knew but couldn’t locate in memory.
“It’s Tanya,” she said. “From the Sitric Gallery? We met at your husband’s exhibition some years ago?”
“Tanya. Yes. Yes, of course. I’m so sorry.”
“That’s all right!” she laughed, adding, “Pregnancy has a tendency to scramble your brain, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose it does. When are you due?”
“March. And you?”
“Not till the summer. I’m actually just here to register.”
“Ah,” she said.
For a moment, neither of us said anything, both tacitly acknowledging the awkwardness of the situation. It is something you hope won’t happen—bumping into someone you know when going to register your pregnancy. Not yet ready to share your news, and yet there is no denying it once caught on the premises of a prenatal clinic. I had the strange, almost shamefaced feeling of being caught with my hand in someone else’s purse.
“How is Harry, anyway?”
“He’s good, thanks. Busy,” I added, remembering now what Harry had told me. “He mentioned that you might be interested in looking at some of his new work.”
A look of mild consternation crossed her face.
“When he met you last weekend,” I went on. “He was quite excited, in fact, although he’d kill me for saying as much. But you know he’d love the chance to exhibit again at the Sitric.”
The look on her face stopped me. Consternation had changed to genuine confusion and she was shaking her head slowly.
“You must be mistaken, Robin. I haven’t seen Harry in ages. In fact, it’s a good two years, at least, since we last met.”
“Oh,” I said, momentarily thrown. “Well, perhaps it was someone else from the Sitric Gallery that he was referring to. There’s another girl who works there—Sally or Sarah? I forget!”
I laughed, yet still she looked at me strangely.
“The Sitric Gallery has closed,” she said softly.
“What?”
“Another victim of the recession,” she continued with a little mirthless laugh. “No one has money to spend on art anymore.”
My mind raced. The Sitric had closed? My thoughts whirred back over what Harry had said—Tanya from the Sitric. The day of the march. I was sure that was whom he had mentioned.
“Well,” she said, shrugging. “It was nice to see you. And please give Harry my best. Perhaps, when things pick up, our paths might cross again.”
“Yes,” I said with a smile. “Good luck.”
As I walked away, picking my way carefully through the snow, I thought about Harry, about what he had said, and wondered why he had lied. And if he hadn’t seen Tanya the day of the march, then whom had he seen, and why did he not want to tell me?
Perhaps I was mistaken. I told myself that it was possible he had meant someone else from a different gallery and I had just misheard or misinterpreted his remarks. But even as I turned the thought over in my mind, I knew it wasn’t true. He had lied to me. And I remembered how he’d been that day—agitated, distracted—and the memory stayed with me on the long, slow walk back to the office, creasing itself into a little furrow of worry: one more to add to the rest.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HARRY
I woke up to “Fairytale of New York” playing on the radio. That was it. As soon as you heard “Fairytale,” you knew Christmas was on its way. I felt rough. I felt like the scumbag in the song. The strung-out tones were fitting. Nothing like Shane MacGowan singing how he could have been someone on a bleak Monday morning in December to make you think of taking to the drink again. Hair of the dog was on my mind.
Beside me, the bed was stone cold. Robin must have been up for a while. I stumbled into the bathroom and got the water going. Standing under the shower with the jets of water spraying painfully across my face, I thought of what my life had come to, the point in the path that I was at. I thought of my work, the opportunities that were opening up to me now with this trip I was about to take. I was
“It’s Tanya,” she said. “From the Sitric Gallery? We met at your husband’s exhibition some years ago?”
“Tanya. Yes. Yes, of course. I’m so sorry.”
“That’s all right!” she laughed, adding, “Pregnancy has a tendency to scramble your brain, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose it does. When are you due?”
“March. And you?”
“Not till the summer. I’m actually just here to register.”
“Ah,” she said.
For a moment, neither of us said anything, both tacitly acknowledging the awkwardness of the situation. It is something you hope won’t happen—bumping into someone you know when going to register your pregnancy. Not yet ready to share your news, and yet there is no denying it once caught on the premises of a prenatal clinic. I had the strange, almost shamefaced feeling of being caught with my hand in someone else’s purse.
“How is Harry, anyway?”
“He’s good, thanks. Busy,” I added, remembering now what Harry had told me. “He mentioned that you might be interested in looking at some of his new work.”
A look of mild consternation crossed her face.
“When he met you last weekend,” I went on. “He was quite excited, in fact, although he’d kill me for saying as much. But you know he’d love the chance to exhibit again at the Sitric.”
The look on her face stopped me. Consternation had changed to genuine confusion and she was shaking her head slowly.
“You must be mistaken, Robin. I haven’t seen Harry in ages. In fact, it’s a good two years, at least, since we last met.”
“Oh,” I said, momentarily thrown. “Well, perhaps it was someone else from the Sitric Gallery that he was referring to. There’s another girl who works there—Sally or Sarah? I forget!”
I laughed, yet still she looked at me strangely.
“The Sitric Gallery has closed,” she said softly.
“What?”
“Another victim of the recession,” she continued with a little mirthless laugh. “No one has money to spend on art anymore.”
My mind raced. The Sitric had closed? My thoughts whirred back over what Harry had said—Tanya from the Sitric. The day of the march. I was sure that was whom he had mentioned.
“Well,” she said, shrugging. “It was nice to see you. And please give Harry my best. Perhaps, when things pick up, our paths might cross again.”
“Yes,” I said with a smile. “Good luck.”
As I walked away, picking my way carefully through the snow, I thought about Harry, about what he had said, and wondered why he had lied. And if he hadn’t seen Tanya the day of the march, then whom had he seen, and why did he not want to tell me?
Perhaps I was mistaken. I told myself that it was possible he had meant someone else from a different gallery and I had just misheard or misinterpreted his remarks. But even as I turned the thought over in my mind, I knew it wasn’t true. He had lied to me. And I remembered how he’d been that day—agitated, distracted—and the memory stayed with me on the long, slow walk back to the office, creasing itself into a little furrow of worry: one more to add to the rest.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HARRY
I woke up to “Fairytale of New York” playing on the radio. That was it. As soon as you heard “Fairytale,” you knew Christmas was on its way. I felt rough. I felt like the scumbag in the song. The strung-out tones were fitting. Nothing like Shane MacGowan singing how he could have been someone on a bleak Monday morning in December to make you think of taking to the drink again. Hair of the dog was on my mind.
Beside me, the bed was stone cold. Robin must have been up for a while. I stumbled into the bathroom and got the water going. Standing under the shower with the jets of water spraying painfully across my face, I thought of what my life had come to, the point in the path that I was at. I thought of my work, the opportunities that were opening up to me now with this trip I was about to take. I was
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