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OK, um, well, did not mean to leave this hanging for a year and a bloody half, whether or not 2016 sucked dead celebrity balls, but at any rate here Something finally is, and I think I may even have got to some sort of a space where I can at least ignore the Brainweaselly voice pointing out that the drive towards fame and recognition is a mug's reflection of one's formative caregivers not being attentive enough to suit (and here I will redact some remarks-at-length about celebrity culture and the state of politics, because my Brainweasels are probably rabid) and just get the damn work done, even if it may well be the equivalent of deciding to enjoy the fall off the building since what's the alternative? Ahem. So:
***
It's the practicalities I always hate. "I could take the one she was using as the studio, I mean, I know it's bigger, but..."
Jason trails off, looking down at the book in his hands. There's no one to send Jill's things to, so we've begun sorting through for what should be given to charity. After a moment he lays the paperback carefully into the box marked Brown Elephant. "Anyway. Whatever."
"No, I don't mind," I say. The guestroom is... a guestroom, small but spare, walls free of the ghosts of her sketches. In time, Jason's taste in decor may exorcise some of those from the larger bedroom as well. Not even much mature work to curate, the best of it sketches of myself that I'd never part with. (Jill tracing a finger round the knobs of my wrists. You should have been taller.)
With a bit of help from Max we've got Jason's name on the paperwork to claim Jill's condo. "Since I'm now a man of property Mom and Dad have to redo their wills again so Button-Down gets first crack at the house," he'd not-quite-joked. Our landlady is surprisingly broken-up to see us go. So quiet, so clean. She'd finally outwaited us on fixing the bell, I can't help but reflect.
Could have done without the frenzy of sorting out what to send with the removals-men -- had to hire the job done because as Jason says I wouldn't climb our stairs for pizza-and-beer, and anyway even if most of Jill's furniture is posher than ours there's still the matter of his chest-freezer, which between us we could barely shift the last time he reorganised the porch. Just now it's got half a pig in. The removals-men manhandle it round the bend at the landing with a grunt.
His new kitchen, naturally, is Jason's highest priority once we're well and truly settling in. (The dachshund downstairs has already started answering to Weenus. If Jason didn't have his heart set on his own restaurant he'd have a bright future as a canine psychologist.) Over the sink where Jill had had vintage-advert cards he's already hung up the watercolour he'd bought from Mick, lighthouse vista rendered less twee by a rising gibbous moon that the weres had had a good laugh over. I'm not sure which was the more intimidating, the raw number of spice-jars coming out of our old cupboards, and without duplications, or that they're obviously all well-frequented; now Jason lovingly reorganises the collection, with the occasional sidelong look to where I sit attempting to triage two sets of glassware, as if to dare me to say anything about either chore.
After Jason has put in his claim to ninety per cent of the food-related areas, it's on to thinking how to organise our media tat without the sideboard. The bookshelves round the fireplace seem the most logical arrangement. I've kept a few of Jill's art books for sentimentality's sake, though I draw the line at the Picasso model I'd asked Jill to put up somewhere I didn't have to look at it so often; "Why do you hate this thing so much?" Jason asks, hefting it as if he's half a mind to protest its destination in the charity-shop box at the foot of his stepladder.
It's a difficult question to find even the edge of a good answer to. "I, erm... knew the model," I finally offer. "She... didn't think very highly of him."
Which isn't the half of it, but it's not as if Jason has enough interest in art-history even to explain Cecily's connection with Cubism in the first place, much less how violently she'd soured on the attitudes of Great Men towards her and the elusive image of her body. Some of this must be evident on my face, though, for Jason descends the stepladder with a frown creeping between his brows. "Are you... okay? I mean, with... this?"
I blink. "Bit late now."
"I mean, just..." He gestures with the hand still clutching the small sculpture; "Moving in, here... You were in love with her."
I want to push against this. "I understood her," I say. And I suppose it's true, affection is one thing, and knowing what we are quite another. "Where's the box with the cords for the telly fetched up?"
Jason gives me another look, but casts about him and suggests checking the still-not-inconsiderable pile of unsorted debris that hasn't yet been carried inside from the rear stairs. It's as good an excuse as any. I step out onto the back porch and stop dead.
The movers have brought the piano.
***
It's the practicalities I always hate. "I could take the one she was using as the studio, I mean, I know it's bigger, but..."
Jason trails off, looking down at the book in his hands. There's no one to send Jill's things to, so we've begun sorting through for what should be given to charity. After a moment he lays the paperback carefully into the box marked Brown Elephant. "Anyway. Whatever."
"No, I don't mind," I say. The guestroom is... a guestroom, small but spare, walls free of the ghosts of her sketches. In time, Jason's taste in decor may exorcise some of those from the larger bedroom as well. Not even much mature work to curate, the best of it sketches of myself that I'd never part with. (Jill tracing a finger round the knobs of my wrists. You should have been taller.)
With a bit of help from Max we've got Jason's name on the paperwork to claim Jill's condo. "Since I'm now a man of property Mom and Dad have to redo their wills again so Button-Down gets first crack at the house," he'd not-quite-joked. Our landlady is surprisingly broken-up to see us go. So quiet, so clean. She'd finally outwaited us on fixing the bell, I can't help but reflect.
Could have done without the frenzy of sorting out what to send with the removals-men -- had to hire the job done because as Jason says I wouldn't climb our stairs for pizza-and-beer, and anyway even if most of Jill's furniture is posher than ours there's still the matter of his chest-freezer, which between us we could barely shift the last time he reorganised the porch. Just now it's got half a pig in. The removals-men manhandle it round the bend at the landing with a grunt.
His new kitchen, naturally, is Jason's highest priority once we're well and truly settling in. (The dachshund downstairs has already started answering to Weenus. If Jason didn't have his heart set on his own restaurant he'd have a bright future as a canine psychologist.) Over the sink where Jill had had vintage-advert cards he's already hung up the watercolour he'd bought from Mick, lighthouse vista rendered less twee by a rising gibbous moon that the weres had had a good laugh over. I'm not sure which was the more intimidating, the raw number of spice-jars coming out of our old cupboards, and without duplications, or that they're obviously all well-frequented; now Jason lovingly reorganises the collection, with the occasional sidelong look to where I sit attempting to triage two sets of glassware, as if to dare me to say anything about either chore.
After Jason has put in his claim to ninety per cent of the food-related areas, it's on to thinking how to organise our media tat without the sideboard. The bookshelves round the fireplace seem the most logical arrangement. I've kept a few of Jill's art books for sentimentality's sake, though I draw the line at the Picasso model I'd asked Jill to put up somewhere I didn't have to look at it so often; "Why do you hate this thing so much?" Jason asks, hefting it as if he's half a mind to protest its destination in the charity-shop box at the foot of his stepladder.
It's a difficult question to find even the edge of a good answer to. "I, erm... knew the model," I finally offer. "She... didn't think very highly of him."
Which isn't the half of it, but it's not as if Jason has enough interest in art-history even to explain Cecily's connection with Cubism in the first place, much less how violently she'd soured on the attitudes of Great Men towards her and the elusive image of her body. Some of this must be evident on my face, though, for Jason descends the stepladder with a frown creeping between his brows. "Are you... okay? I mean, with... this?"
I blink. "Bit late now."
"I mean, just..." He gestures with the hand still clutching the small sculpture; "Moving in, here... You were in love with her."
I want to push against this. "I understood her," I say. And I suppose it's true, affection is one thing, and knowing what we are quite another. "Where's the box with the cords for the telly fetched up?"
Jason gives me another look, but casts about him and suggests checking the still-not-inconsiderable pile of unsorted debris that hasn't yet been carried inside from the rear stairs. It's as good an excuse as any. I step out onto the back porch and stop dead.
The movers have brought the piano.
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