The Love of My Afterlife(73)
I knock back my drink and signal to the staff for another. “It’s taken up a lot of my life. Too much of it, to be honest.”
Cooper bunches his mouth to the side and sips at his drink. He looks brighter than usual—he’s not wearing black today, but instead a light blue linen shirt. He looks…All this time I was living so close to him. And now…No. Don’t think about that. Tonight is for fun only.
“Have you considered therapy?” he says. “I don’t want to be that guy, but Em swore by it and—”
I prickle, thinking about my GP. How she said she was convinced that I would benefit from counselling. How the very thought of telling a total stranger all of my feelings makes me want to throw up. “Have you considered therapy?” I shoot back.
He surprises me by nodding, a small laugh escaping him. “I…That was the appointment I just had. My first session. Figured it was about time to start dealing with Em and thinking how I might get back to writing at some point. I know she’d hate it that I’d stopped.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Oh. That’s great, Cooper. Wow. Had that been on the cards for a while then?”
He shakes his head. “I booked it after we went to see my parents.”
“Why then?”
He looks down at his glass. “I think that’s the first time I’ve properly laughed since Em died. It felt…like a relief. I wanted more of it.”
I catch my breath as it occurs to me that getting involved with Cooper—a man who is still dealing with the grief of losing his sister—may not be the most considerate idea I’ve ever had when I’m also going to expire in a couple of days. But then…we barely know each other. He’d probably be a bit sad, but he’s dealt with far worse. And this is all still pretty casual, right? An entirely sex-based dalliance? He’ll be alright. Won’t he?
“I made you laugh that night!” I say proudly, trying to distract myself from my own dark thoughts.
“You did. I’m grateful for it.”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” I shrug him off, blushing. “Just a natural skill of mine.”
“One of many,” he says, in a voice low enough to send a shiver right through me. Yes. Definitely an entirely sex-based dalliance.
The waitress brings over our starters along with a pot of paint and a paintbrush.
“Now,” she says. “this may look like paint, but it is an edible coulis, perfectly prepared to accompany your starter.” She puts a square white plate down in front of me. “You paint the sauce onto your plate, in any way you like. I’m a fan of thick, abstract splotches, some diners prefer a simple ground layer, others a pointillist application, although if you choose that, your food may cool down a little more than we would advise.”
I look at the plate, and at the paint pot and then at the other plate that holds my paté. I look over at Cooper, and he has a similar setup but with a piece of fish, his paint a dubious green colour that the waitress says is made from broccoli.
“But…why?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Excuse me?” The waitress blinks.
“Why did you not pour the sauce on already?”
She gawps at us. “Because the point is to paint it?”
“Yes, but why?” Cooper adds.
The woman shakes her head. “Because the plate is the canvas,” she explains slowly, as if we are dumb.
“No-one else has ever asked you why before?” I ask.
She shakes her head again before backing away, eyeing us curiously.
“Again, sorry.” Cooper laughs. “It had good ratings online, so hopefully the food is actually delicious and we’re just a pair of dickheads who don’t quite get the concept bit of Concept and Caramel.”
“That’s definitely it. I mean, I know for a fact you’re a dickhead.”
I pick up the paint pot and dump its contents over my food. It splodges messily right out to the edges of the plate.
Cooper tuts. “And you call yourself an artist.”
“I’ve never called myself an artist.”
“You should. Those drawings…”
I frown. “I don’t really do that anymore.”
“You don’t like doing it?”
“I love doing it. I just…” I trail off awkwardly. I just what? I got burned in school and gave up? Gave up on the thing I loved more than anything else?
I grab my glass of water and down it.
Cooper smiles. “Well, if you ever have an exhibition, I’ll be first in line to buy a piece.”
He forks some miso cod into his mouth and swallows it. He waits for me to take a bite of my paté, which is claggy, the sauce tasting like actual paint.
“McDonald’s?” he whispers, a smile playing around his eyes.
I nod. “Yes, please.”
36
We get out of the cab at Paddington and walk past a pub where a group sitting at the tables outside are singing “Happy Birthday” to one pink-cheeked man in the middle. His face glows over a little Victoria sponge stuffed with candles.
The man looks embarrassed to be the centre of attention, but also kind of overjoyed. All of those people there celebrating him. All of them looking at him with love or, at least, like. That must be a really nice feeling.