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Chapters (86)
  1. Title Page
  2. CONTENTS
  3. Love
  4. Before
  5. One
  6. ONE
  7. Two
  8. TWO
  9. Three
  10. THREE
  11. Four
  12. FOUR
  13. Five
  14. FIVE
  15. Six
  16. SIX
  17. Seven
  18. SEVEN
  19. Eight
  20. EIGHT
  21. Nine
  22. NINE
  23. Ten
  24. TEN
  25. Eleven
  26. ELEVEN
  27. After
  28. One
  29. ONE
  30. Two
  31. TWO
  32. Three
  33. THREE
  34. Four
  35. FOUR
  36. Five
  37. FIVE
  38. Six
  39. SIX
  40. Seven
  41. SEVEN
  42. Eight
  43. EIGHT
  44. Nine
  45. NINE
  46. Ten
  47. TEN
  48. Eleven
  49. ELEVEN
  50. Twelve
  51. TWELVE
  52. Thirteen
  53. THIRTEEN
  54. Fourteen
  55. FOURTEEN
  56. Fifteen
  57. FIFTEEN
  58. Sixteen
  59. SIXTEEN
  60. Seventeen
  61. SEVENTEEN
  62. Eighteen
  63. EIGHTEEN
  64. Nineteen
  65. NINETEEN
  66. Twenty
  67. TWENTY
  68. Twenty-One
  69. TWENTY-ONE
  70. Twenty-Two
  71. TWENTY-TWO
  72. Twenty-Three
  73. TWENTY-THREE
  74. Twenty-Four
  75. TWENTY-FOUR
  76. Twenty-Five
  77. TWENTY-FIVE
  78. Twenty-Six
  79. TWENTY-SIX
  80. Twenty-Seven
  81. TWENTY-SEVEN
  82. Twenty-Eight
  83. TWENTY-EIGHT
  84. Eleven Months Later
  85. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  86. Copyright

I don’t realise what I’ve said – that we’ll still be together in six months – until I hear myself say it and my whole face starts burning. But hers lights up the way it does every time she sees me approaching her at the Old Steine.

‘Of course. We can come back every month, if you like, take a photo each time and see how much it’s changed.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘Come on. Let’s go upstairs and take a photo of it.’

‘I thought you were scared of heights?’

She just grins. ‘I’ve since learned there are better things to be scared of.’

My heart shivers as I let her lead me through the crowd towards the stairs, following her up to the runway overlooking the iceberg. We take a selfie with it – her grinning, my eyes closed – then take photos from every angle, making sure to get one of the steam clouding around the tip.

When we’re done, we wander around, hand in hand, going from room to room and eventually settle in the Rothko room. As much as I like modern art, I don’t understand it. I enjoy how playful it is, how different it is, but I guess it doesn’t move me. Or it didn’t until I saw the iceberg. Maybe it’s made me more open to this Rothko guy. Twenty minutes ago, I would have looked at the blocks of colour and asked how it was art. But here, in this dimly lit room, Poppy by my side, it’s actually kind of soothing. So I stare at the thick, uneven lines until they blur together and become a single colour that I’d find impossible to describe if someone asked me to.

‘This one reminds me of you,’ she whispers, leaning into me when I turn to meet her gaze.

‘Yeah?’ I ask, our mouths so close now that if we were just half an inch closer, they’d be touching.

She points at the painting. ‘See that hollow rectangle in the middle? See how red it is?’

I turn to look at the painting as well, then nod. ‘Yeah?’

‘That’s what colour I imagine your heart is.’

I turn back to her as she does the same and we kiss – just for a second, more of a brush than a kiss – but it lasts just long enough to make us both tremble.

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We sit there for so long, her head on my shoulder as we stare at the Rothko, that we almost miss our slot for the Basquiat exhibition and have to run around the art students sitting cross-legged on the floor with their sketchbooks. Past the tourists and the delighted children who think it’s a game and try to run after us, and up the escalator, making it with about four seconds to spare.