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The overhead light starts flickering, their dismissals repeating in my head. Militant Nostalgia. All that’s left to the 21st century artist. It’s what I was saying with the empty frame, isn’t it? The obvious question banging for attention. Why do it then? Why bother at all?
I shiver and pull Rehana’s cardigan closer round me, flex my numb feet in the wet pumps. How it would be to stand here with Gethin, nerves pitched for his reaction? I shiver again. He’d probably just shrug, art’s not my thing. Yeah Mum, he’ll say. More of your old politics.
The phone beeps and makes me jump. It’s a text from Grace. I open it, heart thumping.
Babe sorry not made it yet to your show, maybe next week? Gethin not with us now, Fran thinks he gone to Scotland. I’m sure he be fine. Try not to worry babe, Gx.
I clench the phone in my fist and feel my stomach knot. Scotland? Why on earth didn’t I heed Emily’s warning and try to make peace with him?
How many thousand hours in this installation? Militant Nostalgia. Pseudo Radicalism. Is this the sense of hopelessness I’ve passed on to Gethin, instead of guiding him through his teenage uncertainty? The dancing figures seem to mock my intentions in the jittery light. I could take an axe through their stupid phone-heads. My heart bangs in my chest. I need to get out.
I turn to go just as a woman enters, blocking my way. I take a step back as she looks quizzically at me through round tortoiseshell glasses.
‘You’re not Pat, by any chance?’
I nod and pull my arms across my chest, feel myself shrink.
‘Gabriella. I’m a friend of Karen’s.’ She holds out a silver ringed hand with a jangle of bangles.
The hand feels cool and smooth against my clammy fingers. I give it the briefest contact before retreating to hugging my chest again.
‘Karen?’
She has a Latin look about her with dark gingery hair in a silver clip, big hazel eyes behind the glasses and a wide expressive mouth.
‘Karen told me about your work. I’m meeting her here; she won’t be long.’ Her smile brings out her crow’s feet. She’s not young, there’s grey in her hair, but there’s a sexy rawness to her with the rise of her breasts in a low-cut camisole and the flash of bare leg from her denim skirt.
I feel a rise of panic, made worse if anything by the twinge of attraction. I’m not in a fit state to have anyone else look at my work. I move to stand between her and the screen. Trust Karen to go interfering again.
‘Karen didn’t say she was coming. I’ve got to go. Now. Sorry.’ I feel the sweat pricking on my brow.
‘Well, I’d love to look at your work now I’m here.’ She shifts along to peer over my shoulder.
The sweat gathers round my hairline, and I feel the damp of my top against my skin. I wipe my face with Rehana’s cardigan sleeve.
‘OK, I can’t stop you. I’m going now,’ I say, heading out of the installation. God, how rude was that? I look back to see her puzzled frown.
‘Sorry,’ I call to her. ‘It was nice of you to come.’ And I turn to walk out of the gallery, all the way to the bus stop without looking up, without seeing Karen.
All I want now is to be left alone.
McCalstry of Lochgillan – Gethin
The Land Rover drops me by the Lochgillan turn-off before heading down towards Kyle of Lochalsh. I stand clutching my sleeping bag, a cloud of midges literally feasting on my face and scalp, holding my thumb out at the infrequent traffic. Twenty-two miles? Not so shabby.
I’ve never hitched before and felt the usual kind of idiot when Skunky got Aiden to walk me to the road out of Inverness. But already I’m a pro, as in I can tell the tourist cars that won’t stop. My first two lifts being a lorry heading for Ullapool and a local farmer in the Land Rover.
I was dropped off about three o’clock – I could be there in an hour if I get lucky. I zip up my hoody – desperate for a lift just to stop being eaten alive. But then my stomach lurches. What if he tells me to fuck off? What if he’s not around? What kind of dickhead shows up penniless on a sperm donor hundreds of miles from home? I could turn now and hitch right back to Sheffield. Yeah, but then what?
I almost don’t bother with the foreign registered Renault Espace, but the guy slows down, so I stick out my thumb at the last minute. He pulls into the passing place – two fluffy husky dogs in the back. He rolls down his window and the woman passenger leans forward to get a good look.
‘We go to Lochgillan?’ he says like a question.
‘Yeah, Lochgillan!’ I’m bouncing the sleeping bag off my thigh with insane excitement.
I get in the back and the dogs press against the wire mesh for a good sniff. The car is spotless inside and I’m hyper aware of my rank mix of wood smoke and slept-in clothes. If the car smells of dog, I’m overpowering it.
‘I am Dirk, and this is the wife.’ The guy leans round to grin at me, his face all raw and pock-marked, chunky white teeth with a glint of gold and a fuzz of blond grey hair.
