Illicit Canvas: political romance and stand alone romance (28 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

I dip my brush in the water and then choose a blue, but the colour seems too dark, so I mix it with white, creating the perfect shade. I have been in this gallery for hours now, but my painting is nowhere near finished. It’s a portrait of a woman standing outside by a farm. Her face is stoic, sad, and that’s what I’m trying to do, capture her emotion. I have never done this before, painting in public where ordinary people can look at me and observe the way I use my brush and how I chose my colours. It’s no longer unnerving, but calming.
 

I thought that I was incapable of doing this, but it looks like I got over the fear. This week has been hell for me. Sadness and pain multiplied, and I felt like this despair would never end, sucking me down deep every time I closed my eyes. My thoughts keep going back to Ethan, our first day at the museum, the first electric kiss. At night I feel like he has been standing by my bed every night, an echo of our time past.

On Thursday my phone rang and I didn’t need to look at the screen. I knew it was him. I didn’t understand what he wanted from me. Our relationship was over. Maybe I did owe him an explanation, but it was easier this way, pretending that he didn’t exist. I ran away so that he could be saved.

Eventually I had to switch my phone off, because he was persistent. Mum kept me busy. She took me shopping, to the theatre, to visit her friends, so I didn’t have to think about him. For the first time in years, we bonded. Her questions about my going back to Brussels kept popping up and I avoided them as much as I could.

The agony in my heart left me numb. Simple tasks, like getting up, brushing my teeth or eating breakfast didn’t make sense to me anymore. All I wanted was to forget, but Mum didn’t let me. She made sure that I was taking my tablets, that I didn’t slip back to my old self.

I finally understand what it means to lose the person you love. When my friends talked about it, I was so dismissive, confused by their reactions. Men had been breaking up with me all the time; it was hard, but I got over it eventually. Now I’m so far removed from being fine at all.

I shake my head, detaching all thoughts of Ethan and refocusing. Taking a deep breath, I dip my brush in the water again. My strokes are short and even, distributing the paint where I want it to be. This morning I’m taking care of my own creativity, nurturing it to help me fight my dark and destructive thoughts. Mrs. Joule, an owner of this small gallery, keeps glancing back now and again. It’s strange but I don’t mind her staring, whereas almost two months ago I would have lost the plot.

I'm focusing on the painting in front of me again when I feel a movement behind me. It’s probably someone else; another stranger wanting to see what I’m creating.

“Arwen.”

Something close to fear or maybe anxiety grips my heart when I hear that voice. A violent shudder spreads across my chest, threatening to knock me over. It’s like I’m back in the same surroundings from two months ago, when we first met. My body locks up and I break, fighting and telling myself that he is not here. Ethan doesn’t have my address and my mother wouldn’t tell him where to find me. I don’t believe they are traitors, Maja and my mother. They wouldn’t do that to me.
 

“Arwen, please look at me.”

I stumble back, realising that it is him. I place my brush back on my easel and turn to face him, feeling the heat of his eyes burning through my skin. He looks amazing and instantly I want to throw myself at him; bury myself in his arms and inhale his spicy scent. My body pulls me closer, but I can’t do this to myself. Not again, not now and not ever.
 

“How did you find me?”

“Your mother told me that you were here painting. I need to talk to you. It’s important that you listen to me.”

The rush of blood through my veins warms me up instantly. My love for him hasn’t disappeared; it beams from inside out, lighting up every nerve. I start picking up my brushes and shoving them into my bag. Every muscle is screaming to touch him and I struggle. He smells so good and he’s standing too close.

“There is nothing to say, Ethan. We are done.”

He grabs my arm then and a shiver runs through me fast, shooting a bolt of desire from my neck straight down to my core.

“I don’t remember us breaking up, Arwen. A couple of weeks ago I was in a very dark place and I didn’t know what I was saying. I wanted us apart in order to protect you. I think you owe me an explanation.”

I push him away and take a step back, swallowing the tears. Mrs. Joule is staring at both of us, looking concerned and alerted. The heat that radiates from his body is messing with my head. I can’t think straight. “Maybe, but you don’t love me, Ethan. You never told me how you felt and I don’t want to delude myself any longer. Leave me alone. I don’t want to see you.”

“Arwen, are you all right? Is this man bothering you?” Mrs. Joule asks in her high-pitched voice, approaching us. Ethan works his jaw, turning around, and I grab my bag. Maybe this is childish and immature. I’m just not ready to look at him, remembering how his touch and his looks affected me. He won’t leave me alone, so I shoot through the gallery heading towards the door, even though I know running won’t solve anything.

“Leave me alone, Ethan. I don’t want you anymore,” I shout. I leave my painting behind. Mrs. Joule will take care of it. I have to get out of there, away from him. My skin itches for him to touch me and my heart is lodged in my throat. This is the only way for me to gain my control, to escape the pain.

I hear him shouting after me, but I don’t slow down, disappearing in one of the alleys. After some time, away from the town centre, I stop, taking long deep breaths, and then resume.

It’s better this way; easier for the lonely months to come. Ethan is just my past and it doesn’t matter what he says. I’m bad for him and for his future, not even worthy of his love.

I don’t take the bus, just walk home in the cold. My lungs are on fire and the harsh wind pinches the skin on my face. My mother is snuggled on the sofa with Francois when I walk in.

“How could you do this? How could you tell him where I was?” I shout as I walk in.

“You ran away without talking to him?” she asks, looking at my red face and fingers numb with cold.

“I left him for a reason—so he didn’t have to lose his business, to save his reputation. You’re a trai–”

“Arwen, calm down. This is your mother you’re talking to,” Francois says, getting up.

“Shut up. This has nothing to do with you.”

“Arwen, enough! Stop acting like a brat! You need to give him a chance to explain. This man loves you very much.”

I start laughing hysterically, looking at her like she is crazy. “And you believed him because he told you so? Oh, Mum … don’t be stupid.”

“Arwen, why can you not see it? Stop running away and at least listen to what he has to say.”

“Mum, Ethan’s business is ruined because of me. No one would buy or sell him anything knowing that he’s apparently seduced a twenty-year-old student,” I hiss. She doesn’t get it that I ruined everything. She doesn’t understand that I’m the reason that he failed.

“He chose you, darling. That means something. I’m not asking you to marry this man. Just talk to him. I want you to be happy.”

“We have nothing to talk about, Mum. Stay away from my business from now on. I mean it!”

“He knows about your episode from the past,” she adds and I stop, frozen in mid-step.

Slowly I turn around, shaking. “You told him?” I gasp.

“He loves you, darling, and he isn’t running away.”

“I can’t believe this; you had no right,” I shout and run upstairs, slamming the door to my room. I hate myself right now and I hate that my mother revealed to him that I tried to commit suicide. Seeing him here doesn’t change the fact that he was cold and distant. I remember every single word, every gesture. He didn’t want me. Now he knows everything, so he has an excuse to leave. I wouldn’t want to be involved with myself if I was him.

Maja probably gave him my address, hoping that Ethan would fix what cannot be repaired.
 
He can’t possibly think that we will be together now, that I would let him sacrifice his dream for me. His ex-wife Bethany and Colin are important to him. Ethan can’t just give up on them. This story from the media will come back to haunt him.

I grab my phone and switch it on. After so many days I’m getting messages through instantly, texts and voicemails. There are some from my friends in University, from Maja, but most of them are from Ethan. I delete each one of them without listening to it. I can’t hear his voice right now. It’s too much.

Mum knocks a couple of times, but I just tell her to go away. I have no idea how long Ethan is going to stay in town. It isn’t relevant because I’m not going back to Brussels. My adventure with Belgium has come to an end. My father has his own family, a new perfect daughter. Everyone around me is happy. It’s time to move on, not interfere with their happiness.

I don’t sleep much that night. I keep tossing and turning, thinking about the time in my life when I was truly happy. It’s early hours in the morning when I finally drift into an uneasy sleep.

I sleep in until late and then lie in my bed, listening to the seagulls squeaking outside the window. My eyes are yet again puffy and when I glance at the clock it’s just after one in the afternoon. My phone is silent; no more annoying phone calls from Ethan. I want to believe that he has given up on me, decided that I’m too damaged and simply went back to Brussels. When I emerge from my bedroom and go downstairs, Mum informs me that Francois has left for Paris. He had some emergency business with a few contractors. Mum asks me to sit down, placing a bowl of porridge in front of me.

“What’s your plan for today?” she asks, staring back with concern in her eyes. She can tell that I have been crying, but I don’t want her to feel sorry for me. I’m still angry that she tried to sort my life for me.

“I’ve no plans, Mum. I’m just going to hang here all day.”

“No, you aren’t. There are some things that I need. Roberta and Tasha are coming over for dinner later.”

I groan, shaking my head. That’s one of the reasons that I moved away. I love living with my mother, but her friends can be irritating, always wanting to know everything, gossiping and spreading rumours. They probably know that I’m at home, so they’re coming over to ask me about my relationship with Ethan.

“You invited them?”

“Yes. I have been planning this dinner for weeks. Besides, you need to go out. Get some fresh air.”

I start flexing my fingers, looking out the window. It’s deceptively sunny today; the sun is out but it’s really cold.

“They are going to ask me about Belgium, about Ethan.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, darling. Get dressed. I need you to go shopping for me, get some things.”

Mum loves her dinner parties and I don’t want to be stuck at home for the rest of the day. I’d rather stay busy than wait for him to show up. There is no point in going back to the gallery. Ethan is probably waiting for me there right now. I put some thick clothes on and head out into the freezing cold weather. The temperature’s really low and it’s only November.

I take Mum’s car and drive to the supermarket. Mum asked for a lot and it takes me ages to load everything into the car. The only items left on the list are her favourite macaroons. I have to drive to the town centre to get the sweets. I hate that Mum has to be so particular, but she always serves these with coffee. After struggling with parking, I walk through a stone gate. It’s really busy today, with so many tourists. Luckily for me there is a macaroon shop on the first corner. I buy a dozen and I’m ready to go back to the car, when something else catches my eye. There is a street artist a few meters away. His back is turned to me. His painting is almost done, filled with rich deep colours. I frown, looking more intensely, wondering if I’m really seeing my own name on his canvas.

I glance around suspiciously, feeling a growing discomfort. Is Ethan here, watching me? I don’t spot him on the street or around the shops, so I walk towards the artist, intrigued about his work. When I see my name on the top of the canvas, goose pimples shoot through my skin. My breath lodges in my throat and I nearly drop my bag when my eyes dart down to the canvas. It seems to me that this artist had recreated the scene from our memories. Two people are standing in a gallery gazing at each other closely. I lean forward, recognising my resemblance. This can’t be happening to me, but I can’t deny it. I’m looking at my own self and Ethan in the painting.

“Did someone ask you to paint this?” I ask the older French artist, who isn’t paying much attention to me as he continues to work on the painting.

“I’ve a message for Arwen: keep heading south, there is more,” he replies, not making much sense or eye contact. I blink rapidly, wanting to ask him more, but he points at something further down the street. Amongst other people I spot someone there: another street painter.

My mouth is dry and I contemplate what to do for a little while. Ethan had to have planned this, but why? We both know that we can’t fix anything. The painting is stunning and my heartbeat echoes in my ears as I try to imagine him watching me now. I keep walking, heading towards town, passing all the shops on the way. As I approach the painter, my heart starts skipping beats, because the scene below takes my breath away—it’s our first kiss in the park outside the restaurant. It’s another artist, with a different style, but the scene is intense and the colours are amazing. Thoughts start rushing through my head, thoughts that I shouldn’t be even thinking about. Why is Ethan doing this? What does he think he will achieve?