Page 42 of Shame

God, pull it together, Grace.

Luke is shaking Sam’s hand, which is a weird thing they do, but again, Prestons. Are. Weird.

Hazel is watching me, then she leans into Sam and smiles. “We should get going.”

Like she knows something is wrong, and she’s protecting Sam from it. I can’t say I blame her. I nod, and remind her that I do want to have coffee soon.

When we’re alone, Luke steps back a little, giving me a bit more space. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he mutters under his breath. “I was working on something and time got away from me.”

Old Grace would let him off the hook. That’s not me anymore. “I was worried you weren’t going to make it.”

“I felt like shit when I realized how late it had gotten. And then I had to shave and shower and…” He glances around. “I haven’t missed the press, have I? They said they’d be here toward the end of the night. I wanted it to be really busy when—”

“They haven’t come back yet. That part is fine.”

He exhales sharply. “Good.”

“Do you want a drink?”

“No, I’m good.” He glances around. “I want to see the show. Do you have time to take me through it? Is there a booklet? How does this work?”

“We’ll be interrupted as we go, but as long as that’s okay…”

He wraps his hand around my elbow, turning me so we’re looking right at each other. “This is all about you. I just want to watch and celebrate.”

My arms are bare tonight, I’m wearing a silky, sleeveless black turtleneck over my favourite skinny black trousers, and I thought it was a perfect artsy outfit, the right mix of conservative and unexpected. I hadn’t thought about what it would feel like to have my husband pressed against me, his hands on my bare skin.

I can’t breathe.

I want to arch into him, have him tighten that grip to the point it leaves marks.

That’s not what we have. That’s not what I am to him.

Another thought, one even more dangerous, whispers so quietly I can’t really hear it. I twist away from Luke, grabbing his hand because that’s better than him holding my arm, and I drag him to the front of the gallery.

Booklet. Check. “Here you go.”

I shove it into his hands, and he nods. “Right. Alex gave me one of these. Sorry, I forgot.” He gives me a sad smile.

Nope, we’re not doing sad right now. I squeeze his fingers. “It’s all good. So this is my first piece…” I slide into my shtick, the narrative that is mostly true and safe for public consumption. It falls apart when we get to the back of the gallery, but it takes us almost an hour to get there, and by then, I’m used to having him stand next to me and look at my creations, my heart’s deepest desires come to life in three dimensions outside my body.

And then it’s time for the final piece.

I’ve caught him looking at it already.

Death of a Marriage.

It’s poured plaster, with metal and fabric embedded in it. It’s the same pose Luke struck for me eighteen years ago. His body is bigger now, and in the sculpture, it’s even bigger than he is now. This is Luke at the worst of the firm’s crisis, when he was thick around the middle, not taking care of himself. Some of that weight had fallen off in the last year, and even more dropped since I found out about the affair.

The arms wrapped around him are mine. I cast them from a rubber mold that I made by actually embracing the plaster body.

I love it, and I hate it. I had felt such liberation when I made it six months ago, but then I didn’t leave him.

I’m not as brave as this creation.Fly, my lovely. Fly far away.

But I don’t.

Luke stands in front of it silently for ages. Then he clears his throat gruffly. “That’s…”

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