Time is ticking again. Hour follows hour. Minute follows minute. Thought follows thought. My thoughts are no longer crazy. I’m not drugged-up, I’m just me. No DVD extras.
I walk to Bus Stop E. Tower blocks gaze lazily at the September sun. Sugary golden rays, like fingertips, massage their concrete skin. He’s waiting for me. He’s early. I feel a pang of excitement. Not an epic drum solo, more a short sharp tap on the snare. It’s life-piercing. I haven’t seen him since I came out of hospital.
He’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that says, I quite like music. His hair flaps like a black flag, an unintentional Eighties throw-back.
“Loving the George Michael Wham-era look,” I say.
“Accidental, I promise.” He hugs me tight.
I wave my hand and the red bus crawls to a halt. We climb to the top deck.
The trees zoom past. They’re about to start losing their leaves. The houses rush past, and then the skyscrapers.
Twenty silent minutes go by, not a peep from either of us. Nothing said, but so much hanging there between us.
Stop. Stop. Stop. Fourth stop. A hand grasps the yellow pole at the top of the stairs and pulls a cracked face and weathered body upwards. She’s wearing a poncho and a fishing hat. The hands, though, are what fascinate me. Not because I like to draw hands, or because her nails are long and bright red with paint, which they are, but because they are wrapped in those cloudy, thin plastic bags used for packing loose fruit and veg at the supermarket. Carrots. Mushrooms. Auber-fucking-gines.
If it’s a plastic fetish, surely she could get some Marigolds? Penchant for gloves, sweaty hands? Old lady bag hands: she’s a fruitcake. I could have been her. That might have been my future.
“Look, I’m—” I begin to say to Isaac.
“Don’t say anything.” He looks me in the eye. “Not yet. Let’s just enjoy the ride.”
This is becoming one ride I want to stay on.
At Trafalgar Square, we jump off the bus, heading for the gallery on Pall Mall, but Isaac stops when we get to the steps just past the fountain on the Square. He sits me down on a step and kneels in front of me. “Bit soon for proposals,” I say, remembering when he gave me the butterfly necklace.
“I thought you were going to do a Heath Ledger on me,” he says.
“I didn’t mean to… It wasn’t intentional or anything.”
Isaac furrows his brow, and then relaxes into a smile.
“Textbook cry for help! You do Psychology!”
“Yes, I do Psychology. Note that? I failed and so I still do Psychology. I’m resitting in January.”
“If only you’d known you were going to go loco. Would’ve made a great coursework topic.”
“This has all been an elaborate AS-level Psychology experiment. Didn’t you know?” I joke. “You know I didn’t do it. Violet crushed a load of those blue pills into my drink.”
I think about all that’s gone on, and wonder if it wasn’t the first time I’d been set up…
“I know. I’m sorry about the stuff I said. I was really harsh on you. I flipped. I should’ve trusted you,” Isaac says.
“I’m sorry, too. I said some weird stuff when I was out of it.”
“I’m just… It’s good to see you… I’m glad you’re all right.”
“So am I.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Inside out. But on the mend. I’m seeing someone, a counsellor. Thought it might help.’’
“That’s great. Good idea.”
“Oh, no, I don’t mean seeing him professionally. He’s just great in bed.”
“Oh, yeah?” He smiles.
“I’m kidding.” I shrug. But he already knew that.
“Want to share some uberly overpriced but totally delicious brownie?”
“Yeah. I really do.”
We amble to the gallery, the red-brick building among all the white stone, and inside, Boogie-Barnet greets us with that practised smile. Isaac doesn’t reach for my hand, but somehow, knowing he’s only a few inches away is more exciting, and holding back is … right, for now.
We do one of those unnecessarily slow gallery walks, stopping at each piece and pretending to look interested.
“So, what do you want to be when you grow up?” Isaac asks.
“Oh, druggie, whore, general trashbag, the usual,” I reply.
“Excellent career opportunities there.”
“Yeah, I thought so. That, or plumbing. I hear women plumbers make a mint.” We pause to muse on a sculpture of a stuffed mouse moving electronically around a maze. I roll my eyes.
“I think you should stick to what you know. You could be the next great artist. All you need is some flaming paper plates, right? A dirty glass or two?”
“It’s not art! But thanks. You can be my muse. I’ll be a regular little Edie Sedgwick, Mr Warhol. Or would that make you Sedgwick?”
A familiar figure approaches.
“What’s he doing here?” I ask.
Havelock, in his brown shoes, jeans and a red-and-white chequered shirt, glides over, propelled by his own calm breeze, one smooth continuous movement. He blows a dark lock of hair out of his eyes.
“Hello,” he says.
“Um, hi.”
“What are yo—?”
“Have you seen the gallery guide?”
“No, missed them at the door.”
He hands me a glossy brochure. “Have a look.”
Flicking the pages, I scan the text.
Ohmygod. Bottom of page 2. Me.
Special congratulations to Carla Carroll, who is this year’s recipient of the Maggie Penn Art Prize and receives funding for an art course of her choice and £250 towards materials.
“How did…? When did this happen? Did you do this?” I scan Havelock’s face for answers.
“I can’t take credit, I’m afraid. It was Mr Masterson here. He told me you’d agreed to let him collect your sculpture, and I let him have it. He called me yesterday and told me he’d entered it in this competition and now here we are. Carla Carroll, prizewinner.”
Isaac’s grinning cheekily.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You said you weren’t interested in submitting. I thought you could win. What was the harm?”
“No, it’s great, thank you. But … I just can’t believe I won.”
“I told you, you have talent.” The corners of Havelock’s mouth turn upwards. “You’re good at this, Carla. Why not pursue it? You have the skills. Now you’ve got the tools.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Retakes in January, though.” He snaps back into teacher mode.
“I know,” I say, nodding.
Havelock raises his eyebrows in a distinctly dad-like fashion, then turns to continue walking around the exhibition.
“Shall we go bask in the glory of your success?” Isaac asks. “It’s on display. Prime position, on a very fetching plinth … next to some flaming paper plates.”
“Are you joking?”
“Yeah, about the plates anyway.”
“You mean the sculpture is here? In public? For people to see?”
“Yeah, you’re practically famous.”
We walk to the opposite end of the gallery, and there she is, glinting in a shaft of gold under a skylight: MY BUTTERFLY!
I look to Isaac, his floppy hair and face full of sincerity, and realize it’s been the same face all along, not always the arc of a smile upon it, but always the truth. I hug him, moist-eyed and lost for words.
Last year might have been a thousand years or one short second. Like taking that first pill, it was over so quickly. Misjudgements strew the months like litter on a festival field. But for the pain, I wonder if it ever happened at all. I entered some inky-lit club, got lost in the dark and emerged at sunrise. I thought I lost my soul that night in Brighton, but it seems that’s when I got it back. Like getting laid for the first time, it’s never how you picture it. They say the darkest hour is just before the dawn. I feel myself returning to reality, a new reality. Soft edges are sharpening; light is intensifying. Daybreak.
I’m not naive. I’m going to need help and it’ll take time. Do I even have the strength and determination? I don’t know. But I’ve made a start and I’m making changes.
Smoke less.
Draw more.
Pass retakes.
Take one step at a time.
I look back over the year and see my own metamorphosis. Back then I was desperate to fit in. I trusted the drugs and Finn to give me confidence to remodel myself. Not your most intelligent decision.
What if I was already a butterfly?
Maybe I just couldn’t see it.
But Isaac saw it from the beginning.
I twist the purple butterfly necklace between my fingers and smile.
I cartwheel across the park, turning my world upside down: a complete revolution.
Somehow, after all, I’ve landed on my feet.