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‘It’s a difficult time for both of you. His eighteenth marks a big life transition.’
‘But I just chose to ignore it. All I could do was stress about my art and shout at him. On his birthday I said I was proud of how I conceived him, as if that makes any difference. Now I just want to go back and tell him I am simply proud of him. Except I’m not exactly, am I? Not so much proud as worried. And disappointed.’
Karen shifts round to face me. ‘Pat, you seriously need to give yourself a break, you’re torturing yourself and that’s not going to help.’
‘I was trying to do some sketching to stop myself thinking, but it didn’t really work,’ I start.
‘That reminds me.’ Karen squeezes my hand. ‘My friend Gabriella came to your show. By the time I got there you’d run away, like a scared rabbit, is what she said.’
‘Oh God.’ I pull my hand away. ‘That was so rude, please apologise to her. I’d just overheard some awful criticism of my work, I couldn’t face…?’
‘Well, you can apologise yourself, she’s sent you a Facebook friend request.’
‘Facebook friend? Why on earth…? I met her for less than two minutes.’ My voice in a panic rise now.
‘She’s an artist too. That’s why I suggested your exhibition. I thought she might have intelligent things to say, unlike me.’ Karen does her can’t-help-it shrug.
‘How do you know her?’
‘She’s running a mural project at school. She’s a cool lady. Have a look at your Facebook.’ She gives me a friendly punch.
I look at my phone and sure enough there’s the friend request. I touch her profile photo to fill the screen: sitting on a sunny hillside, big sunglasses, light glinting red on piled up hair, dark lips parted in an inviting grin that makes me catch my breath.
Karen looks over my shoulder. ‘Aw, she’s gorgeous. Go on, accept!’
I bat her back. ‘Stop it! I don’t have Facebook friends I don’t know. What does she want from me?’
‘For God’s sake, Pat.’ Karen directs her best schoolteacher look at me. ‘She likes your work; she wants to connect. Look at her page, go on!’
I scroll down her page, the usual raft of lefty memes sprinkled with shares of art and exhibitions. Then I see a collaged image of sixties social housing, rising in a shard-like tower poised to topple into the broken surface of reflecting water below. My latest, a bit of a departure.
‘Well?’ Karen asks.
I smile up at her. ‘She’s a lefty artist alright. And she uses collage. This is quite good, really.’ I pass her the phone.
‘Praise indeed!’ Karen shakes her head as she touches the screen a couple of times.
‘This is her artist page, see? You should have one. Promote yourself!’
I scroll down to look at more work. Woman with gleaming kitchen sink for a head, another with clothes cut away to reveal a bar of Lux soap. Both in glossy fifties advert style.
‘Hmm, a bit obvious perhaps,’ I muse, ‘but who am I… it is nicely done.’
‘Friend her!’ Karen demands.
I look again at Gabriella’s profile picture. She likes my work. She actually likes it. I press Accept.
‘I’ve got to go, sweetheart.’ Karen scrapes up the last of her cake. ‘I’m meeting Julie at seven.’
‘Julie?’
‘Oh, I so told you about her. The school secretary lady?’
‘You’re incorrigible.’
‘Gotta do something to blow this schoolmarm image.’ She goes to the mirror above the mantelpiece, sucks her lips in and blows herself a kiss.
‘Thank you for coming. I don’t deserve you.’
