It doesn’t take much to convince both Penny and Ange to accompany me to Wes’s art show.
Penny is able to find out pretty easily that it’s at Verge Gallery, a small place in Surry Hills. Apparently, she used to sleep with the owner. (She watered his plants when he went to Bali a month after they broke up, so they’re still on good terms). And Ange . . . well, as long-standing president of the Wes Preston fan club, she’s changed out of her sweatpants and into my jacquard cocktail dress before I’ve even run a brush through my hair.
Verge Gallery is not a massive space, so there’s nowhere to hide – something that would have been an impossibility with Penny in tow anyway.
‘We’ll have some of your good stuff,’ she barks at the lanky man standing behind the gallery’s makeshift bar, which is really a picnic table topped with a few bottles of Jacob’s Creek chardonnay. His face scrunches. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m on intimate terms with the owner, Jasper Connell, and this one . . .’ Penny pulls me alongside her, ‘. . . used to fuck the artist, Wes Preston. Don’t mind the sneakers. Cute casual is her thing.’
‘Shhhh, Penny!’
I glance over to where Wes is standing by the far wall. A small crowd is gathered around him. Thankfully, he doesn’t appear to have heard Penny’s eloquent proclamation. I didn’t even get to say a quick hello before being marched straight to the bar – not that I’m complaining. A drink will help take the edge off.
Penny swivels to face me. ‘What? Aren’t you proud of me for finally deciding to embrace your lack of style?’ she says, before lowering her voice. Now she decides to whisper! ‘Stick with me, girls. I know how these things work. They always have good bottles stashed away for the VIPs.’
Ange and I exchange an amused glance. It feels good to be back with the girls.
‘Look, you can pretend all you want to be satisfied with this cat’s piss and Jatz crackers, but I won’t.’ Penny stares daggers at the bartender until he bends down under the table and emerges with a bottle with a gold-foiled top.
‘Now, there’s a good boy!’ Penny exclaims, turning to me triumphantly. ‘You couldn’t have drunk that other stuff anyway.’
‘I’m back on the wine actually,’ I say smoothly.
‘Well, well, well, now isn’t that an interesting development,’ Pen teases, poking me in the ribs. Ange doesn’t look even vaguely surprised, just delighted.
Armed with our glasses of Moët, we make our way over to Wes. Ange grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze but drops it as soon as we’re in Wes’s eyeline. Ange’s subtle support is the yin to Penny’s extroverted yang.
It’s only now that we’re in arm’s reach of Wes that I take note of the canvases hung behind him. The artworks are a mixture of sizes, but all are textured with blobs of violent colour – splashes of dark purples, reds and greens. They’re very bold, but they also seem, well, very angry. The opposite of the lopsided grin that’s currently spread across Wes’s face.
‘Rosie! What a lovely surprise. Hi, Penny, hi, Ange.’ He leans in and gives each of us a peck on the cheek, hesitating a moment longer at my cheek. It’s like there’s a magnetic force stopping him from pulling away. Or maybe I’m just imagining it?
He’s changed from a cap into a sleek black beanie. It’s slouched at the back, transforming his usual ‘throw on and go’ look to off-duty street style. Sexy off-duty style.
‘Preston, just so we’re clear, I’m here to support Jasper’s gallery, not you. Also, could you not have popped on a suit for your big night?’ Penny gives him a disapproving once-over.
I don’t think things would be right in the world if Penny and Wes weren’t at each other’s throats.
‘I’m pretty sure Wes is allergic to suit wool, isn’t that correct?’
His mouth twitches. ‘Yes, that’s correct. Deathly allergic, just as Rosie is to wine.’
My eyes go straight to his and we hold each other’s gaze.
‘Earth to Preston, Rosie! Are you still with us?’ Penny waves a manicured hand in front of our faces. ‘It’s like there was just a glitch in the Matrix.’
I laugh so breathlessly that I feel woozy and need to glance down at the sturdy ground.
When I look back up, Wes is watching me.
I swallow thickly and avert my gaze.
‘Well, aren’t these impressive,’ I say extra brightly, gesturing to the artworks behind us. Even if these particular artworks aren’t exactly to my taste.
‘Yes, Oscar’s done a really great job of capturing the emotion of World War II.’
‘Oscar?’ I ask.
‘Yes. He’s the artist I’m exhibiting with. Jasper thought that his moody works would provide an excellent contrast with my BIG Things exhibit.’
My hopeful heart twinges at the word ‘big’.
‘Where are your pieces then, Wes?’ I ask.
‘This way.’ He turns and leads us over to the far corner of the room. ‘Real estate was at a bit of a premium,’ he says as he comes to a halt in front of the back wall. ‘Here we are.’
I can tell by the way he tugs at his beanie that he’s nervous.
Before I get a chance to take in the artworks, Penny jumps in. ‘I don’t get it. Where are the big things?’
I wish she and Ange had hung back to critique Oscar’s dark smoke plumes between gulps of champagne, and given Wes and I some space.
As my eyes take in the colourful artworks, my heart catches in my throat. Just as Penny has observed, there are no big things. There’s no Big Golden Guitar, no Big Merino, no Big Prawn. There’s not even a Big Banana. Of course not. The focus isn’t on the novelty architecture, it’s on the people – the gawking adults, all happy and child-like, the disgruntled teenagers who have been dragged on family trips against their will, the toddlers all snotty nosed and red-cheeked, and the couples – giddy on each other’s love.
All at once, a rush of emotions floods my body. It hits me like a waterfall gushing on a rainy day. There’s admiration and adoration for Wes’s obvious talent, but a sadness, too. And, perhaps, a kind of hope. We were one of those couples. Maybe we could still be one of those couples . . .
‘What do you think?’ Wes asks with a tentative smile.
‘I still don’t get it,’ Penny exclaims. ‘You couldn’t have thrown in at least one big thing. Make it make sense, Preston.’
‘It makes sense to me,’ I say quietly.
Ange takes one look at my face, grabs Penny’s hand and drags her away to look at the neighbouring exhibit.
‘It was so strange being back at the Big Banana with Bee the other week. Our road trip feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?’ Wes says, once they’ve disappeared around the corner.
‘It does,’ I murmur, fighting the urge to say more. To tell him how much I’ve missed him and let him know that I might be willing to give us another go. I can’t believe it’s taken until this very moment to realise that’s what I want.
Maybe I should say something to him? Isn’t that what I’ve learnt from my time in Mudgee and my disastrous trip with Markus? Not to hold back. To be honest about how I’m feeling.
Wes’s shiny rust eyes examine my face as I drift closer to him. I open my mouth, but my breath catches in my throat.
Rosie, this is your chance. Take it.
‘Wes, I –’
‘Wes!’
The cheerful voice is heart-achingly familiar. I watch the delight explode across Wes’s face. If he was happy before, he’s now positively ecstatic.
I turn around to greet a smiling Bee. She’s looking extra cute in ripped denim overalls and a messy biro bun.
‘Rosie! You just disappeared on us! How the hell have you been?’ She embraces me warmly before attaching herself to Wes’s side.
‘Yeah, good thanks,’ I croak, barely able to focus.
When he slips an arm around her waist, I have to avert my eyes.
‘Wowie,’ she gushes, her twinkly eyes fixated on the BIG paintings. The paintings I stupidly thought were for me. ‘These turned out so well, Wes! Well done!’
She leans in to inspect the red-cheeked toddler. ‘Oh my God, remember this little guy? He was so petrified of that fugly cane toad.’
I feel a sharp stabbing in my chest, right near my heart. She’s probably well-versed in umbrella politics too. I’m such an idiot. I’ve spent so much time refusing to acknowledge my feelings for Wes, and now it’s too late.
I’ve only got myself to blame.