The Love of My Afterlife(26)

Oh my god.

I squeak.

One of the happy people on the poster is Jonah.





14





How can this be? I peer closer. “Yes!” Jonah is right there, beaming into the camera along with six other people. Some cynics would call this a coincidence. And just a few days ago I would have been one of those cynics. But now, knowing what I know about soulmates, I can see that it’s clearly a sign that Jonah and I are fated to meet, just like Merritt said. I scan the text—it’s advertising a weekly art class called Drawing from Life. Jonah draws? I draw! I mean, I used to. But still. Jonah is interested in art too? I suddenly see us together, wandering the cavernous rooms of the National Gallery, gently disagreeing about who the real star of the Postimpressionist movement is. He would eventually acquiesce to my superior opinion, take me into his arms by a Cézanne, and kiss me on the nose.

I feel the press of paws against my calves and turn to find the dog-walking woman and her rambunctious group of hounds are still there.

“I walk past this sign every single day,” the woman says, scanning the poster. “And I think, ‘Oh my! That guy is really something.’?” I expect her to point at Jonah, but she doesn’t. She points at the man next to him. The one with the bald head and the black turtleneck. “I think to myself, ‘I’d like to go to this class.’ But I’m terrible at drawing.”

I shrug. “I don’t think that matters. Drawing is mostly about the act of it, I reckon. The act of creating something from nothing and the way that feels. In the beginning, it doesn’t much matter if it’s good or not because—”

I cut myself off. What right have I got to talk about drawing? I haven’t done it in over ten years.

“Do you think you’ll go?”

The classes are held in Notting Hill once a week—and it’s on tomorrow night! And while waiting a whole day isn’t ideal, at least Jonah will be there and he’ll be standing still. Plus I won’t be so sweaty, no matter how hot I look in this retro running outfit.

I nod, holding my phone up to take a picture of the poster and the address of the class.

The woman’s eyes widen. “If you will go, I will go. We could go together! For support. I always find these new situations to be nerve-racking.”

I shake my head quickly. “Oh no…No, that’s alright. I can go on my own. I won’t be staying for the whole class anyway. I just need to speak to someone there.” And get him to kiss me as soon as possible.

“Let’s go together. Let’s ‘buddy up.’?”

This has now become uncomfortable. “I…I don’t do that,” I say as her dogs continue to jump up at me, the smaller one attempting to climb my leg.

“Why not?” The woman tilts her head to the side.

“Well…I’m not exactly a ‘buddy’ kind of a person.”

The woman screws up her face. “What?”

“I don’t just hang around with people. Especially strangers.”

The woman pulls another face. “Then they will always be strangers if you never hang out with them. Never friends.”

“Exactly.”

The woman sighs, using a plastic bag to pick up one of the dogs’ poos and speedily twisting the bag closed into an efficient knot. “I would love to have more friends, but it’s hard in London, you see? All of my friends are dogs. And sometimes they’re not great friends. Like Ian, who, as you now know, is Machiavelli in a cute dog suit. I did have Gant—he was my lover. But now he’s gone.” She bows her head solemnly.

“Oh god. He died?”

“No. He got caught under the spell of another lover.”

The expression on her face reminds me of something, but I can’t quite tell what. And then it comes to me. She looks like I did in Merritt’s This Was Your Life video. Entirely deflated.

“Fine.” I blow the air out through my cheeks. “Let’s just go together.”

“We’ll buddy up?”

“No. No buddying up. We’ll go into the class together if you want. But I won’t be staying to draw, so don’t expect me to, like, wait around for you or anything.”

“That’s okay with me!” The woman grins and holds out her hand. “I’m Frida.”

“My name’s Delphie,” I say, giving her hand a quick shake.

Frida hesitates for a moment before leaning in and lowering her voice.

“If we were buddies, I’d probably have to tell you. Those pants, they give you…What’s the correct expression in England? A caramel slice?”

A caramel slice? What? I follow her gaze down to my crotch, and it becomes very clear that she means camel toe. That’s why everyone has been staring at me. Good god. Once again I use the noticeboard as a shield while I try to yank the fabric out, but it’s extremely elastic and snaps right back into its previous X-rated position.

“They never looked this way on my mum,” I complain, pulling at the fabric again.

“You probably just have a fatter labia. Some labia are just hungry. It’s all natural and human, don’t be upset.”

Absolutely mortified, I back away from Frida before turning and immediately jogging off down the path towards home, hands placed firmly over my private parts.