The Last Little Blue Envelope (16 page)

There were no more bells. People were moving around them. Ginny squatted down a bit to detach herself from the kiss. He followed for a moment, then seemed to realize she was stopping. He stood up at once. Already, there was debris around them—streamers and confetti, bottles, the broken paper rims of hats. New Year’s Eve was the quickest holiday—so much buildup, and then it was over, dropped in a second, instantly unimportant.

Keith and Ellis came bounding up to them, dancing. They were in some nonstop disco that only they could see and hear. Ellis grabbed Ginny by both hands and started doing a dance with her. If they had seen what just happened, they certainly weren’t acting like it.

Keith picked a wet, trampled paper crown off the ground and put it on his head.

“I am king,” he said contentedly, making a slow circle, arms outstretched.

Her lips were still full of that pleasingly numbing kissing sensation, and her legs wobbled slightly. The champagne. It had to be the champagne. Whatever the case,
that
had just happened.

One last firework popped and spluttered overhead.

The Crossing

Not many people, it seemed, wanted to cross the Irish Sea at two in the morning on New Year’s. But all the people who did want to do this were drunk. It was like the ferry itself was drunk. The boat was slapping itself around on the dock, knocking the already-unbalanced people into doorways and walls. It was raining again, and the wind was lashing them, but Ellis insisted on staying on the deck even though it was slick and unpleasant and windy enough to knock her over. The landscape was pitch-black. The sea was black too. The Irish flag flapped stiffly overhead.

“I’ll tell you what,” Ellis said, staggering along. “I am
staying awake
. Worst thing to do now is fall asleep so I am
staying awake
. Do
not
let me fall asleep, yeah? I’m going to walk. I’m going to walk around the ship. Anyone want to walk around the ship?”

She adjusted her pink hat. It had lost a bit of its silver fringe sometime over the last hour. She pulled the brim low and looked at the bare spot sadly.

Out of the three of them, Ellis had either had the most to drink, or simply had some unlucky body chemistry. Whatever effects the champagne had on Ginny were washed away in the rain and sea mist.

This journey had not only ended twice, it had ended each time on a ferry. The first ferry moved slowly through the sun, this one moved erratically through the night.

At least this time she knew—the journey was over.

“I predict this is going to be a very vomity trip,” Keith said, following his girlfriend down the deck. Oliver was messing with his cigarettes again, so Ginny went back inside and sat down on one of the chairs in the lounge. She wasn’t aware of falling asleep, only of someone shaking her shoulder. She opened her eyes to find Oliver sitting next to her. His coat smelled of sea air and smoke and damp, evidence of a journey she had slept right through.

“We’re here,” he said.

Ginny sat up instantly. “Where are the others?” she asked, rubbing her face.

“I haven’t seen them since they wandered off down the deck.”

“So . . .”

“I’ve been sitting here. Your stuff is fine. But we have to get off now.”

Oliver had been watching over her while she slept. That thought would have been impossibly creepy before, but now . . . now it was kind of sweet.

Oh, her brain was so broken.

They found Keith standing in the desolate terminal, leaning against a pole for support.

“Hey, Gin,” he said wearily. “Ellis just went in there. The night combined with the boat . . . it didn’t agree with her.” He pointed to the women’s room. “Could you, um . . . could you go with her? She went in there a while ago. I think she needs some supervision.”

Ginny nodded. He was right about this being a vomity trip. The ladies’ room looked empty, but Ginny saw a pair of shoes sticking out of the cubicle on the end. Someone was kneeling on the floor in front of a toilet.

“Ellis?” she called.

“Oh, hello!” Ellis was trying to sound cheerful, but her voice was like death. “Oh, I’m fine. I’ve just been stupid. Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m just going to stand out here, okay?”

“Oh, you’re sweet. . . .”

A gagging noise, then a pause.

“Oh god . . . ,” Ellis went on. “Is this place moving? Gin, I feel like I’m still on the boat. Gin, is it moving in here?”

The stall door wasn’t locked, and it bounced open. Ginny pushed it closed and held it while some grim noises came from within.

“I’m so sorry,” Ellis said, coughing. “This is so awful.”

“It’s okay,” Ginny said.

“You’re so good. And the Irish, they’re just so lovely, and they give you this . . . they give you things to drink because they’re so lovely . . . you know, and it’s New Year’s . . . I’m so stupid. I’m so stupid, Gin. Why am I so stupid? No one else did anything stupid. Why is it just me?”

Ginny laughed. She couldn’t help it. “I’m not laughing at you,” she said quickly.

“It’s okay.” Ellis sounded like she was going to cry.

“No, really. I’m
really
not.” Ginny sat down on the floor by the stall door and listened. No noise now, just palpable suffering. Ginny got close and patted Ellis’s ankle.

“Ellis?”

“Yeah?” Her voice was breaking. Oh, this was probably a mistake, but Ellis was so upset. She shouldn’t have laughed.

“You really weren’t the only one who did something stupid,” Ginny said quietly. “I kissed Oliver.”

Ellis shuffled a bit, then forced the door open and slumped in the corner of the stall, facing Ginny. She had definitely been crying.

“Really?” she asked.

“Really. But don’t . . .”

“I won’t tell Keith,” Ellis said. “I know. He hates him. I understand.”

Ellis’s chin sank to her chest and she took a few deep breaths. “I’ll tell you something,” she said. “I was so jealous of you when I first met Keith. Always talking about you, this adventure you’d gone on together. But then I met you and you’re so nice, and you let me come along. Oh, did I really trade my ring?” Her focus had gone down to her bare hand. “It was cheap, but still. I’m never drinking again. Bugger, why did I do that? Maybe I can get another, only a fiver . . . never let me drink again, okay? If you ever see me drink, just slap me. Oh . . .”

There was a rapping on the door. It opened a crack.

“Train’s in ten minutes,” Keith called. “El, you alive?”

“I think so. Just give me a moment. We’ll be right out.”

Ellis grabbed the door to try to pull herself up. Ginny helped her. She managed to get herself into a bent position, but couldn’t straighten up right away.

“I don’t think what you did was that stupid,” she said, steadying herself against the stall.

Then she threw up on the floor between them. Not a lot—but a definite harbinger of things to come. Ginny winced and looked away.

“Sorry!” Ellis said. “Sorry, oh god . . .”

Keith must have heard this happen, because he let himself in. He looked at the vomit on the floor with a strange kind of satisfaction. “And so it begins.”

“I have a plan,” Ellis said, as he half-carried her out. “We’ll get on the train, and I’ll ride in the toilet.”

“It’s like dating royalty,” Keith said.

The train was very sleek and modern, with lots of light-up buttons and computerized signs. It was also freezing cold and smelled like sadness and old beer. Keith got Ellis on board and positioned her in front of the bathroom.

“Just put me in there,” she said bravely. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be wonderful. Just shove me in the toilet.”

“All right, all right, enough with the sexy talk.”

She waved them off and slammed the door shut. A red light came on, signifying that it was occupied.

“I’m just going to stay here for a bit,” he said. “You might as well go sit down. You might want to sit a car over.”

A grim noise came from the toilet. Oliver and Ginny quickly moved to the next car, which was completely empty. They sat opposite each other in a group of six seats. There was no looking at each other. No speaking. Keith was gone for quite a while, so that was a lot of time to artfully avoid each other in a casual way. When he did return, he did so quite loudly, plopping down on one of the seats next to Oliver and gazing between the two of them.

“How’s Ellis?” Ginny asked.

“She’ll be all right. How are
you
?”

It was just the way he said it, the way he leaned in a little. He knew. Oliver must have sensed this as well, because he got up.

“I need a coffee,” he said. “Do you need one?”

This was to Ginny. She shook her head.

“He’s very solicitous,” Keith said after Oliver had left. “When did you two get so cozy? I guess it was all of that time in the backseat. I don’t suppose I can blame you. He’s a catch.”

Yeah. He knew.

“It was just a kiss on New Year’s,” she said. “I mean . . . everyone was kissing. And I had all that champagne.”

“Well. Congratulations. You’ve made a wonderful choice. I’m very happy for you.”

It was snide and cold. So cold that she wished she could slap him.

“What do you care?” she asked.

“Sorry . . . what?” He leaned forward. “What do I care? Of course I don’t care. I think that’s the point we’ve demonstrated in all of this, my lack of caring. That’s why I just destroyed my car. That’s why I’ve been traveling with you for days so you weren’t alone with the person who was ripping you off. It’s all my extreme lack of care. But you seem happy now, so I’ll just step aside then.”

“It was one kiss,” she said, a challenge rising in her voice. “I mean, why do you care who I kiss? You have someone. You didn’t even tell me you had a girlfriend. . . .”

And, there it was. That wasn’t the way she meant to say it. This wasn’t how she wanted this to go. It was out. It could never be put back.

“Do what you want,” he said, throwing up his hands. He returned to the other car, back to his girlfriend. The glass door of the car shut behind him with a decisive hiss.

Reality Comes to Visit

That had gone very, very badly. That was like training for the Olympics, working up to one big moment that would matter for the rest of your life, and then just being careless and falling off the diving board or forgetting to correctly attach your skis. Poor form. No points. She began to sob, silently and pathetically, and completely unable to stop. She didn’t hear Oliver return—she was only vaguely aware that someone had sat down next to her, and it definitely wasn’t going to be Keith. He put a few napkins in her hand.

She shoved them up against her face. They stuck.

“I’m okay,” she said. The words were barely understandable.

Oliver didn’t point out how absurd this statement was, or try to talk her down. He just sat with her, first stiffly putting a hand on her shoulder, then extending his arm. At some point, she just gave up and leaned against him a little.

It took a few minutes for her to gather herself together again.

“It’s fine,” she said, her voice thick. “I just . . . we weren’t a thing. Not a real thing. I just, really liked him. We said we were ‘kind of something.’ He wasn’t supposed to like other people. Isn’t that how it works? You just like the one person, forever, and then you stay together?” She tried to make it come off as a joke, but it didn’t really work.

“I don’t have a lot of personal experience in the matter,” he said, “but I’m pretty sure that’s not how it usually goes.”

She looked out of the window at the gray morning. There was some beautiful landscape going by, but it was hard to appreciate. Her head was thrumming and her eyes were still leaking and dribbling. This wasn’t how she was supposed to end this journey.

“I don’t blame you for wanting to get back at him,” Oliver said. “Did it work?”

“I don’t know what that means,” she said, hiccupping. Oh, good. The post-crying hiccups.

“Last night.”

He stared at her as if she were very, very stupid. Oh. The kiss.

“What do you mean
did it work
?” she asked.

“You did that to get to him. Did it work?”

Is that why she had done it? That wasn’t how she remembered it. She remembered the bells, the rain . . . she remembered the kiss. She didn’t remember any motive. She just remembered that it had happened, and that it had been . . . nice. It had been good.

She was going to leave that alone. “Anyway, he didn’t do anything wrong,” she said. “He just should have told me. But now he probably hates me.”

“So what if he does?” he replied.

That was too much for her to even contemplate.

* * *

They stayed in their separate compartments for the rest of the journey. Ginny saw Keith and Ellis again when they got off the train at Euston Station. Ellis looked a little better, but her face was still ashen. She raised a weak hand in greeting.

“I made it!” she said, her voice hoarse and scratchy. “I rode from Wales to London in a toilet. I should get a prize. I think . . . I think I have to go home now.”

She leaned against Keith’s shoulder. He put an arm around her waist.

“I’ll let you know when the auction is tomorrow,” Ginny said. “If you can come . . .”

Ellis was nodding, but Keith said nothing. He picked up his bag, hoisted it over his free shoulder. They went one way, and Ginny and Oliver went another.

In the end, it was Ginny and Oliver who returned to the house. Oliver stayed outside for a moment, waggling his cigarettes in explanation, but Ginny wondered if he stayed outside for another reason. She had to complete the piece, and perhaps, like at the graveyard, he thought she should be alone. Ginny went in and knelt down in front of the tabletop and glass, and removed the paper from her bag.

The order seemed obvious. The paper went between the glass and the wood. That made sense. The paper was so fine that it practically vanished against the yellow background. The wine rings and stains on the table came through, shading the picture. She moved the glass back over and sandwiched the paper in place. The two dancing figures materialized from behind the ferns and plants and animals on the outside. She could see where the paint on the window had been affected by the rain and the elements, streaking and dotting lightly. There was a light layer of grime all over the picture as well, but it only seemed to add to the overall effect. The viewer was put into this strange jungle and was looking into some other reality entirely, with one of the figures beckoning the viewer inside. Beautiful wasn’t the right word for it. It wasn’t beautiful. It was rough and strange and bright. It was like a tangible dream.

Oliver knocked lightly and came inside.

“It’s amazing,” he said. “I would never in a million years have guessed that it would turn out that way.”

“She was good like that,” Ginny said. She stood up and sat on the sofa to look at it from a distance. He sat next to her.

“It needs a name,” she said.

“What did your aunt name her other paintings?”

“She didn’t.”

“So why name this one?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “The others were in a group. They called them the Harrods paintings. This one is on its own. It needs to be called something.”

She sat back and stared for a long time, until her eyes went blurry. One good thing about Oliver—he could take long silences.

“When my aunt lived in New York,” she finally said, “she took me to a pool one summer. Except, no one has a pool in New York. It was a cleaned-out Dumpster. It was a pool, but it wasn’t a pool, you know?”

“Not . . . exactly.”

“I mean . . .” It was annoying when other people couldn’t get in your head and automatically catch up with your conversations. “I mean . . . people tell you what to expect. What things are
supposed
to be like. A pool is supposed to be this nice, clean thing in the backyard that’s painted blue on the bottom, but anything with water in it can be a pool, even a Dumpster. She called it the triumph of imagination. It was how she did things. It’s like, a fancy way of saying flaky. That’s what I want to call it.
The Triumph of Imagination
.”

“It’s a good title.”

Weirdly, her impulse was to put her arms around him. She wasn’t drunk. She wasn’t crying. Still, the impulse was there.

Before she could do that, she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. There was a white van pulling up across the street . . . just like the ones that seemed to disturb Keith so much. Two men in coveralls got out and started walking toward the house.

Oliver stared down at the coffee table. It was still littered with Christmas crackers and Ginny’s silver elephant.

“I called them,” he said.

The reminder was like a slap in the face. He wasn’t here to be her support system—he was here to collect. He had stayed outside to call the delivery truck. Why was this a surprise? This was always how it was going to end. She backed away from him and went to the door.

“Miss Blackstone?” one of the men said. “We’re here from Jerrlyn and Wise. May we come in?”

Ginny opened the door wider, and they stepped inside politely.

“Is this the piece?” he asked.

She nodded.

“We’ll just get started then,” he said.

They took over. Ginny and Oliver were relegated to the side of the room. The pieces, which had been manhandled and shoved into cars and bags and thrown around were now treated like crown jewels. The men set down a packing quilt on the floor and lifted it gingerly. One held it upright while the other measured its dimensions, examined its construction, and took some initial photographs. They had a long discussion on exactly how to pad it and box it and put it into the van. Ginny thought about asking them to let the piece stay long enough for Richard to see it, but it was all so official and efficient, there seemed to be no stopping them.

Oliver sat on the sofa, looking at Ginny’s silver elephant. This was the reality of their relationship, Ginny reminded herself. It was all about finding this one piece of art and selling it off. The kiss, the trip on the train . . . it all faded away.

“We’re finished now, miss,” the first man said, presenting her with a clipboard. Ginny filled it out automatically, ticking boxes and signing on lines, not even reading. She stopped only in the box marked
TITLE OF WORK
and wrote in
The
Triumph of Imagination
. When she was finished, they carried
The Triumph of Imagination
out the door, snugly wrapped in gray quilting and tape.

“There was a message from Cecil as well,” Oliver said quietly. “The auction is at two tomorrow.”

“Fine,” she said.

“I suppose I should go.”

“Probably.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

She watched him from the window as he left. He never turned back, just made his way down the street, tossing his lighter in his palm. Like nothing had happened at all. She felt a strangely familiar pang in her heart, but she couldn’t quite place it and didn’t feel like trying.