Pink Sand

I arrive first and unlock the gallery. It's all white walls and polished concrete. We're showing photographer Tom Blachford. Palm Springs lit by moonlight. I stop by my favourite, sipping my morning coffee. Long exposures leave the sky dusty blue. I feel myself drawn into it. Like I'm sleepwalking between iridescent fronds and glowing pools. Mountains half awake, caught in a distant dream. Moonlight flooding the landscape. A seabed of houses. Silver, with angular roofs. And windows, opening into the unknown.

I take a seat at my desk, scrolling through emails with one hand, the other playing with the sleeper in my ear. Thinking of the walk to Finsbury Park station. How I'd wanted the walk to stretch on. Thinking of the almost-kiss. The awkwardness of it. The sweetness of it.

Natasha comes into the gallery in a burst of talk. At first I think she's addressing me, then I realise she's on her earpiece. She talks louder than anyone I know, as if the distance between her and the person on the other end of the line warrants raising her voice ten notches.

She's wearing her trademark black suit, eyeliner and bold red lipstick, her cropped hair riding at a sharp angle across her cheek.

'Okay, excellent,' she says. 'See you very soon … Bye now.' Strutting over to me, she takes out the earpiece and picks up the coffee that is waiting for her on my desk.

'Morning,' I say.

'How was it?' she asks immediately.

'No way,' I say.

'Oh, come on!'

'You're my boss. This is weird!'

'I'm your friend,' she says.

'He's your brother!'

'Yeah. But you can at least tell me the vibe.'

'It was nice. He's really nice.'

'Will you see him again?'

I nod.

'Good. That's what he said.'

'So you've spoken to him?'

'Of course I have.'

'What did he say?'

'Oh, so now you want to talk about it?'

I roll my eyes.

She laughs, then tells me, 'Cloudy Robertson just landed. She's all locked in for dinner tomorrow night.'

'When's her work arriving?'

'Why are you asking me? This is your show.'

'Sorry,' I say, 'just thinking aloud.'

'I need you to be on top of this.'

'I am,' I tell her.

'Good,' she says, taking a sip of coffee. 'Nail it and this show will be huge.'

I sit back in my chair and think of Maggie. Of her first all-woman show. What was important was that I saw those women. And they saw each other … Because even as women, we don't always see each other.

I pick up one of the publicity brochures for WOMXN, my first all-woman show, and put it in my bag, thinking, I must send this to Maggie.

***

After lunch, I'm standing in front of one of Blachford's photos, speaking about the work to two prospective buyers, when I see Hugo wander into the gallery. I immediately lose my train of thought. 'Sorry, I …'

Natasha jumps in. 'I'll take it from here,' she says, then whispers, 'You have a visitor.'

I excuse myself from the group and walk over to meet Hugo.

'Sorry to ambush you at work,' he says, his cheeks reddening.

'I have the afternoon off and was hoping you might be able to join me for a walk.'

Natasha calls across the gallery, 'Of course she can.'

'I guess I'm free then,' I say. 'Let me just grab my coat.'

***

We walk along the Thames beneath an ashen sky. The river is a washed-out brown. Windblown, like a creased cloth. It's late autumn and the festive season is drawing near; coloured lights are strung up in laneways and South Bank is lined with Christmas trees.

'My birthday is in December,' Hugo says. 'When I was a kid, I used to think the decorations were for my birthday.'

'How old are you turning?'

'Twenty-nine.'

'Oh! We're almost the same age,' I say. 'I turn twenty-nine in March.' He smiles and takes my hand. 'Wow!' he exclaims. 'Your hand is freezing.' Hugo rubs it between both of his.

'I'm cold-blooded,' I say and Hugo laughs.

I look up and see the London Eye. 'Can you believe I've lived here for three years and still haven't been on that thing?'

'Can you believe I was born and raised in London and I haven't been on it either?'

I say, 'We'll have to then.'

'Oh, um …' He sounds hesitant.

'Come on!' I say. 'I've always wanted to go on it.'

'But—'

'It'll be great,' I assure him, leading him towards the giant Ferris wheel, with its long white arms and glass eyes.

We line up behind a group of schoolchildren. There's screaming and giggling and hitting. One kid turns around and eyes us suspiciously. 'You're really tall,' she says.

'Thank you,' I say, teasing.

'Not you!' the girl squeals. 'Him!'

Another girl turns around. 'Is he your husband?'

'I'm her cat,' says Hugo. 'You're not a cat! You're a man!'

'Meow!' Hugo says, and the little girls crack up laughing.

'Come on now,' their teacher says, ushering them onto the Ferris wheel.

'Are you coming with us?' one of the girls calls out.

I shake my head. 'We'll take the next one. There's not enough room for me and my cat.'

'Bye, cat lady!' the girls squeal.

'Goodbye!'

'Meow, meow,' Hugo says, waving.

The door of the capsule closes on their giggles and the kids set off. The next pod comes along and we step inside. Hugo takes a deep breath. When he exhales, his breath quivers.

'Are you okay?' I ask, suddenly noticing how pale he is, as if all the colour has drained from his face.

He nods, pursing his lips.

'Are you sure?'

The door closes and he squeezes my hand. The capsule starts to move.

His legs quake. 'Oh God,' he whispers.

'Seriously, are you okay?'

'Can we sit down?'

'What?' I ask, but Hugo's legs are already giving out. He falls down in a heap. Hyperventilating now.

'Oh shit,' I mutter, understanding, now, his hesitancy.

All around us, people are staring. But as we lift higher from the ground, the sky seems to close in, like everything is becoming smaller, clouds wrapping around us, until it's only him and I, here in the iris. I sit down in front of him, take both of his hands. His eyes are shut. 'Open your eyes,' I whisper.

He opens one eye, then the other, his gaze darting around the capsule.

'Just look at me,' I say, smiling, and his gaze settles on mine. 'Just us.'

Hugo squeezes my hands again.

'Breathe,' I whisper. 'Ready? In.'

We inhale together.

'And out.'

We exhale together.

'In … and out.'

He leans in closer. I lean in closer. Until our foreheads are pressed together. And we're closing our eyes. Noses gently brushing. Lips touching. Like land coming into focus.

***

When we step out of the capsule, Hugo's legs are still shaking. 'Why did you suggest going on the London Eye if you're scared of heights?' I ask.

'I didn't,' he says.

'Yes, you did.'

'I just asked if you'd been on it,' he protests, and I laugh.

'Whoops.'

'I'm sorry you didn't get to see the view,' he says. 'Don't worry,' I say. 'We'll just have to go again …'

He chuckles. 'I like your optimism.'

'Where to now then?'

Hugo smiles. 'The Tate?'

'I'll show you my favourite painting,' I say. 'Don't worry. It's on the ground floor.'

And so we wander through the Tate, weaving between Rothko reds and Dali pinks, all the way through to Yves Klein's IKB 79.

'So this is your favourite?'

I nod, a grin widening.

'Why?'

'Because no matter how close up and palpable the canvas is, the blue is always about distance … Something absent.'

He takes hold of my hand, interlacing his fingers with mine, and looks into the painting. Into the blue. Into everything and nothing.

'What's your favourite?' I whisper.

'I'll show you,' he says, leading me back through the gallery to a portrait of a man holding a young girl in a blackened rock pool. 'This one.'

'Why?'

'My answer is not as clever as yours,' he says.

'Try me.'

'Because it's a beautiful moment. But something about it feels haunted.' I look into the painting. Into the water. Smooth and dark. Bodies unnaturally lit in the night. Teal rocks and pink flesh.

'I like that the painting can be two things at once,' he says.

***

When we come out of the Tate, night is all around us. 'I forgot about these early sunsets,' he says, 'living in California for so long. I got used to the daylight. Forgot how much I hate it getting dark at three in the afternoon.'

'The dark is my favourite thing about London,' I say.

'Really?' He sounds disbelieving.

'Yeah. It's intimate. I like the way it seems to close down around me. Everything feels closer.'

He shakes his head. 'I love the summer. The days stretching long into the night …'

And I want to say that I don't like the openness of summer in London, the openness of the light. How it makes me feel exposed. Like spread legs.

But I don't. Because dating is in the realm of nice stories.

***

Cloudy Robertson arrives at the gallery and she is every bit as wild as her work. With piercing blue eyes, a hard brow, striking cheekbones and a shock of pink hair.

Her paintings had arrived not long before she did. Mountain ranges with dark skies and acidic green seas are stacked at the back of the gallery, along with Vivienne's portraits, Holly's sandstone sculptures and the projector for Mikaela's light installation.

'Blachford?' says Cloudy, eyeing the last photo to come down off the wall.

'Yes,' Natasha says. 'He sold out.'

'And so will you,' I say, walking over to greet her. 'Your work is even more incredible in the flesh.'

'Thank you,' she says.

I extend my hand. 'I'm Oli.'

'Cloudy.'

'So nice to finally meet you.'

'And you,' she says.

'This is Natasha,' I say, and they shake hands as well.

'Shall we go for a drink?' Natasha suggests.

The two of us agree and I fetch our coats. Natasha's is an extravagant black fur coat, which she promises is fake. Mine is a denim jacket with a black hood sewn into it. Cloudy, like her paintings, is wearing as many colours as you could possibly fit into one outfit.

Outside, the evening air nips at our heels. 'Fuck me, it's freezing!' Cloudy exclaims.

'Welcome to England,' I say.

'I was at the beach in Sydney this time last week,' she says. 'Forty-two degrees!'

'You're kidding.'

'Summer hasn't even started and we've already had three days above forty. It's mad,' she says.

Natasha says, 'It's terrifying.'

I think of Maggie and Mac, boiling like fish in their apartment. I make a mental note to call them.

When we get to the bar, Natasha orders us each an espresso martini. 'So,' she says, taking a seat between Cloudy and me, 'how was it seeing Hugo yesterday?'

'I told you—I'm not talking about him with you.'

'Who's Hugo?' asks Cloudy.

'Her brother,' I say, pointing to Natasha.

'They're dating,' Natasha explains.

I roll my eyes.

'Where'd he take you?' Natasha says, leaning in.

'We went on the London Eye and—'

'Ha! Are you serious?' Natasha asks, laughing. 'Hugo is terrified of heights!'

'Yeah. As I soon found out …'

She stops laughing, says quietly, 'He must really like you.'

This bar is Natasha's favourite. Red leather and dark wood. Dimly lit, with art adorning every wall and candles wedged in glass bottles at the centre of every table. Cloudy takes our candle and tilts it, dripping wax onto a coaster. With her fingers, she sculpts it into the shape of a hip, a smooth curve. The wax is opalescent in the flickering light.

We finish our drinks and Natasha heads for the bar, returning minutes later with three elderflower cocktails. I take out the skewered lychee, eat it whole. Juice fills my mouth in a burst.

'So do you have any plans for after the show?' Natasha asks Cloudy. 'I'm going to visit an old lover in Berlin,' the artist replies. 'She was my first love, actually.'

'How are you feeling about seeing her?' I ask.

'Nervous,' she says, 'but also excited.'

Natasha asks, 'Could you rekindle the romance?'

Cloudy shakes her head. 'We grew in different directions. But I still feel connected to her.'

I think of Maggie, how she spoke about rivers converging, people flowing together, swirling in great lakes, parting. Meeting again at the river mouth.

'And anyway,' says Cloudy, 'I'm with someone else now. She's electric.'

'Is she an artist too?' I ask.

Cloudy shakes her head. 'Ella's a poet. She says the things I can't say with paint. And I say the things she can't say with words.'

'Sounds perfect,' says Natasha.

'It is,' says Cloudy. 'And the sex is out of this world. When we met, we didn't leave my studio for a week.'

Natasha raises her eyebrows. 'That's impressive.'

'I could live in sex,' Cloudy says, laughing. Natasha joins in.

And in the sound that comes out of me, I try to imagine the walls of Cloudy's sex, because where mine are barbed, hers must be something else.