Hugo fades from my life like a scar. Pink turning into white. So that even as the days turn into weeks, I still see him on my skin every time I undress.
At the gallery, Natasha has stopped asking what happened. No more whys. It's a relief, because I don't have any answers.
Today, she's already in when I arrive. 'Have you checked your emails?' she asks.
I put her coffee down on her desk. 'Nope,' I say. 'Why?'
'Remember Alison Waite, the one who's planning the Antarctica trip?'
I cast my mind back a year. Mutter, 'Yeah—why?'
'Well, the expedition is next month, and the curator who took it on when you turned it down has had to pull out. Health reasons or something.'
I feel my body contract.
'They still want you.'
I shake my head.
'Oli, this will be huge for you!' says Natasha, adding, 'I've already told her you'll think about it.'
***
Without Hugo, my weekends are long and drawn out. I become a tourist, trying to spend as little time in my apartment as possible. One weekend it's Tate Britain. The next it's Any Amount of Books. This weekend it's the National Gallery.
From my home in Bethnal Green, I take the Central line to Holborn, then the Piccadilly line to Leicester Square. The sky is ashen, the rain falling in that way I've become so used to: a drizzle so fine the droplets catch in my hair, and land on my cheeks with the slightest touch. Despite the rain, a street performer is still presenting his act to a cluster of children in plastic ponchos. I feel in my pockets for change, find a pound coin and toss it in his hat. Inside the gallery I shed my layers, leaving my scarf, gloves and winter coat in the cloakroom.
For hours, I wander through rooms with blood-red walls and polished floors. My limbs heavy. A distant ache. Sleepwalking. Until a certain picture wakes me up.
It's Piero del Pollaiuolo's Apollo and Daphne. A portrait of a man, swollen with desire. Engorged. And a woman, turning into a tree. Becoming something else. Her outstretched arms, wooden. Sprouting leaves. One leg, rippled bark. Rooted to the earth. She can't move.
I know this story.
And I want to look away. Because there's a growing pain in my side. Piercing purple. Muscle remembering. But I can't. I can't take my eyes off her.
I can't take my eyes off his thigh, riding up under hers. Between her legs. Spreading her legs. Opening her up. His hands, wrapped around her hips. Holding her down. Her eyes, half open. Caught in a dream. A dreamy romance. A nightmare. The Freeze.
I can hear her screaming. Is this really happening?
I stumble backwards, collapse onto the couch in the middle of the room.
Blood dripping from the walls. Plush leather. A dead animal. I shudder.
As, for the first time in years, the clouds open above the desert. And I feel my eyes watering. Blink.
Tears fall out of me like rain. Filling all the rivers he'd carved out.