22 of In the Frame

“The failed artist thing, yeah. Sort of.”

Noah holds his hands up in surrender. “Just think about it, okay? And I’m getting the next round since you’re skint.” He cuts off my protest with a hand. “You can pay me back some other time when you’re more settled. And I’m getting a food menu so we can eat, and don’t protest that either.”

“Thanks,” I tell him, watching him head off with purpose to the bar. The unsettled feeling’s returned as I think about Florian and what Noah’s said. And I can’t forget that hurt expression on Florian’s face when I accused him of being unfeeling, as I shift in my chair, heavy-hearted. And Noah’s right—I need to apologize to Florian at the very least.

Chapter Eleven

With Noah, we head over to the Rose & Crown Gallery, a former pub converted into a gallery and art studios in the old snugs. The Rose is an old two-story building situated on a corner. It still has the original Rose & Crown in gold letters on the side of the building over the windows. The artists chip in to a pool for the hanging baskets and second-floor window boxes with trailing flowers and vines. Lenny, the owner, in turn waters them. Tourists and locals stop into the gallery, have a cup of tea, and talk to the artists. It’s been a real community hub for years.

The Rose & Crown is where some of my friends have been showing their work in Brighton, and it’s helped launch their art careers. It’s a co-op gallery, and it’s cool they get a hand in what’s shown as an art collective, as well as exhibitions of their own work. Our friends Paul and Caden graduated last year with Noah, and they’ve been showing their work there for about a year, Paul’s large abstract paintings and Caden’s linen embroidery pieces and delicate watercolors.

We head into the entry on the corner, the doors wide open to make the gallery even more inviting in the summer for people to come inside. In the side gallery, it looks like they’re hanging a few final paintings—Paul’s—and I spot a couple of Noah’s framed illustrations, all ready for a show.

My guts twist. Everyone’s moving on, and I’m so far from having a show of my own.

No one’s working in the gallery right now. The sun falls through the window, with the paintings on the floor, left leaning along the wall.

“Gotta get back to that today,” Noah says, nodding at the paintings. “Wanna help?”

“Sure. Of course. I’ll be glad to.” The words spill out in a hot tumble. I force myself to slow down, to swallow some air. To not let panic take over about the future like I’ve learned in therapy. And not let my thriving imposter syndrome flourish.

Noah doesn’t notice my momentary waver. “Great. Let’s go put our jackets in my studio and get my tools, and we’ll get hanging.”

Which we do, and it feels great to help Noah out, and also terrible at the same time, because I’m so far from having a show of my own. Or even having work in a group show. For any kind of exhibition, I need new work, something I definitely don’t have since graduating. The others graduated last year, so they’ve had more time to get going on their art careers, but Noah went straight into working full-time because he already had illustration clients before he graduated.

Paul walks into the gallery, beaming when he sees me. “Matty! The rumors are true—you’re back.”

“Just for the afternoon,” I confess. “Not for long.”

“Better than not at all,” Paul confirms.

“Yeah, we need to lure him out of the big city, now.” Noah’s got a broad grin on his face.”

Paul laughs. “Well, sorry to miss the work party. I’ve got drinks in my studio if you want a reward.”

“Of course we do,” agrees Noah. “And let’s get Matty convinced to show some work down at the Rose too.”

“I’m not part of the collective,” I point out, very reasonably in my opinion. Like they’ve all forgotten.

“You’re in by association.” The way Paul says it is not up for dispute.

“I still don’t have any art to show.”

Paul frowns. “You need to paint, Matty. It’s your calling.”

“I know, I know. Don’t I know.”

A few hours and a couple more drinks later, I find myself waiting at Brighton Station, cooling my heels with a train delay. Of course, I’m unable to stop thinking about Florian again after what Noah’s said. I was too harsh, and I had no justification for unleashing a personal attack on him like I did.

So once more, I find myself attempting to compose a text message to Florian. Except there’s no good way to apologize by text. I’m sorry I acted like an arsehole about your ex-boyfriend just falls kind of flat. And nobody wants the we need to talk text. Because then he’d automatically assume I was fake dumping him, which I had technically done already.

So, I’m on to:

Florian, everything I type sounds terrible. Would you be willing to talk to me again? Please? Mx

I delete the even though I don’t deserve it part because it’s too pathetic. Then I put it back. And delete it again.

Shifting from foot to foot, I can’t quite work up the guts to hit Send. I glance up at the board with the train schedules. Still delayed. The night air is sharp now that the sun’s gone down, because July in England is hardly tropical.