Now that Grace is happily single, she is ready to go on an adventure and to discover her country along with the United States as she goes on her book tour. She expects great things now that her book is finally getting published - settling down, may...
I wasn't sharing his enthusiasm for starting over at all until we entered Kenwood House property. I don't know what this has to do with starting over, but I didn't care when I first laid eyes on paintings by Turner. I've studied them all from Modigliani to Rembrandt to Da Vinci to Michael Angelo, but something in Turner's work speaks to me.
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When I first laid eyes on The Fighting Temeraire on a field trip to the National Gallery in London a few years ago nothing else existed. It made me cry. It spoke to me at the time, and I knew despite my love for English Literature that I was in my field studying art. It's fascinating. Art is a concrete proof of our evolution in history as a society, as civilisations, as artists. I've loved every minute studying it.
Despite my brain working overtime, having fun analysing every piece of hard work in front of me, my mouth keeps silent. I'm happy Marcel doesn't force conversation, because we don't need to talk. All this art and history is speaking for us. It's beautiful. I wonder why I've never heard of this place before. If I could, I'd love to work here. I'd love to take care of these magnificent works of art.
My hands on a Rembrandt!? Could you imagine? Or better yet, a Turner!
I haven't really paid attention to the amount of time I have been standing, staring, admiring this painting. It takes Marcel's steps on the old creaking wooden floor to distract me, and drag my attention away from the subject of my attention.
I don't know why, but my heart at this instant feels full. It feels heavy, pounding in my chest, as my body feels lighter than feathers. My eyes crossing Marcel's makes me smile instantly. I'm happy right now. I realise how well he knows me, and how he's undeniably changed. I'm not emotionally ready to give him another chance, because I wouldn't survive being played again by him. But I won't lie, my heart is so happy right now, I'm being poisoned by memories of our best time together.
In my mind, we're back in my old flat in Manchester the first time our lips touched. The first time I've felt this infatuated by the touch of someone. We're back at the dungeon when I danced for him. We're back in Edinburgh in my hotel room, in the conference hall, stealing every moment we could together.
I turn my head away from him. I can't let these emotions get back to me. I'm not ready with the downs that come with the highs of what was our relationship. I walk to another old-smelling beautifully historic room to escape this moment of reverie.
The sound of my feet fade to be muffled by the carpet I step on before I lay my eyes on a self portrait. I could recognise this man and his techniques anywhere. I'm standing a couple of feet away from a Rembrandt. I feel overwhelmed by the history I have in front of me. This painting is maybe 350 years old.
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