The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Ten

I wonder how they spent their weekends. Eloise and him. What did the grinning fucker do with her at the weekend? Take her to fancy restaurants? What the fuck did they talk about? Where Eloise didn't seem like the materialistic type, he seemed like he might be cold. Stand-offish.

Though what the fuck did I know. She married him. Guess that meant she can at least have a normal conversation with him without the emotional avalanche I'd almost smothered her with yesterday.

Still, I bet he's fucking boring. Did that mean he had a massive cock then? Brilliant.

I know what I'd do with her if I got to spend the weekend with her. I'd spent long enough fantasising about it. Depending on which version we were in, I'd wake her up by kissing her neck and whispering in her ear, then I'd position myself between her legs and slide inside her, where I'd proceed to make love to her slowly without coming for at least an hour. Yeah, right, mate.

This would give me time to savour every inch of her with my hands and my mouth until she begged me to stop.

I groan aloud as the image plays out in my mind. Afterwards, I'd let her lie in bed whilst I made her breakfast. Then we'd shower together, get dressed and go to the park, or if she didn't want to go out we'd curl up on the couch where she'd lie with her head on my lap and read. I imagine Sunday would be much the same.

The loss I feel when I vacate my fantasy weekend with Eloise is fucking pathetic.

As it was, I'd be spending Saturday and Sunday alone. Because she couldn't "do" weekends she'd said as she left yesterday. She'd looked apologetic about it too. Whereas I'd just felt like an idiot for forgetting and my resentment for Oliver Alford had been refreshed.

Around 2pm I decide to do a bit of exercise to try and take my mind off her. Or off them to be precise. It would also serve to sweat some of the alcohol out of my system. Probably counterintuitive since I'll likely think about her the entire time and as I very much plan on getting pissed later.

Turns out I was right.

A run and some arm work do fuck all to get the image of her and him out of my head. Their weekend playing through my mind like a terrible soap I can't unsee no matter which channel I tune my brain to.

Later, as I'm about to head upstairs to the studio, my mobile goes off. I'm going to ignore it like I always do, but on the off-chance it's her I pull it out of my back pocket and check the screen. It's not her but my spirits lift a little anyway.

"Hey, how are you?" I ask as I walk back to the sofa and flop myself down.

"Hey you," she says, her voice soft and familiar — I never know quite how much I miss my sister's voice until I hear it. "I'm good, you? How's New York? I thought you would have called me before now? Tell me how the opening went. I texted you, did you not get it?" Her tone is accusing and I feel my spirit descend, shot through by guilt. I should have called her.

"I meant to, I've just been really busy setting everything up. There's been a shit ton of interviews, the opening," I explain, weasel-like. "It's going good though. Great actually."

"I know. I looked it up online," she says. She sounds proud. "I'm glad to hear it — so when're you back again?"

For some reason, I look at the large digital clock on the wall in the kitchen, which tells me nothing. "I'm due back in London on the 20th."

"So did you sell anything?" She sounds like she's eating something now. Quavers most likely.

"Yeah, pretty much everything."

"Oh my god, Aidan! I told you! Why do you sound so bloody miserable then?"

I scrub my hand over my mouth and through my hair. "Cause it's just the way I sound, Niamh."