‘I made them. They’re paper sculptures sprayed with metallic paints,’ she said, her voice animated.
‘That must have taken ages.’
‘It did. I found some of the objects – like the peacock feathers. I collect stuff.’ Her eyes were bright like they were that day at her college. This was her passion.
‘Is this for college, then?’
‘No, it’s for a competition. The winner gets five grand and their own exhibition at a gallery.’
‘You’ll win it easily,’ he said.
‘I doubt it,’ she laughed. ‘But the runner-up prizes are quite good. Maybe I’ll get a year’s supply of pencils or something.’
‘No, you’ll win it. Seriously. That one’s the best.’ He pointed to his favourite. ‘You’ve got this in the bag.’
‘I like that one too. I’ll get it printed. Fingers crossed.’
‘Is that the dream for you? To have your own exhibition one day?’
Her face flushed. ‘I suppose so. It’s the one thing I’m good at. But it’s not like I have a choice about it. Ihaveto do it. It would be amazing if one day someone liked my work enough to pay for it.’
Will knew exactly what she meant. He understood that compulsion completely. ‘It’ll happen! You’re uber-talented.’
‘Even if you’re “uber-talented” – which I’m not – it’s difficult to earn a living. I chose my course because you study design and illustration as well as art, so hopefully I can support myself that way. I couldn’t work in an office. It would kill me.’
‘Me too.’
The guy in the fedora lit a pipe and the smell wafted over, reminding him of his grandad who died a long time ago.
‘So, what’s the big dream for you?’ she asked.
‘Same as you. I just want to earn enough money to carry on with my music. It’s about doing what you love. Because you have to.’
She looked at him. Really looked at him, like she was peering into his soul. And something in her expression made him worry she was about to deliver the bad news.
Well, he wouldn’t make it easy for her. He wasn’t going home yet.
‘Same again?’ he asked, nodding to her half-empty glass.
‘White wine would be great, thanks.’
As they drank, she told him about her course. How the rich kids spent so much money on their projects it was hard to compete. He told her about the record company that was interested and the gigs he had lined up. Neither of them mentioned Aidan or his family.
They had a few more drinks which – along with the whiskey he’d had on the train on an empty stomach – were taking effect. He was loosening up, enjoying himself even. He still rushed to fill gaps in the conversation – he didn’t want her to say what she’d come to say. She was tipsy, too, leaning in when she spoke and laughing at all his lame jokes. He kept her talking right up to last orders.
‘Oh no!’ she cried when she heard the bell. ‘I didn’t realise the time. We’ve missed the last train.’
‘We’ll have to get the night bus. We can get one from Trafalgar Square.’
They downed the dregs of their drinks, put on their coats, and stepped out into the cold.
‘Do you still live with your parents?’ His words formed clouds in the chilly night air.
‘Yes. Unfortunately.’
‘It’s not far from mine. I’ll see you home.’
‘If you’re sure…’