Art takes a deep breath and for a minute I think he’s going to fire some barbs back at me but he says, ‘No. There isn’t. We can talk again when you’ve cooled down.’
‘Wow, you really can’t stop patronising me, can you?’ I say.
Art doesn’t say another word. He just turns and stalks out of the pub. I stare after him, my heart racing, adrenalin pumping through my veins. How dare he tell me I wasn’t being fair? I was being perfectly fair!
Wasn’t I?
No, I was. Of course I was. Anyway, I’ve got it all off my chest. I should feel liberated. At least I won’t have to hide my feelings anymore. And it’s not like we have to keep writing together now. Art will be gone fromNorthsidesoon.
This is good. This is all good.
So why do I feel even worse?
I plump myself down on a nearby banquette and stare across the room. Rafa and Rachel are laughing at something Francesca’s showing them on her phone. Roo is opening a present from one of her tarot-reader friends. Everyone’s having a good time. Apart from me.
Fucking Art Sullivan. He’s spoiled this night too. He’s spoiled everything.
Well, I’m not going to put a damper on Roo’s birthday bash. I’m not going to tell her what just happened. That can wait. I’ll tell her I’ve crashed and have to go to bed. I only hope she didn’t spot Art coming in.
I pull myself together and head back to her table. When she sees me approaching she says something to her tarot friend and walks over to me.
‘Hey!’ she says. ‘Did you see Art? He gave me a birthday card and went off to find you.’
So she did see him.
Also, he brought her a card?
‘He’s gone home,’ I say. ‘He only dropped in to say hi – he lives just across the bridge. He needed an early night.’ I manage an impressively convincing yawn. ‘We’ve got an early start tomorrow.’
‘Everything all right between you two?’ says Roo. ‘I mean, as much as it can be?’
‘Ah, you know,’ I say. ‘It’s a mess. But he’ll be gone soon. And he’s right about one thing.’ I yawn again, a real one this time. ‘We do have an early start.’
Maybe it’s the effect of the amazing witchy headpiece, but it’s like Roo can see right through me. ‘Are yousureyou’re all right?’
I force a smile. ‘I just need a good night’s sleep.’
I walk home from the bar. It’s barely dark, and it’s only a twenty-minute walk. I want to clear my head. And most of all, I want to burn off some of this anger.
Except it’s not just anger.
It’s misery. It’s mostly misery.
And also, if I’m being totally honest, guilt.
Because, as I stride across the bridge, I can’t help thinking there might be a chance, just a little chance, that Art was right when he said I wasn’t being fair to him. Yes, he kept something from me. Something huge. But if he’d told me, would it have made the last week easier? Would it have helped us do everything we’ve had to do? Wasn’t he actually right when he said it wouldhave added an unnecessary complication to an already insanely stressful time?
And as angry as I might be about him abandoningNorthside, can I really blame him? He never wanted to write for television. He wanted to make films. But his dream of being a film-maker didn’t work out. And now he has a chance to work on a film again, an American film with an award-winning script, albeit in a less creative role than the positions he’s held in the past. He could make good contacts there. It could be a way back to that world. Was it fair to yell at him for wanting to do that?
I know it wasn’t.
And in my heart I know that if I didn’t have these stupid feelings for him, if we were just friends, with benefits or otherwise, I wouldneverhave ranted at him the way I just did. Yes, I would have been pissed off that he hadn’t told me about the job offer. And rightly so. But I would almost certainly have brought it up straight away, as soon as he came back from running the errand for his mother. I wouldn’t have bottled it up for over twenty-four hours and then called him … oh God. I called him some terrible things.
I remember thinking that I couldn’t be angry with him because I’d changed the rules of our arrangement without telling him. But this … this gave me an excuse to be angry.
I realise I’m just about to walk past Art’s house and I hastily cross the road, where he won’t spot me if he happens to be looking out the window. I force myself not to glance across at his family home. How long will it take him to forget about me when he’s in New York? How long before he’s working the Sullivan charm on some glamorous American girl, someone who won’t snarl at him the way I just did?
I push that thought out of my mind and keep walking. I remember Art saying that the job hasn’t been an easy decision. Maybe he was even telling the truth. If he was, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t think it’s a difficult decision now. He’s probably counting the seconds until he can get on that plane to New York.