Page 32 of Days You Were Mine

‘Every art student should spend time in Florence, in my opinion; it really ought to be a prerequisite for a fine arts degree.’

He leans forward on his desk.

‘Your style is still developing, I can see. But what I like is the way you capture the casual immediacy of a snap. And I wonder if this should be your definition, those off-camera moments, a behind-the-scenes glimpse into the life of an up-and-coming band. All the normal stuff – cooking, washing, eating – alongside the making of music.’

‘That’s sort of what I’m trying to do already, but I also want the paintings, in particular, to be stylised and instantly recognisable rather than an almost photographic likeness.’

‘Yes, I’d agree with that. Shall we have a glass of champagne? I’ve had rather a good idea.’

While Robin is out of the room fetching the champagne, I ask Jake, ‘What do you think he means?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. But I can tell he likes you. He’s rarely so complimentary, trust me. If he thinks something is shit, our songs included, then he says so.’

Robin opens the bottle expertly, a gentle sliding out of the cork, no pop, no fizz, and pours it into three pale turquoise glasses, so thin and fragile I am almost afraid to touch them.

‘Venetian,’ he says, when I ask. ‘Eighteenth century.’

He raises his glass and the three of us clink.

‘You know, it seems to me that the two of you are having a moment. Your careers are heading in the same direction and at exactly the same time. You’re connected not just as lovers but as artists, and I think we should capitalise on that.’

He pauses, but his eyes never leave my face.

‘Alice, how would you like to have your own show here at the gallery? Focusing on your drawings and paintings of the band, documenting six months in the life of Disciples. We could tie the show and the album launch together – maybe do both here at the gallery next year. What do you think?’

I put my glass down on the table with precision, even though my hands are beginning to shake and my heart is racing.

‘What do I think?’ I say, trying to sound considered and sensible, though it’s hard with this gigantic grin that is spreading across my face. ‘I think that sounds incredible!’

‘Excellent,’ Robin says, and he raises his glass again. ‘A toast, then. To Jacob Earl and Alice Garland, whose moment has well and truly arrived.’

Now

Luke

Opposite-sex reunions may become fraught. Quite often the birth parent will still be young and attractive and the child may mistake its craving for connection as a kind of infatuation.

Who Am I? The Adoptee’s Hidden Traumaby Joel Harris

I’m on a date with my mother, or at least that’s how it feels when I arrive home and find Alice applying lipstick in front of the mirror. She’s coming to the Reborn gig with me, a pressurising prospect to be sure.

I’m in a state of high anxiety; my default setting, Hannah would say. Partly I’m nervous about all the other A&R sharks circling around Reborn, because I want to sign them so intensely, so savagely, it’s beginning to hurt. I haven’t signed a successful act yet and I am desperate to prove myself.

And then there’s the fact of hanging out with my birth mother, whom I scarcely know despite her almost constant presence in our lives. I’ve been craving time alone with her, but now that it is here, I feel almost afraid.

As usual, Alice puts me at ease.

‘Luke, don’t worry about me tonight. I know you’ll have lotsof people you need to talk to, and I’m good at blending into the background. You won’t even know I’m there.’

This I doubt very much. Alice is the kind of woman people look at wherever she goes; she stands out, I think that’s it. She looks pretty incredible for her age, tall and slim, her shoulder-length dark hair without one strand of grey. She dresses well, too, tonight in dark jeans and a checked blue and white shirt, a pair of navy Converse on her feet. She won’t look out of place at the gig – not that at forty-seven there’s any reason why she should. Meeting Alice has recalibrated my views. I used to think late forties seemed far off and incalculable; now it feels scarcely any different to my own age.

A moment of awkwardness when Hannah arrives home from work to babysit and Samuel refuses to go into her arms. He clings to Alice and starts to cry, and Hannah’s face – embarrassed, devastated – destroys me.

‘Don’t be so silly.’ Alice uncurls his hands from around her neck and passes him over, walking quickly from the room. But the moment sears, it really does.

‘Just ’cos he’s tired,’ I say, kissing Hannah goodbye, then a quick kiss to my baby’s head. ‘You’ve got him all to yourself now.’

But I see the slight shame in her downcast smile, that her baby, whom she carried on her hip for the first six months of his life, should prefer anyone other than her.

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