Page 2 of Matilda’s Summer of New Beginnings

We never allowed Damien to move in. There were only two bedrooms for a start — and besides that, it was Damien, and why would I want to live with the boy I’d grown up with, literally next door? I knew him too well and knew all his horrid habits.

I knew, for example, how he scrunched wet bathroom towels up on the rail, and how he left dirty dishes in the sink for days, because Aunty Una spoiled him and his four brothers rotten and didn’t see why her “babbies” should have to lift a finger.

I mean, it was great when I’d pitch up for tea there and could leave my plate full of dried-up egg yolk, bean juice and toast crusts in the sink . . . but really, as an adult, I did have some standards and could see it wasn’t a great life-lesson for the “babbies” going forwards. At our house, my mum would make us wash the dishes after we’d eaten and tidy the kitchen after our baking experiments. But Damien had sadly fallen back into old habits at uni and his kitchen was, to be frank, a hygiene risk.

Rosie now worked for Darling! magazine though, and her optimism had her believing that a) one day I’d make it in the art world, b) one day she would publish her own magazine and c) one day her brother, Jay, would become a famous singer.

Jay was, I knew, good at karaoke, but I didn’t know much more about his vocal ability. I did know that he also taught music and singing to precocious tweens in the South Downs, and worked in a pub called the Spatchcock Inn, in the small village of Padcock, near where Rosie’s family lived.

I’d met Jay many times, and had the weeniest of crushes on him from the first day I’d seen him, if I’m honest. In contrast to Rosie’s dark brown corkscrew curls, he had fair hair that curled at the back of his neck in just the right way, the widest, most generous smile, and the most mischievous blue eyes. As soon as he’d shaken my hand and said ‘Hey Matilda,’ I’d been lost, grinning at him like an idiot, pumping his hand up and down until he’d gently stopped the motion and disconnected our grip.

But, in the way of these things, he’d often had a beautiful girlfriend hanging around, or I’d had a boyfriend in tow, and we’d never really managed to be single at the same time — so my crush remained just that, hidden away and not acted on — and really, would it even be a good idea to act on such a thing, given the fact that none of my relationships seemed to last? I had not wanted to risk making things awkward between us when he was, really, part of my life anyway.

I’d never been down to Padcock myself. Jay sometimes popped in to see us in London and slept the odd night on our sofa. He was always friendly and cheerful, but would be happier, I sensed, in a smaller place than London. I mean, some people are “townie” and some people are “country”, and I never got the sense that he was very relaxed when he was at ours. I could see why, despite Rosie’s pleas, he had never been willing to sing at an open mic night or karaoke when he’d been here, and the four of us — including Damien — had just gone to the local student-type bar in Hackney and drank cocktails instead.

But today, pleasant evenings drinking cocktails were the furthest thing from my mind, and getting revenge on Damien and the horrible gallery people were foremost in it.

. . . And Glen, if I could have managed it, of course, but I knew that was just wishful thinking.

‘So,’ Damien said, shaking me rudely out of my reverie and rubbing his hands together in what some may describe as glee, ‘where shall we go to celebrate my breakthrough? Do you fancy cocktails?’

‘No. No I do not fancy cocktails! I’ve just been dumped! By text! And I am not at the wanting cocktails stage yet.’ Honestly, he was so un-empathetic. Didn’t he know how cross I was? From what he’d said, he’d been signing on the dotted line at Machismo Gallery, while I’d been ensconced in my duvet, mechanically chomping junk food I didn’t really want.

I got myself unravelled from my duvet and started pushing Damien out of the flat. ‘I’m going back to bed. I’m getting a migraine. You aren’t helping.’

Damien blinked in genuine astonishment, then put on his hurt face. ‘But Matilda, I thought you’d be happy. I mean, you get dumped like all the time, and I wasn’t going to turn the chance of an exhibition down!’

‘Maybe not. But maybe, just maybe, you could have said, oh I’ll be a bit kinder to Matilda before I tell her that news. Because she gets dumped, like, all the time, and I know how crap she feels, and also nobody wants her work in a gallery. Or you could have been all brave and manly and stood up to those misogynistic people and said, “No, I disagree with your ethos and your awful name and I shall reject your offer”.’ Push, push, push.

‘Well that wasn’t going to happen!’ said Damien. ‘I’m just as anxious to get my name out there as you are. Why would I turn down the chance of an exhibition?’

I mean, put like that, it made sense — it really did. But it still made me angry.

‘It’s the principle of it. The principle of it is what is making me angry,’ I grumbled. ‘Now go away and leave me alone and I’ll see you at some point. I need to go through my Instagram and delete all my photos of Ghastly Glen. Because that’s his new name.’

I’d pushed him far enough that he was now outside in the corridor, so I managed to shut the door on him. He carried on talking about cocktails and asked whether I was hormonal because my reaction was ridiculous. That angered me even more, so I double-locked the door, loving the very satisfying clunk-clunk sound it made. Then I stomped into the little kitchen to make a huge pitcher of gin sling.

Okay — so maybe I’d lied about a migraine coming on, and that I wasn’t ready for cocktails. I had indeed reached the point where I fancied one — but I definitely did not fancy a drink with Damien O’Rourke.

He had made me very, very cross.

And, I have to admit, a little envious.

And also nervous.

That was odd. A rather unexpected emotion.

I analysed that over my first (large) glass of gin sling. Although I was jealous of Damien, maybe there was also a little bit of an “eek” moment. What if I’d been the person to secure an exhibition? I couldn’t see myself standing there hobnobbing with people (“nob” being the operative word just now . . . I mean — ugh!) and having to sell myself and my work. I hadn’t even liked the final year exhibition of our course very much as I had felt judged.

Or perhaps I was just feeling a little bruised and unwanted thanks to Glen — and the idea of my work being out there and rejected — like I had just been — was even more painful and upsetting.

And a hobnob-nob could maybe be particularly cruel about a new artist on the block.

I also knew that most of my protests to Damien had been bluster due to our usual one-upmanship. In fact, I was surprised he hadn’t added “ha ha” into the conversation we’d just had.

Damien aged twenty-six: ‘You must admit, this is the chance of a lifetime. High five, Tilds, ha ha.’

‘Ha-bloody-ha to you,’ I muttered, pouring my second even larger glass.