Romantic Association - Loves Me, Loves Me Not

I watch them. The father’s taking time to explain things to his son. He points out the colours, the materials—the blazing golds and rich lapis lazulis and, like most of the other tourists I’ve watched over the years, they’re taking great pleasure in spotting the familiar figures: there’s Horus the falcon-headed god, and Anubis with his jackal head.

I continue watching the father as he calmly answers each of his son’s questions, quickly scanning the cards in front of the objects and hastily gaining the information his son wants.

‘What’s that?’ the son asks, pointing into one of the cabinets.

‘Er—’ the father falters ‘—that’s a shabti.’

‘What’s a shabby?’

‘Well—’ his eyes quickly dart for information ‘—it’s a little model in the shape of a mummy that was thought to come to life after death. They were used as servants. The more you had buried with you, the better.’

The son looks absolutely fascinated and I look across at the brilliant blue shabti, turquoise like a summer sky, and wish I had a team at home to help me with the chores, which always get left in favour of my drawing.

The father and son move to another exhibit—the cabinet with the fabulous golden mummies. They stand in front of the largest, with its long ebony hair and huge almond-shaped eyes rimmed with black. Her passive face stares into eternity and she is almost smiling, but not quite. She reminds me of the Mona Lisa—there’s that sort of peace about her. She’s one of my favourites.

‘Look at the gold!’ the father says.

I smile. It’s obvious to me that this is their first visit and they’re both as captivated by the mummy as I was when I first saw her. The boy’s mouth has dropped open into a wide ‘o’ and the father’s eyes have gone quite round with wonder. And I suddenly realise that I’m drawing them both. My pencil is flying across the page: the father’s kind, open face and his wavy, slightly wild hair, and the boy’s sparkling eyes and his inability to stand still for longer than three seconds.

Once my sketch is more or less complete, I move through to the next room, where I know there’s a bench near the mummy known as Ginger. I sit down, glad to have the weight off my feet for a while. This room’s much bigger and lighter, less oppressive than its neighbours but no less crowded. My eyes travel—inevitably—towards Ginger—the body of an ancient man who’s been naturally mummified in the desert sands. He always pulls in the crowds.

Today, he attracts the father and his son I’ve been sketching.

‘Hello,’ the father says as he spies a seat next to me. ‘Mind if I sit here?’

I look up from my sketchbook, disarmed by his cute smile. ‘Not at all.’

We look around the room together as his son stands, fascinated, by Ginger.

‘You know, I could come here every day,’ the father says suddenly and I smile. ‘Couldn’t you?’

I bite my lip, not daring to tell him that I almost do. ‘It’s one of my favourite places,’ I say instead.

He then notices the sketchbook on my lap. ‘Can I see?’

I find that I’m blushing as I show him my scribbles.

‘They’re really good,’ he says. ‘Is this what you do for a living?’

I smile shyly. ‘I’ve had a few books published.’

‘Really?’ He looks surprised and I’m wondering if that’s a good thing.

‘Just for children.’

‘ Just? They’re the toughest audience.’

I nod. ‘I guess they are.’

‘You like children, then?’ he asks.

‘Oh, yes! I love them. I’d like some of my own one day.’ And then I blush. How awful did that sound? He smiles at me and I’m heartily relieved that I haven’t sent him running for the nearest exit. ‘How old’s your son?’ I ask quickly.

‘Billy’s eight tomorrow. This is our big day out today. Can you believe, I offered him the whole of London and he chose to come here? Wanted to see the mummies.’

For a moment I want to ask about Billy’s real life mummy but it would look much too forward, wouldn’t it?

‘And what will you be doing to celebrate tomorrow?’

‘He’ll be at his mum’s,’ he says.

My eyes widen a fraction.

‘We’re divorced,’ he explains.

‘Oh.’ I fish around for something slightly less inane to say but nothing comes to mind.

‘He’s having a party over there. Cake, friends, entertainer—the works!’

‘Sounds fun.’

‘Don’t you believe it! Fifteen eight-year-old boys and girls crammed into a thirties terrace is anything but fun!’ He laughs and tiny crinkles spread around his eyes like little rays from sunshine. ‘I got off lightly with our day out, I think.’

I glance over at Billy, who’s still examining the mummified body of Ginger.

‘You can see his fingers and everything! ’ he shouts across to us. ‘Cool!’

‘So, might I have heard of some of your books?’ the father asks me.

‘Night of the Mummies,’ I say, choosing my most popular title.

‘You’re kidding! That’s Billy’s favourite book.’

‘No!’ I gasp.

‘That’s why we’re here today. He won’t stop talking about mummies. Please tell me there’s a sequel.’

I nod proudly. ‘Out in time for Christmas. Dawn of the Mummies. ’

‘Excellent!’ he says. ‘Wow! I can’t believe I’m sitting next to the writer. Billy!’ he calls. ‘Billy—come here.’

Billy runs over.

‘Billy, you’re never going to guess who this is,’ his father says. ‘The writer of Night of the Mummies! ’

‘No way!’ Billy exclaims. ‘Really?’

I nod. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ I say, smiling at him.

‘Wow! That’s—like—my favourite book in the whole world! Is there going to be another one?’

‘In time for Christmas.’ His father’s delighted to pass on his insider information.

‘And will it have Sethmosis in it?’

‘Newly wrapped and ready to rise from the dead again,’ I tell him.

‘Excellent!’ he says. ‘That’s him in the next room, isn’t it?’

‘The one lying flat, yes.’

‘ Told you, Dad!’ Billy says.

His dad shakes his head. ‘He knows your book inside out. He’s been spotting all your characters next door.’

I turn to smile at Billy again but something’s caught his eye on the other side of the room and he’s on the move once more.

‘I actually came here today because of the new mummy book,’ I say. ‘Just putting together a few finishing touches.’

‘Can I see?’

For a moment I hold back. I’m nervous, which is silly really because I spend most of my time sketching in public and it’s usual for people to peer over my shoulder and pass comment on what I’m doing. But here’s a real-life reader of mine and, as I hold out my sketchbook, I suddenly worry that he won’t like what I’ve drawn.

He takes the sketchbook and looks over the last page of drawings I did of the mummies. ‘Oh, this is good,’ he says. ‘Look at this guy! Looks like he’ll be trouble in the new book.’

‘That’s what I was thinking,’ I say.

And then he flips the page and sees the sketch of him and his son.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say hastily. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

His eyebrows are raised and he looks momentarily stunned. ‘It’s really good,’ he says. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been drawn before. And Billy. You’ve really caught him. All that energy he has—you can really see it.’

‘Thanks!’ Relief fills me.

‘Oh, I’m Oliver,’ he says.

‘I’m Sarah.’

‘I know. Sarah Galani. My favourite writer.’

I beam at the unexpected praise.