Allison Rushby - It's Not You It's Me

I shoot him a look. Oh, sure. After all, what could be more glamorous than the life of a rock star?

‘Seriously,’ Jas protests. ‘Spend most of my time travelling just like this.’ He runs his hand over his jacket. ‘Dressed in 1998 couture. Very good year in my opinion. So tell all. I’m waiting.’

I pick up the last few biscuit crumbs on my finger and pop them in my mouth before I begin. I explain how I was kept quite busy after Mum died, settling her affairs, selling her house and buying myself a tiny cottage in Byron Bay.

‘And your mum’s sculpture?’ Jas asks.

‘I, um, only kept a few pieces.’ I flinch when I say this, thinking of her work in someone else’s house, but the fact was I’d needed the money to pay for medical treatment. I hadn’t had much choice.

‘The table and chairs? You kept them, didn’t you?’ Jas says quickly.

I shake my head. ‘I sold them. To a gallery.’

‘Oh.’ I can see the disappointment lying behind Jas’s eyes. ‘And your own exhibition? How’d that go? Was one of the reasons I called. Wanted to come.’

I busy myself drinking the last bit of apple juice. ‘That, um, sort of fell through.’

‘Fell through?’ Jas frowns. I pretend not to notice.

‘It just wasn’t the right time.’

‘But you’re working?’

‘Working, working? Or sculpting, working?’ What is this, an interrogation?

‘Either.’

‘I haven’t been able to. Not since after…’ I don’t finish the sentence, not wanting to go there. ‘I’ve been sketching a bit. Now and then.’ More then than now, truth be told.

‘Sketching?’ Jas knows this is what I do before I actually start a piece and that I obviously haven’t been sculpting much lately. Which is true. I haven’t.

‘At least you’ve got your degree now. That must be a bonus.’

Silence again.

Jas looks at me as if I’m joking. ‘You do have your degree now? You must have finally passed that subject. It’s been two years, Charlie.’

More silence. Telling silence.

But I have to say something. Explain it somehow. ‘It was just that it was all a bit much…’

Jas butts in then. ‘Jesus. Sorry. I’m doing it again. Course it was hard after your mum died.’

And, as this is partly the truth, I leave it at that.

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