Hugo and I arrive back at the gallery after a long lunch in Covent Garden. I'm worried Natasha will care how long we've been gone, but when I walk through the door, she's standing by my desk, waving me over.
'Oli,' she says, 'sit down. Sit down.'
'What?' I say. Sit down? I feel panic wash over me. Has something happened to Mac? To Maggie?
'I have huge news!' she says.
'Good news?' Hugo asks.
'Yes,' Natasha snaps.
I take a seat at my desk. 'Okay. Fire away.' 'Do you remember Alison Waite?'
'Who?'
'She was at the opening. I introduced the two of you.'
'You introduced me to a lot of people.'
'She's the CEO of Southern Star Expeditions.' I feel my body stiffen.
'The Antarctica lady?'
'Yes, that one.'
'What does she want?'
'Well,' says Natasha, 'do you remember she told you about an expedition she was organising for women artists, writers, musicians … ?'
'Yeah, I think so.'
'She wants you to curate the show when they all get back from Antarctica.'
'Really?' I ask.
'Yeah! And that's not even the best part!' I laugh. 'What is then?'
'She wants you to go with them on the expedition.'
'What?'
'She wants you to go to Antarctica!'
'How?'
'On a boat! From South America!' she exclaims. Hugo interjects, 'No way! How cool is that?'
'No,' I say, shaking my head. 'Tell her no.'
'What?' says Natasha, dumbfounded.
I look down at the polished concrete and imagine it turning to water. I imagine the gallery flooding. Water stretching until it's here. There. Everywhere. All around, for miles and miles.
I feel the earth rocking. It's all back and forth. Back and forth.
'Sorry. But my answer is no,' I say, and excuse myself for the bathroom.
***
Later, as I'm stepping out of the shower, my phone starts to ring. I rush to answer it, seeing that the number is Australian, but my fingers are wet, and the touch screen won't read wet hands. The phone rings out. I dry my hands and return the call.
Maggie picks up on the second ring. 'Hello, my love,' she says. Her voice is croaky, though I feel a smile widening on hearing it. My entire being seems to fill out.
'Hey, Maggie.'
'How was your show?' she asks.
'Good. Really good,' I say, beaming. 'I have the exhibition brochure to post to you.'
'Yes! Please do!'
'How are you?'
'Oh, don't you worry about that,' she says, 'I'm calling for a more important reason.'
'Oh yeah—like what?' I ask.
Maggie starts coughing. The deep kind of cough that makes you wince with sympathy. I hear Mac talking in the background. Something about water, and calling back later. 'No, no,' I hear her say between coughs. Her voice elsewhere in the room. 'I'm fine.'
I wait until she returns to the phone.
'Natasha tells me you've been offered a gig in Antarctica.'
I feel the air rush out of me. 'Well. Potentially.'
'You know,' she croaks, 'I have this idea, that all the souls in the world return to the Antarctic … It's the oldest river mouth … I like to think that Robynne is there … That she went home.'
I say nothing.
'Oh, Oli,' she says at last, 'you have to go!'
'I can't,' I say. 'Maggie … I just can't.'