Elan was walking over Waterloo Bridge to meet his agent at the Savoy when way ahead of him he saw a familiar figure. Something in the walk, the angle of the back of the head. Elan began to walk more quickly, conscious of the increased speed of his heart, of the old familiar pain lurking for moments such as this.
By the time he had crossed the bridge and was turning into the Strand, full of lunchtime crowds, it was impossible to make any individual out in the bobbing heads in front of him. He walked into the Savoy, wondering if he would ever stop seeing Patrick; in the street, at a party, in a gallery, in his sleep … Patrick, the kindest of men, who had made such a puzzling, unkind, treacherous disappearance.
His agent lowered his newspaper and jumped to his feet to greet Elan. He had said on the phone he wanted to talk about Elan’s next exhibition. The fact they were in the Savoy meant, Elan knew, that George either wanted the impossible or something unexpected had cropped up which was worth an expensive lunch.
It turned out to be both. A gallery in New York wanted some of Elan’s paintings for an exhibition of British painters in February of next year. Could Elan conjure enough paintings for them to choose twenty when the New York gallery owner came over in January?
Elan was horrified. It was December 15th now.
‘How many unsold paintings from my last exhibition?’ he asked George.
‘Four. The large seascape, a smaller gouache, Storm Window, and one small one, Rocks off Bryher. How many can you re-call locally?’
Elan tried to think while George ordered him a drink. Two at Penlee. About four in St Ives. At least six or seven sitting in Falmouth and National Trust galleries. He had no idea what he had hanging in Truro and Penzance. Not all of those paintings were necessarily ones he would choose to send to New York, but he must have enough for the gallery owner to pick and choose. It was possible … just … if he did not go away for Christmas.
He sipped his gin and let George stew for a minute or two, then he said, ‘Well, if I recalled most of my work … I guess I would need to paint at least five or six more canvases. I might be ready, just.’
George let out a huge sigh of relief. ‘Great! Elan, if you get well known in New York it is going to be a whole different ball game. I thought I would bring Natasha Farini, the gallery owner, down to Cornwall. Great PR for her to visit your house and studio, see some of those wild places you paint …’
‘George!’ Elan reined him in. ‘You must remember that in the event this woman likes any of my paintings, I am not, nor will ever be, one of those painters who can churn out stuff at a rate of knots. I mean that. I would rather stop painting and turn to the bottle.’
‘Of course, of course. I of all people understand the quality of your work, Elan, you know that, after all I am your agent. But this really is a prestigious exhibition, vastly different from Chicago, though you did pretty well there … New York will do wonders for your profile. Now, let’s see if our table is ready.’
It was only when they had been sitting in the dining room for some minutes perusing a vast menu each, and George had chosen a bottle of very expensive champagne, that Elan looked up and around the room.
At the other end of the dining room, sideways on, profile to Elan, with a woman Elan recognized as his sister, sat Patrick. Recognizable for shape of head and long limbs. Unrecognizable in the sickly pallor of his once beautiful face and the painful thinness of his wasting body.
Instantly all was clear to Elan, and the agony of this understanding made him almost cry out, double-up in pain. Oh, Patrick! You fool, you bloody, bloody fool. How could you have done that to me and to yourself?
He was gripping the sides of the table and George, staring at him, said in alarm, ‘What is it, Elan? Are you ill?’
He turned in his chair, following Elan’s eyes, then swung back to face Elan, shocked.
‘God! It’s Patrick.’ He stared at Elan. ‘He hasn’t seen you. Do you want to leave, old thing?’
Elan had already made a decision.
‘No, George,’ he said quietly. ‘I am not leaving until Patrick has finished his meal. I do not know if I can eat, but I can certainly drink.’
With trembling hands, Elan looked down at the menu again and ordered.
When the champagne arrived, George asked, as he watched Elan’s pale face, ‘What are we going to drink to, my friend?’
Elan smiled faintly and lifted his glass. ‘To understanding. To resolution.’
And George, the tough agent, said suddenly, ‘Love, old thing. I think we will drink to brave, unselfish, unconditional love.’
Their eyes met. Elan lifted his glass, but choked, could not speak. He was already, in his imagination, on the other side of the room, bending to the chair which held his lifetime love and saying, ‘Did you really think you could hide this from me? We share this. We share it. Do you understand?’