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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

Poppy takes my hand and leads me in. It’s busy. So busy that we can barely see the paintings. She doesn’t seem bothered, though, managing to squeeze us in front of each one, her cheeks pink as she tells me about them. I googled Basquiat last night, so I knew what to expect, but I’m still overwhelmed to see his work in front of me. It’s wild – fierce – smears of orange and blue and yellow that make me feel breathless if I look at them for too long.

They remind me of Poppy, I realise, as we’re leaving, her hand in mine. And I can’t help but feel that I know her a little better now than I did before I saw them. But then she stops in front of a poster for Tate Britain with a painting of a woman in a boat that kind of looks like her, her hair long and red and her chin raised defiantly.

John William Waterhouse

The Lady of Shalott

1888

As we stand there, gazing at it, I realise that it isn’t anything like the paintings we’ve seen today. It’s much calmer, less frantic, the colours muted, almost ethereal. It’s normal, I hate to say, like something you’d see in the grand drawing room of a stately home.

‘This is my favourite painting at the Tate Britain,’ she breathes, her cheeks pink. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

‘Yeah,’ I say, turning my cheek to look at her with a smile. ‘So beautiful.’

images

By the time the train begins its slow approach to Brighton, the day is beginning to dim, the pair of us a little groggy from falling asleep on one another as we listened to a podcast about the exhibition.

‘Are we home?’ she asks with a long yawn.

‘Yeah,’ I tell her, kissing her quickly on the cheek.

‘Oh no.’ She sits up suddenly. ‘I was meant to give you this.’

She reaches down and pulls a purple plastic bag from between her feet and hands it to me. Before we left, she’d hung around the gift shop while I was in the seemingly endless queue for the toilet and when I returned to find her holding the bag, I’d assumed she’d bought something for herself, not me.

‘Well, go on,’ she grins at me, her deep dimples back.

I reach into the bag and pull out a book about Basquiat.

She winks at me. ‘So your mother knows that you were really at the Tate Modern today.’

‘Thanks, babe,’ I grin, kissing her cheek again.

‘Open it. Quickly. We’re nearly at the station,’ she reminds me, looking up to see where we are.