Atelier Dreams

When I got back to town, I thought I'd be asleep before I hit the pillow—but I didn't have anyone there to wrap me up from behind. I dropped off eventually after an age of tossing and turning, cold and alone and exposed in a strange bed.

I dreamed.

Mistress and me were cuddling on the couch. I offered to make us a cup of tea and was getting up to make it when the room shook, and a volcano burst through the floor, lava running down its sides. We grabbed what we could and ran out into the cold; at least it wasn't snowing. The UN had already set up a refugee camp, and we sat in a hot, dry and dusty tent without any sort of plan for the future or idea about where to go next. Mistress's eyes were as dead as the ten thousand starving children's.

I had something to do. Something important. The air was cold and I wished I had something more substantial on, but the white, airy dress was necessary. What was it I had to do? I was standing, shivering and barefooted, in this muddy field for a good reason...

There was a break in the clouds for a moment, and the sun shone on me. I saw the fields lush and green, every tree in bloom and I was soaked with warmth. The world was beautiful; little mice were nosing out of their burrows for the first time in months and blinking in surprise at the wonderful sunshine and flowers. I twirled and gloried in it—until the overcast skies returned and everything became brown and grey and cold again. Of course. How had I forgotten? I raised my arms and rose up on the balls of my feet and began the dance that would summon spring for the year.

This is it. The last two years of work, the research and design and long nights in the lab, were paying off. Thousands of candidate compounds, with tiny variations in structure and huge differences in target binding and ease of synthesis. Hundreds of papers read and diagrams squinted at. Uncountable failed syntheses, every one heartbreaking. One moment of crisis when I realised that the plan was entirely unworkable. I thought it couldn't be done any other way and I was ready to give up.

A last roll of the dice: trying something outside the usual toolbox—a complete whim—that I expected to fail like everything else had. My reward was sitting under the fume hood, slowly cooling. I turned around for just a moment to record the details in my lab book; when I looked back, the chemical had escaped and claimed asylum in Sweden. I cried—not because of the loss, but because it had thought I would ever hurt it, when all I had ever wanted to do was to share my love.

All was not lost—I could still record the chemical I'd used and repeat the process. I sniffled and picked up the pen, but its name wouldn't come to mind for me to write down. No bother, no need to panic, I was still breathing okay; I could note down the steps to make it and look up the name later. As soon as I put the pen's nib to the paper, that too fled my mind. Terror welled up inside me. My respiration rate climbed, and climbed, and climbed, until I was dizzy from the height. I tried drawing the diagram of its structure, only to find that that was something else I'd forgotten, as well as what its precursors were and even why I had thought it might work in the first place. Right there on the floor of the laboratory, I curled up into a ball and began to cry again—real, hot tears, because this was no-one's fault but my own, because I was stupid and didn't write down its name earlier and then forgot everything.

Panting and sweaty, I flopped down on to a broken boulder just off the walking trail and tried to catch my breath. My cheeks were red with embarrassment and with the effort; I'd been expecting to have no trouble walking up this middling fell, but I'd actually shown myself up on the first day proper of the trip. I mean, I knew I wasn't in perfect condition, but this was just bad. Thankfully, the sky was overcast and it was pleasantly cool; elsewise, I'd have been in real trouble. I took a drink of water. At least no-one was around to see me suffering.

I must be getting old, I thought. Scary. Hopefully not. Instead, I decided to blame it on giving up the footy—it had been crunch time at the lab, and something had had to go, and then I had just never got around to picking it back up again... The heroics did pay off, though: we got several excellent assay hits once we'd cracked the synthesis, and one of the compounds was winding up phase II right now. It had been worth it; I'd made a sacrifice for everyone's sake and I'd do it again. At least, that's what I told myself.

I'd spent endless summer afternoons in the park, kicking a ball with whoever was around and definitely not stressing over exams. Our rag-tag lot played matches against other likely bunches, or we played amongst ourselves; teams picked by captains or by numbers; not having strips—we wore what we had on and remembered who was on what team by faces. Bergkamp, number ten, for me, always—the only Dutch player worthy of mention to wear that shirt. We had a mixed bunch of skill levels, but it was okay and we were only playing for pride and to have a good time. There'd been one friend, three years younger than me and better in every single way, who signed as a semi-pro the year I left for uni.

At uni, proper matches on the weekend for the college ladies' team. I'd get bullied by fuck-off scary centre-halves and leggy midfielders who never stopped running; I'd take them on—sometimes I'd win. Training was on Wednesday evenings under the spiffy new lights, a hell of cones and marking drills and interval training that made me literally sick once. The piss-up afterwards was good fun, though. I was regularly given forfeits for 'forgetting' to track back, but I took them on the chin as a fair price for not having to defend. Being the shortest player in the team (five feet none and a tenth, and I will be given my tenth of an inch), I was also given forfeits whenever I managed to win a header; unfair, but I took those on the chin too.

Maybe I should dig out my old kit and wander down to the park, I thought. The Bergkamp shirt was... somewhere. I could find it, I was sure. I'd seen the Henry shirt just last week, but that was still in disgrace; perhaps I could have worn it ironically, committed a few blatant handballs and practiced my 'who, me?' face. I was much more neurotic, technical and 'dikey' than smooth, pacy and Gallic anyway. It went on to the pile of good ideas for consideration, which meant that I never would get around to it.

Okay. My breath was back. I stood up, stretched, took a few more swigs of water, and set off walking again. This stupid pile of rock wasn't going to beat me that easily. I was going to get to the top, even if that meant taking breaks on the way. You can't let yourself get stuck when things turn out harder than you thought they would be, right?

I dragged myself to the top of the fell. Oh my god, every single muscle in my body is aching. I knew that I was probably pushing it too hard and that this was stupidly self-destructive behaviour; I didn't really care. I had to be doing something, and this was as good as anything. Unbidden, tears were running down my cheeks. I ignored those too. On the summit with me was a pair of tourists, middle-aged and middle-class, who barely even glanced in my direction, preferring to admire the view.

The scene was worth it, I told myself while I caught my breath again. The lower hills of green and the upper craggy fells were a lovely contrast. Even the heavy grey sky didn't matter. I pulled out my phone and carefully composed a few photos, along with a wide panoramic collage.

She'll love this, I thought automatically, and flicked through my contacts to find her entry. It wasn't there. Of course it wasn't there—I had deleted it yesterday, just so I wouldn't do something stupid like ringing her up or sending her a holiday snap as if everything was perfectly fine between us.

Sobs choked up my throat as I went over Wednesday night again in my head. The tears of physical effort on my cheeks merged with a new batch, produced by a feeling of loss and of being lost. It was the first time I'd broken down crying since I'd left; I didn't know if I was doing well or badly and what that meant.

The tourists looked at me in alarm and the man stepped closer. He had a yellow and black fleece, which made him look like a busybody bumblebee; a weathered face, distinctly outdoorsy and avuncular; and black hair that wasn't even threatening to grey or thin. "Excuse me, miss. Are you well?" He had an accent I couldn't immediately place beyond 'Europe'—of course they'd be continentals; someone from our north-east Atlantic archipelago would have known to leave me alone in my misery.

I tried to lie and tell them that I was fine, despite the physical evidence that I wasn't. Diaphragm spasms rendered my words unintelligible and they crowded in closer.

"Please sit down, miss." It was the woman's turn to fuss over me. Sitting down seemed like a good idea anyway.

I sniffled and tried to blink and clear my eyes. "It's... it's too beautiful," I managed to splutter, more convincingly than my last attempt. They looked relieved: I wasn't a nutter having a full-on breakdown, just your common or garden over-sensitive weirdo.

"Yes, it is lovely, is it not?" he said. "In our country, Netherlands, we have no mountains, so it is a shock to us too to see such sights." He gave me a genuinely warm smile. I hated them both on general principles, for being so caring and compassionate.

I smiled back and hated myself for the insincerity, which I tried to cover up by saying the first thing that came to mind. "You're Dutch, like Dennis Bergkamp. He's my favourite player ever." Unfortunately, the first thing that came to mind was incredibly stupid; so stupid, in fact, it smacked me out of my self-pity and into a normal mode of thinking.

The choking sobs stopped—mostly—and the man laughed. "Yes, like Bergkamp. But he is from Ajax, and I am a supporter of Feyenoord, and my wife does not care about football one tiny bit." He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed; she looked happy and nuzzled back against him. I hated them doubly for their happy domestic life. "But, he was quite a player for the Oranje, eh?" he added, giving me a conspirational wink.

We made idle chat about nothing—the weather, their holiday itinerary, their first grandchild—for another few minutes, then they set off back down the fell; I suppose they'd satisfied themselves that I was alright, and they had their sight-seeing schedule to keep. I stayed on top of it a little longer, pondering my place in things and gathering my strength for the descent. Going down, I expected it to be easier than the way up, but I'd learned the hard way that my expectations weren't always right.

It was not long after noon. The air on top of the fell was magnificently clear and the view was stunning—photographs really couldn't do it justice. The only sort of images that could come close to capturing its natural wonder, I thought, were those painted by the great Romantic artists—perhaps Turner, Friedrich, Constable and particularly Gude.

All of my reference points revolved around her. I couldn't even look out and appreciate the vista without reminding myself of her. Before I met her, those six and a bit years ago, I knew nothing about art. Not one thing. She dragged me around the Tate—all of them—and the National Gallery and the V&A and the Royal Academy and the Queen's Gallery and half a dozen other grand, stately places I had felt out of place in; she'd made me sit down and actually look at the stuff—I was going to prove her wrong, I was going to look properly at everything and still be stoic and scientific and stay an unmoved philistine. Then came the summer tour of Paris and Berlin and Vienna and Prague, and I got so embarrassed about her paying for my tickets and room and board, and I'd been so proud of her and her sophistication and how many languages she spoke... She knew she'd win and convince me there was a thing called beauty. It was barely a contest, really—she was always right. When are we going to do Italy, like we've been talking about? I sat down, overwhelmed by everything.

Shifting cloud shadows occulted the hills; patterns shown once and never again. Looking, not seeing, I was in flight, thinking of her and anger and hate, balanced with home and sweetness and love. What should I do? My thoughts were a mess, every last one fucked-up and incoherent; in particular, I couldn't decide whether I hated her or loved her—either, neither, or both at once?

From a contradiction, anything follows. I wandered far down the garden path of fantasy. Hurt her like she's hurt you, said one side.

At home—she's on her knees, begging me. I turn up my nose and dismiss her with a flick of my wrist; she breaks down in tears but I am unmoved. Revenge is sweet. I snap my fingers and a slave brings me—

No. That would never happen. She'd never be on her knees. I was sure of it. Show her you still love her, said the other half of me.

A year of work; it shows. It's perfect, I thought. A new collar, delicately embroidered in silver and gold and with an emerald set at its centre—the exact same shade as her eyes. For her, a perfect partner: a simple crown with a blue gem in it. After learning to sew (a thousand finger pricks) and work metal (a hundred burns on my skin), everything is ready. I kneel down; she takes the crown and puts it on her head, then fastens the collar around my neck. I'm home. She pats me on the head and—

That was an even less realistic fantasy. What was I meant to be there, a master craftsdwarf from lost Khazad-Dûm? The scene in my mind's eye melted away, replaced by something new.

She's looking up at me. Her eyes are totally blank; I can't read what she's thinking at all and that just makes me angrier. She thinks she doesn't care one bit about what happens to me if I'm not with her, does she? I'll show her. I'll make her feel something. I'll put that to the test. I'll show her what she's left me with. The knife's tip can't tremble because I've got it right up against my skin. I can feel my pulse through it. Down, not across.

I look up to her and meet her gaze again. Still nothing in her eyes—that does it. The knife goes in and I yank it down, opening up my carotid artery.

She rushes at me and grabs my hand and knocks the blade away but it's too late—it's done. There's more blood than I know what to do with. My heart speeds up and more and more comes out; automatically, my body goes into total fight-or-flight mode—panting, sweating, tunnel vision, everything—except I'm dissonantly calm. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. I'm committed now. No more decisions to make. It's a weight off my mind.

There's genuine terror on her face, eyes round and mouth open for maximum oxygen intake. She doesn't know what to do—inexpertly she's trying to stem the bleeding but she's not applying anywhere near enough pressure. An artsy non-technical type to the last. She hasn't even thought to ring for an ambulance, that's how hard she's panicking. Too late now, anyway. I try to laugh but I'm short of breath. She knows how much she meant to me now. I finally cracked her. Vision's fading. Heartbeat is slowing down now. Everything suddenly starts feeling faint. As for me, I'm no loss to the world. Nothing I've done or would do had any worth anyway.

She's crying. In my last act, at least, I've achieved something.

That one—now, that was something I could actually do. A realistic plan. One I could do when I got back. But... Did I really need to wait?

I blinked. The real world snapped back into focus. I was looking down a steep drop and thinking that it would be the work of a moment to hop off and into eternity. This'll show her—but I didn't know what it was meant to show. Take the principled way out. It's what any good person would do in the circumstances. It's what would happen in a book, if the author had a clue. The readers expect it. I have to do it—I'm a good person, I have principles I stand for.

Another, weaker, thought was hopping up and down for attention. "Thou shalt not kill." Killing was a sin and sinners went to hell. Half-remembered Sunday school lessons. Only bad people went to hell. I'd go to hell for being a good person?

Contradiction. Stop. Back up. Think.

I have to do something—anything, I thought. Emotions were running high and demanding action, now. My heartbeat accelerated and the edges of my vision faded to grey and then black. Suddenly I didn't have enough air in my lungs. The bottom dropped off my stomach. If I didn't intend to follow through, why was I sitting here on the edge? Now or never. Look at yourself. You're a total mess. If you don't do this, what is your plan?

Suspicious reasoning. Stop. Breathe.

I took a deep breath.

Held it, counted to five.

Let it out.

Think.

Emotion told me to get on with it and jump.

Stop.

No, I told myself. This isn't something you do on a whim. My intuition was stuck on that one dead-end and couldn't back itself out.

Right. Fall back to slow thinking.

The endocrine response wasn't helping. I was going to have to work by pure reason; my intuitive logic might or might not have been acting up, but if I was taking a big decision I'd want to check my work anyway. The permutations worked themselves through my mind, slowly but surely.

I kept taking deep breaths.

Think.

Did I hate her? Did I love her? I didn't know. Working that out was why I was up here in the hills; a change of surroundings to shake up my thoughts and pry loose my true feelings.

She was strong—I knew that very well—and she had a real talent for not letting things bother her if she didn't want them to. If I hated her and did this to hurt her, I would bet that she wouldn't let herself be cut too deep. She might even be flattered. No—if she hated me, then living on and flourishing in spite of what had happened between us would do more to hurt her than any act of self-sabotage ever could.

Conversely, I wasn't some mopey, air-headed maiden who'll throw herself off a cliff to prove her love for Prince Charming, who's a week late in coming back from his quest. That sort of thing only happened in fairy-tales, the type she painted. If I loved her, I would have to go back and at least try and fix the situation. She was tough, alright, but why would I risk hurting her for love?

If I didn't hate her or love her, why was I even contemplating this? It wasn't like there was a rush to decide or a deadline. If this really was something I wanted to do, I'd still want to do it in a month, when I'd cooled my heels.

I ran through the arguments again. They were sound. My intuition had—literally—tried to lead me off a cliff, and I almost had to laugh at the irony that what had held me back and made me spot the strange logic was some deeply-sown Catholic theology. Still, I sighed and petulantly kicked my legs out over the open air: I was no nearer to knowing what I should do, even if I knew something I shouldn't be doing.

It was a lazy morning, some time in the summer. I'd made us a simple breakfast—toast and free-range eggs; I could've done that in my sleep. Mistress was leafing through an art magazine, only half reading it. I was reading through Good Food and making plans for the next month or so's cooking.