The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Two

Sometimes I really fucking hate Americans.

They sound totally fake in their enthusiasm for every single fucking thing except they're not - they're totally sincere, which annoys me more. Why the fuck are they so happy? What do they have that we British don't? Apart from the good teeth. Maybe that was it.

Also, I hate these fucking things. Showing off my shit for strangers, 'experts', critics. Like I want anyone to be able to see inside me let alone judge me for it.

I make it for myself. I exhibit it for the money. Because a guy needs to eat.

As I look around the crowded gallery I congratulate myself again for refusing to have my picture on the brochure. Being able to pass through unobserved and listen to what people really think is a gift.

On the other side of the room, I see Nicole and her husband -my sponsors for all intents and purposes. They're talking to a tall guy in a suit and a woman who has her back to me. They look like a couple but something is off. I should probably go over but I really can't be arsed making small talk. I'm shit at it.

The woman with them breaks away from the crowd and walks slowly toward the screen that's showing my film. The first thing that strikes me about her is the sadness. It's coming off her in waves, but she's hiding it well. Not well enough to me, because I hide it too and so can smell it at fifty feet from other people, but well enough to the self-absorbed, overly-happy Manhattanites milling about the room.

She's tall and slender with alabaster skin and light strawberry-blonde hair. The silk floral dress she's wearing seems to float on top of her body rather than cover it; hiding everything and nothing at the same time, the colours of the fabric highlight her skin and hair perfectly. 

I'm not going to pretend it's my artistic eye that's stopping me taking my eyes off her. Though I wouldn't mind filming her, moving, smiling.  There's an etherealness to her, a presence that draws the eye and demands a close study.  She's fucking beautiful actually.

I wonder if its the fact that she's so closed off that makes her more attractive. Distant, untouchable. The kind of women I've always been attracted to.

In any case, she exists utterly in her own space, completely oblivious to everyone else in the room — including every man she passes who steal hungry glances at her.

That's when it hits me... I know that elegant, graceful, unattainable poise - I'd know it anywhere. Even 12 years since the last time I saw it. I know her. I've loved her.

Eloise fucking Airens.

I can't move. Not right away. I just stare, mouth open, palms dampening with sweat, heart racing. The thoughts and questions bombard me all at once. What the fuck is she doing here? Why is she in New York? At my show? Why does she look so fucking sad? Who's the suit-wearing wanker she's with? Does she still wear glasses when she reads?

Then I realise that I've been standing still staring at her for far too long and so I force my feet to move, towards her. I brush my hand through my hair and straighten my jacket as I cross the large space to where she is. There's no way on God's green earth she'll remember me, not a fucking chance.

Was there?

As I approach she's sipping elegantly on a glass of champagne while studying my video. She's frowning at it like you'd frown at a dogfight, yet somehow the frown still manages to look fucking exquisite on her.

She looks older, wiser - like she's lived through something and come out of it stronger and more beautiful, the pain sharpening and defining those delicate features of hers I'd imprinted on my memory. I haven't seen her in the flesh in over a decade but she still makes my dick throb and my hands shake like no one ever has.