Denied (One Night 2)

I could remain here motionless for an eternity, just watching him sleeping serenely. He looks peaceful. I feel peaceful. The air surrounding us is so peaceful.

On a contented exhale, I take my na**d self out to the corridor and follow my feet until I’m standing before one of Miller’s paintings. London Bridge. I c**k my head, pouting while I ponder his perception of the landmark, the blur of paints sending my eyes crossed after a few moments of staring, making me see the bridge perfectly. Then I frown, uncrossing my eyes, making the painting a perfect mess of oil paints again. He’s taken a beautiful London landmark and made it almost unappealing – like he wants people to be averse to its actual beauty, and it’s in this moment I wonder if Miller Hart sees everything in his life as distorted and unclear. Does he see the whole world in this tainted manner? My neck retracts as another speculating moment descends on me abruptly. Does he see himself in this tainted manner? At a distance, the painting looks perfect, but get up close and beneath the surface, you find a wreck. A mess of colour – something ugly and confusing. I think he does see himself like this, and I think he goes all out to blur people’s perception of him, too. The sobering thought is paining but equally maddening. He’s beautiful inside and out. But I may be the only person on this planet who knows that for sure.

A distant chiming sends me on a startled jump and yanks me from my pondering, my hand flying up to my chest to put some pressure on my suddenly pumping heart. ‘Jesus!’ I blurt, following the sound until I’m rummaging through my bag for my new phone. A glance at the screen tells me it’s five-fifteen and Nan’s calling. ‘Oh shit!’ I answer immediately. ‘Nan!’

‘Olivia! Oh my goodness, where are you?’ She sounds beside herself, and my face screws up guiltily, mixed with a little dread. ‘I woke to use the toilet and checked your room. You’re not in bed!’

‘Well obviously.’ I wince and drop my bare bum to a chair, hiding from no one by burying my face in my spare palm. I hear a little gasp through the phone. It’s a gasp of realisation. It’s a happy gasp.

‘Olivia, sweetheart, are you with Miller?’ She’s silently begging the answer is yes, I know she is.

My na**d shoulders rise and brush my earlobes. ‘Yes,’ I squeak, my face screwing up further. I should be apologising for causing her such worry, but I’m too busy clamping down on my bottom lip in anticipation of her reaction to this news.

Nan coughs, clearly trying to restrain her squeal of delight. ‘I see.’ She’s failing terribly to sound nonchalant. ‘Well, um, in that case, uh, I’m sorry for disturbing you.’ She coughs again. ‘Yes, I’ll be going, then.’

‘Nan.’ I roll my eyes, my face heating with embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, I should have called you to—’

‘On no!’ she screeches, piercing my eardrum. ‘It’s fine! So, so fine!’

I knew it would be. ‘I’ll be home to get ready for work.’

‘Okay!’ She must be waking the whole street. ‘George is taking me shopping early. I might not be here.’

‘I’ll see you after work, then.’

‘Ooooh, with Miller? I’ll do dinner! Beef Wellington! He said it was the best he’d tasted!’

I rub my forehead and flop back in the chair. I should have expected this. ‘Maybe another time.’

‘Oh, well, I can’t organise my life around you two.’ She can and she would. ‘Enquire as to what day would suit him.’

‘I will. See you later.’

‘Yes, you will.’ She sounds slighted, and her tone is threatening. I’m going to be grilled later.

‘Bye.’ I go to disconnect the call.

‘Oh, Livy?’

‘Yes?’

‘Give his buns a little squeeze from me.’

‘Nan!’ I gasp, hearing her giggling as she hangs up on me, leaving me gaping at her crude comment. The filthy minx! I’m about to throw my phone down on the table in disgust, but the text icon catches my eye, telling me I have a message. And I know who it’s from. I open it, despite wanting to throw this phone at the wall, too.

I would appreciate being enlightened

on this evening’s events. William.

He wants me to check in? I scowl at my phone, then toss it on the table. I’m not telling him anything, no matter how terse the demand. Nor am I going to let him talk me out of this. Or force me out of this. Never. Resolute and confident, I stand, suddenly eager to join Miller back on the sofa. I hurry over to the cupboard, grab a glass, and fill it from the tap, not prepared to delay myself further by fussing with bottled spring water. I glug it all down, place the glass carefully in the dishwasher, and then make my way back towards Miller’s studio, pulling to a sudden halt when I spot my dress strewn across the floor. Or still strewn across the floor. He’s not picked it up, folded it neatly, and placed it deftly in his bottom drawer? I frown at the offending garment, not being able to resist scooping it up and shaking it out before folding it. Then I stand thoughtfully for a few moments and before I know it, I’m in the studio staring at all of his clothes scattered everywhere. I know his painting space is typically a royal mess, but his suit doesn’t belong in here on the floor. It’s all wrong.

I hurry and gather up his clothes, shoving them under my arm and doing my best to smooth and fold while I take myself to his room. I wander through to his wardrobe, making sure everything is put in its rightful place – his jacket, trousers and waistcoat hung up; his shirt, socks and boxers in the laundry basket; and his tie on his tie rack. Then I make sure my dress and shoes land in the bottom drawer of his dresser in the bedroom. I start to leave and notice the bed is a huge mess, too, so I spend a good ten minutes messing with the sheets, attempting to restore it to its former glory. He’s slept through the night, with no tormenting thoughts or dreams of items in the wrong place. I don’t want him diving up in a panic to fix that. Creeping quietly back to the studio, I slip under the blankets, shift cautiously so I don’t disturb him . . . and squeal when I’m seized by the waist and yanked onto his body. I don’t get a moment to gather myself. I’m hauled up and carried to his bedroom where he throws me on the bed with no consideration that I’ve just perfected it. Or probably not perfected it by Miller’s standards.