LOVE'S GHOST (a romance) (21 page)

I was pulling on my gym gear in the bedroom with the television on. At least I was making it an early start. So early that the breakfast news was still on the TV.

After they’d finished a story about a flash flood in Devon, the presenter moved on to the next item.

“The art world was shocked yesterday when Carl Rask announced his retirement at the age of thirty-two. He made the announcement at the opening of a retrospective of his work in Stockholm. It was a brief announcement and didn’t go into the reasons why he had made this decision at such a young age. Carl Rask came to prominence seven years ago with his multimedia installation called Lost In Other Worlds. His turbulent private life has also grabbed the headlines over the years. Since making the statement about his retirement, Carl Rask has been unavailable for comment.”

I stared at the TV even as they moved on to the sports news. Retired? At thirty-two years old? What had happened?

I continued putting on my gym gear. But I was slow in pulling up my trousers, losing myself in my thoughts. Glancing out of the window, I saw the sun break through the clouds. It seemed a shame to be stuck inside on such a beautiful spring day.

I put my jogging jacket on in case the weather turned yet again and headed outside. I didn’t want to think about the man, but I couldn’t help it. Why would Carl throw it all away like that?

I wasn’t going to the gym. I was going jogging. I took my usual route, walking towards the river, performing the odd lunge on the way, when nobody was looking, to warm up.

I skipped down the steps to the pathway that ran along the river. I looked both ways. It was a spur of the moment decision to change my route. Instead of turning right, towards Kingston, I turned left.

I hadn’t planned to go far. And I’m not sure exactly when I made the decision to keep jogging towards Carl’s place. What was the point? We hadn’t been in touch with each other for ages. Russell’s death had
 
polluted our dalliance, our fling, our romance. Call it what you will, it had sullied it. If timing is the key to comedy, it’s also a major factor in misfortune.

But despite this, I kept jogging. Sunbury kept getting closer and closer. Eventually, I was outside the large gates of Carl’s house. That’s when I had a wobble. What was I doing here? I didn’t want to push the button on the intercom. I didn’t want to announce my presence. It was a foolish idea.

As I turned to walk away, the large iron gates began to hum and slide apart. I walked through them before I could change my mind. I approached the front of the house in all its timbered, natural glory.
 

The front door was open so I slowly walked in.

“Hello?” I called out. There was no answer. I tried again. “Hello?”

I walked past the flotation room. That evening seemed like a distant memory, and one that belonged to somebody else. So much had happened since that night.

I walked into the living room, then the kitchen. As usual, everything was neat and tidy. Not a sign of him. I turned the corner and glanced into the studio, expecting the usual chaos.

It was like a different room. The floorboards had been cleaned. Considering the mess they had been in, I could only assume they had been sanded down and revarnished. And, as far as I could see, there were no canvases in the room at all.

I decided to go in. I opened the door to the studio and looked in. It had started raining outside, and a wind had got up. The raindrops rattled against the huge window panes. I took my first step into the room and looked to my right. The back wall was clean — all the paint splatters had been painted over in brilliant white paint.

“Good morning.” The voice was coming from my left. It made me jump. I spun round and saw Carl, slumped against the back wall, the side I hadn’t checked as I’d walked in.

He looked like he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days. Stubble dominated his face. He wore ripped jeans and an old, tight t-shirt. His eyes looked heavy with a lack of sleep. But he still looked like Carl. The dark hair, the dark eyes that still had the ability to stare right into me. And yet, there was a glaze over them, a layer of I don’t know what.

“Good morning,” I said.

“You out jogging?”

“Yes. It was such a nice day.”

Carl looked out of the huge windows, at the rain coming down, as if it was the first time he’d looked out that day.

“It was a nice day when I started out,” I said.

He nodded. “It’s funny how quickly the weather can change. You can look all around you and see these white fluffy clouds. Then minutes later, there’s nothing but black ones threatening you.”

He was talking to me but also seemed to be talking to himself.

“I hear that you’ve retired,” I said.

He rubbed his cheek. “Yes.”

“So young?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Art doesn’t follow the normal route. You don’t grow with experience.” He shrugged. “Well, some do. Some people produce phenomenal work late in life. Look at Picasso.”

Carl pushed himself up and wandered over to the far window for a closer look at the rain teeming down. I don’t think he wanted to look at me while saying what he had to say.

“Me? That was never going to be me. I knew I was an artist with limits. Yes, what I produced was fresh. But the well I drew it from was shallow. I went there one too many times. No, my best work is done.”

There was a pause.

“I should have died straight after my last painting. That would have given me a rock and roll glamour, ensured my artistic immortality. I could have been the Kurt Cobain of the art world, the Jim Morrison, the John Lennon.”

I had to jump in. “Don’t say that.”

He looked at me over his shoulder. I expected his face to be sad, but it was anything but. His smile was wider than any I’d seen on him. It still wasn’t beaming, his face wouldn’t allow it to go that far. But he did seem happy.

“Do you want to know what my last painting was?”

I tilted my head and waited.

“It was the painting of you.”

I was shocked.

“I nearly didn’t finish it. Several times I almost threw it against the wall, or put a knife through it. But, yes, that was my last painting.”

I think guilt must have spread itself across my face like one of the dark clouds outside.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Don’t feel bad. It’s not your fault. How can it be your fault? And I’m fine with it. Completely fine. I feel better than I have in a long time. But, yes, it was you who made me give up painting. And I thank you for it. I’m not being glib. I seriously want to thank you for it.”

He turned round and walked towards me, stopping an arm’s length away. I wanted to reach out and touch his stubbled cheek, but I didn’t. His eyes were piercing, but soft too. It’s hard to describe. It was as if, for the first time, I had access to his real emotions.

“Painting that picture of you. Oh, man, I’ve never experienced so many ups and downs. I’ve never put so much into a picture. Never. I wanted to capture you. But the closer I got, the more painful the experience became. For a while, I couldn’t work out why. Just couldn’t work it out.”

Carl took another step towards me and gently ran his hand across my features. He was slow and deliberate.

“But then I realised what it was. The closer I came to capturing your essence in paint, the more I wanted you in real life. The painting just wasn’t good enough anymore. No painting was good enough.”

He sighed.

“I’ve given up so much for my art. I used to have a real sense of vocation. It was more important than anything. Other people were just… how do I describe it?… in the way. Sources of inspiration, but nothing more. There was passion in my life, maybe even “love”, or the peculiar kind of love only I could feel, but…”

He took his hand away from my face and stared down at his feet.

“No. Who am I kidding? It was never love. I never felt love. Two women killed themselves. And though I’ll never truly know why, I’ll always have the suspicion that it was because I told them I loved them, yet never really did. And that they knew that. They saw right through me, and they knew that.”

Carl shook his head, as if in disbelief.

“Then you came along. I’m not saying I’m in love with you, because I’m not sure I know what that is. But in painting you, I discovered that, for once, I’d like to try and give myself the space to find out.”

He stared at me like a child unsure of whether he was about to be punished or rewarded. I hadn’t seen this vulnerability in him before.

“Does any of that make sense to you?” he asked.

I bit my lip. Tears were queuing up in my eyes.

I nodded.

He took me in his arms and we kissed. It was a kiss unlike the others we’d shared. It was a work of art.

IT WAS A gamble, a complete change of lifestyle. It was a crazy idea but, probably for the first time in my life, I felt comfortable with “crazy”.

Ulterior Models, the agency I was meant to head up, was in uproar. No sooner had it been acquired by the new owners than it was being sold again. It was for the best. If I’d taken the job, my heart wouldn’t have been in it. I’d quit before I’d started.

I’d found out that it was Carl Rask who had bought the agency. It was a touching gesture but not one I could accept. So I’d gone through the proper channels and told the headhunter that I’d changed my mind. Carl was not interested in owning a model agency that didn’t have me in charge, so he decided to sell it again.

I was sure that with somebody more committed to the role, the agency would go from strength to strength.

Emily drove me to Gatwick Airport.
 

We arrived in plenty of time. I wanted Emily to drop me off and drive away — I hate prolonged goodbyes, they’re too heart wrenching. But she insisted on helping me with my luggage, not that there was much of it, just the two suitcases. But she insisted, so she parked up and I grabbed a trolley.

After I’d checked in, we went for a coffee. Even though we both felt like we needed something stronger to get through this parting, it was only eleven o’clock in the morning, and Emily was driving. We sat at two tables overlooking the concourse.

“If you want to come back, don’t hesitate. Promise?” For once, Emily was the first to shed tears.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Just pack your bags and come straight back. Don’t even think about it. Get on a plane and let yourself in. That’s why you’re keeping that key. If you feel homesick, just look at that key and remember you can use it at any time.”

“Thank you, Em. Thank you so much.”

Her tears were encouraging mine to burst their banks. I couldn’t hold them back any longer. It was difficult to hug at a table, but we both leaned forward and went cheek to cheek. After a few moments, I pulled away to wipe my cheeks.

“And the same with you, Em,” I said. “Come over for the weekend as soon as you can. Try and make it a long weekend.”

“I will,” she said. “I will.”

It was time for me to take my hand luggage through security. Emma queued up with me, until she couldn’t go any further in the line without getting on the plane.

“This is it then,” I said.

“Yes, this is it.”

We hugged one final time. It was hard leaving the country of my birth. I’d never ever thought that I was the type to emigrate. But I needed a new start, that was for sure.
 

In the final few days, I’d found myself staring at buildings. It made me realise that most of the time I’d walked around with my eyes half shut. London is a beautiful city with architecture from centuries back. People hundreds of years ago had walked down streets that I walked down, looked up at buildings that I looked up at. But when you live in a place you stop noticing how awe-inspiring it is.

But as magnificent as buildings can be, it’s the people who truly enrich our lives. Emily was the best friend a woman could hope for.
 

I kept trying to say to myself that she would soon fly over for a visit. But it still wouldn’t be quite the same. I would no longer be able to pay her an impromptu visit. Of course our friendship would always remain strong, but it couldn’t possibly be quite as close. Bonds need constant reinforcement. Modern technology makes it easier to keep in touch. Mobile phones, Skyping — there’s no excuse for not saying hi to your nearest and dearest. But nothing beats face to face contact.

“You take care,” Emily said.

“And you.”

A final hug and then I watched my best friend disappear into the crowd, swallowed by people coming and going, people looking at departure boards, people staring at arrival boards.

I choked back more tears. Then I rummaged round in my hand luggage for a tissue. I blew my nose. It helped a little.

The flight to Ibiza was uneventful. I picked up the car I’d arranged to hire in advance of my visit. Except it wasn’t a “visit”, but I couldn’t stop thinking of it like that.

I couldn’t feel too sad for long. The sunny skies and the smell of Pine trees brightened my mood. It was time to look forward not back. This was going to be a brand new start.

I arrived in Santa Eulalia buoyed by the sights and sounds of this beautiful island. I parked by the beach and looked at my watch. I wouldn’t have time to go to the villa before meeting with Jax. Jax was the estate agent I’d dealt with in buying the small bar. The small bar that, when I looked to my right, I could see sitting at the bottom of the hill with no barrier between it and the beach.

It had oodles of charm. Its stone brickwork was sympathetic to the hill behind it. But it also needed a facelift. It was going to be difficult trying to retain its historical charisma while making it a safe and enticing place for people to eat and drink — morning, noon and night.
 

But I had help.

As well as being a bar, restaurant and café, the place was going to be a gallery. But it wouldn’t just have paintings in frames. Each and every wall would be an artwork in itself. Local artists would be instrumental in making our place unique.

I hadn’t wasted any time. Already there was a local artist working on a mural. When I got out of the car and walked round the side of the building, I was surprised to see him there.