There’s no way I’m telling her about Simon and me. She has her own worries. She’s been so strong for me in the past, the least I can do is show some support to her now.
“I don’t know, you just looked far away. Sad. You’d tell me if there was anything wrong, wouldn’t you?”
I force a smile. “Of course I would. Stop projecting on me. You and Alex are going to be fine. You’re back on track.”
She grins. “D’you know what? I think we are.”
At two thirty that afternoon I’m pulling supplies out of the art cupboard when the door swings open. Niall walks in and hangs his jacket over a chair, revealing a baggy, paint-stained t-shirt that barely reaches his waistband
“You didn’t have to dress up just for me,” I say, deadpan.
He catches my eye and laughs. “What, this old thing?” He pulls at the hem and I get a brief glimpse of skin. I quickly raise my eyes so I’m looking at his face. “Just something I found at the bottom of the wardrobe.”
“All crumpled up in a paint pot?” I ask, trying not to look down again. I can picture the red and green streaks that criss-cross the front of the fabric, and the pale, taut stomach that lies underneath.
“Something like that.”
“Well, it suits you.”
He walks over and takes the pot from my hands. “You, of course, look as beautiful as ever.”
His words light a little fire inside me. “Thank you.”
We work together, putting the equipment out, making small talk as we go. We both try to take the rise out of each other, and fall into a comforting banter. It’s such a contrast to the silence I’ve been enduring; easy, pleasant.
“Hey, I meant to ask. Have you heard from Cameron?” Niall turns to me when we’ve finished getting ready. There are a few minutes until the kids arrive. “He hasn’t been here lately.”
“No, he’s laying low.”
“Is that a good thing?” He looks at me as if I have all the answers.
I slowly shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know. I guess it’s normal to lick your wounds when something like that happens. A kid his age doesn’t like to show weakness or emotion. The last thing he wants to do is apologise.”
“The affliction of a teenage boy. So many emotions but no ability to put them into words.” He sounds almost wistful. “Christ, I’m glad I don’t have to be a teenager anymore.”
“You sound as if you’re talking from experience.”
His voice thickens. “I am.”
The atmosphere turns on a sixpence—from carefree and playful to charged and deep. He stares at me and I gaze right back, guessing at the meaning in his words. I want to ask him what emotions he had then, what regrets he has now. For the first time, I want to tell him about the ones that I still carry. I even open my mouth to say the words, to spill my story out like blossoms on the wind.
Then all thoughts of confession are silenced by the sound of the door opening. Kids pour in, their chatter drowning everything out, and the moment passes. I get caught up with talking to Allegra, while Niall explains what we are going to do all afternoon.
I can’t help feeling relieved that my secrets are still safe.
* * *
“I painted this for you.” Allegra hands me her picture. This week Niall has them trying Impressionism. The paper is covered with thick paint strokes, each colour blending into the next; blue outer, red inner. I think it’s a London bus in the pouring rain.
“That’s beautiful. Is it really for me?” My throat constricts as she gives me a small smile. “I’ll put it up in my kitchen. Every time I look at it I’ll think of you.”
“It’s to say thank you. For taking care of me.” She pulls at her bottom lip with her paint-crusted fingers. “Are you still coming to take me out on Saturday?”
I want to hug her. To pull her close until I squeeze the uncertainty right out of her. Only a kid, and she’s already used to being let down.
“Of course I am. Is there anything special you’d like to do?”
“Can you take me to see my mum?”