Chapter 7 Kier

7

Kier

Devon, July 2018

Penn pours the wine. As we eat, conversation drifts to the van; our trip down, the people we met.

‘Penn tells me you've done up the van pretty nice since I last saw it.' Mila passes the salad across the table and smiles.

I spoon some onto my plate. ‘A labour of love, but it's been worth it.'

She turns to Zeph. ‘Is this the first time you've done the whole van thing?'

‘Yeah, too busy before. Work was crazy for a while.'

We talk for a bit about Zeph's career, an edited version of how it ended, one I don't contradict. There's no questions from my brother about Zeph, his infamy. Penn isn't interested in celebrity; I doubt he's even looked him up. Food for Penn is a fuel, not an existential pleasure. They won't be connecting on the intricacies of a vegan dish.

Zeph's sneaking glances at Penn, bothered, I can tell, by the fact that he isn't fawning. He'd never admit it – he's anything but showy, demanding attention – but I've come to see over time that because it came, organically, he didn't have to demand it.

In the end, it's Mila who obliges. Asks him where he trained, finds his inspiration. Zeph does his usual patter, France, London, Southeast Asia for a time, various restaurants on the East Coast. Rules he broke, people he charmed to get where he did.

Mila's listening intently. ‘I've always wanted to go to Asia, but it's never been the right time … My friend said it changed his life.'

Zeph looks at her seriously. ‘In what way?'

‘Spiritually, I suppose. I think he'd been blinkered by Western ideology,' she explains, leaning a little over the table, food abandoned.

As the conversation bats back and forth between her and Zeph, and Mila continues to enthuse, Penn looks at me, raising an eyebrow, but I don't respond. I'm used to it: how people open up around Zeph. How he listens and asks questions. He makes people feel special. Important.

When there's a lull in the chatter, Penn turns to me, changes the subject. ‘So, are you going to show us the samples?'

I retrieve my art wallet from the hall, pass the drafts around the table. There's a lot; people are always surprised how much wedding stationery there is past the Save the Dates and the invites themselves. Order of service, place cards, menus, drinks signage. Wedding favours. Thank-you notes . The list is endless and ever-growing thanks to social media.

‘I love them,' Mila murmurs. ‘Seriously, Kier, they're like nothing I've seen before.'

I smile. ‘Thanks. It always means a bit more when you're doing it for someone you know.'

I like to use a rough theme across my stationery, and for their commission, it's the building that Penn and Mila are getting married in – an imposing Victorian mansion by the sea. Until its renovation a few years ago, it had been on the verge of dereliction, nature breaking through holes in the roof, the cracks in the crumbling walls.

I've used the original cornicing as inspiration for the borders of the stationery and subverted it, the building's recent wild past intruding – ivy and wild flowers woven through the delicate pattern. This is all beauty, but in my first draft, one I never shared, nature took over. Consumed the intricate design. A stranglehold .

My initial attempts are always the same. Darker. Uglier. To be palatable to clients, I pare them back. Sanitise.

‘Would you ever try doing your own stuff again?' Mila asks.

I shake my head. ‘Don't think I could take the pressure.'

‘Pressure how?' She's looking at me closely.

‘That constant fear of … judgement, I suppose.' I shrug. ‘Gallery owners, critics. The public. This … it suits me. Regular income, and I can do it from anywhere.'

‘I think it's a cop-out,' Zeph says bluntly. ‘What she's doing now, it doesn't push her to her limits.' I keep my face neutral. I've heard this before. In his world, not succumbing to your creative calling, in any guise, is akin to failure. ‘I think she's scared of what will come out if she lets herself go.'

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. He doesn't know how close to the bone he's getting. I'm not just scared of letting go, I'm terrified. Painting as I did as a child, freely, openly, no boundaries … it frightens me. That kind of art died when Dad did. The only outlet for it now is within my maps, and those are just for Penn and me.

The wedding commissions I take are safe: they have limits.

I flip the conversation. ‘So how does it feel? Getting so close …'

‘Exciting, but scary.' There's a catch in Mila's voice. ‘Saying that's it, forever. You're the only one.'

‘I get that,' Zeph says quietly.

Penn glances at him. ‘You ever get close?'

He shrugs. ‘Touching distance, maybe.'

My cheeks burn. Touching distance? He's always told me that he's never even considered marriage.

My thoughts lurch to her. It has to be her, doesn't it? Romy. The woman who haunts not just my thoughts, but Zeph's dreams.

‘Why do you find the idea of getting married so scary?' Zeph turns back to Mila.

‘The finality of it, I suppose.' She sips her wine. ‘I wanted to move away like you have, do stuff, and I wonder if, now, it'll ever happen. Marriage, however much you want it, it's like that part of your life, that spontaneous part, is closing.'

‘We've talked about this,' Penn says tightly. ‘You can do anything you want when we're married. Your choices have nothing to do with me.'

‘I know, but it feels like it's the beginning of a cycle of things, that you're on and you can't get off. Kids, all that.' Mila slurs her words, voice loosened from the wine.

Zeph's expression is serious. ‘I understand.'

Penn tenses. Just like that, the night has shifted from steady ground to unchartered waters. It's him , I think. Zeph. His presence is like throwing a hand grenade into a room. He unsettles people. By being unapologetically himself, not sticking to the rules, it's as if he makes other people realise that they don't have to either.

It's one of the things I love about him the most, but it can frighten people.

They find Zeph too much. Too much energy. Too much thought. Too much life.

I change the subject, ask Penn about the flowers.

Lightly touching my hand, Zeph interrupts. ‘Hey, Mila was saying something.' He looks back to her. ‘Carry on.'

‘Zeph.' The sharpness of my tone surprises me. I feel my heart thud.

‘What?' His head snaps back. ‘You interrupted her midsentence.'

Heat crawls up my neck. I can feel Penn and Mila's eyes on us. I meet his gaze, hold it. ‘Don't speak to me like that.'

A stony silence. Penn stands up, starts clearing the plates, gesturing to Mila to help.

Once they're away from the table, Zeph places his foot on mine.

A slow, steady compression.

He's pressing on bone. Agony. I blink back tears.

Zeph looks me right in the eye. ‘Fuck you,' he says, so softly I could almost be imagining it.