Trafalgar Square was full of people. They chattered in different languages; levels of tourism displayed on their faces and clothes. There was a man on a business trip from China wiping down the seat of a bench with a black handkerchief, his Armani suit glistening in the sun. Next to him and unabashedly tourist, was a group of Americans wearing I Heart London white t-shirts with “Smith Vacation 2011” written on the back in chubby marker. And across from them a group of primary students, presumably from France based on their jacket emblems, sat in a circle in front of the larger-than-life lion statues at the base of stone pillars. They wrote in small notebooks while a teacher called out to them above the many voices.
Emily and Simon climbed on one such lion, making faces at the kids and distracting them from their scribbling. Emily looked over at Simon who had already climbed up the sloping back of the lion and was grabbing its left ear. His messy boy band hair was contrasted with the preppy navy blazer he wore. Tall and lanky, he easily reached for both ears of the lion while Emily struggled to use the tail to lift herself onto its back.
“C’mon Em. You’re slow and it’s bloody hot,” Simon called down to her. She could see him shake his head and used her upper body to lift herself onto the statue. From here, the people milling around the square were slightly blurry—she had forgotten her glasses when Simon tugged her through the door and ran ahead of her by three paces until they stepped on the Tube at Piccadilly Circus.
“Coming,” she said. He didn’t reply and she rolled her eyes. He could be such an arse sometimes and, lately, his troubles at the office and with his mother’s diagnosis had made him moodier than ever. His normally brooding nature had been what initially drew her to him, but usually she was the one who could break his storm clouds.
It was laborious work—she really needed to find more time for the gym—but she made it to the top right behind Simon. Still below him, but closer. He turned around when she announced that she’d made it and looked forward again quickly. Emily scanned the crowed and squinted against the sun glinting harshly on the fountains around the square. It was set below the National Gallery, which sat on its haunches like an even larger lion than the one she clung to. People leaned back into the early afternoon heat wave and smiled as if thanking the gods that, for once, the English rain decided to take a break.
“Let’s go into the Gallery,” Simon said suddenly right beside her. He grabbed her hand, the black bandana tied around his wrist tickling her arm, and she smiled at the contact. She’d go anywhere as long as he didn’t let go.
“Sure, love,” she said. He released her hand and continued down the lion’s back, which had already absorbed so much heat that it had begun to feel like the cast iron skillet Emily’s mother used to make bangers and mash.
As Simon slid down, his foot caught on Emily’s purse string and the contents spilled over the lip of the statue into the middle of the school children. They looked up, laughed, and said something in French before hurriedly gathering the compact, wallet, and hairbrush and waiting for Emily to jump down to claim it.
Landing sent hard shocks up Emily’s legs and she regained her balance while she scanned the crowd for Simon. He was already near the steps of the Gallery, lighting a cigarette.
“’Ere you go, miss.” A petite girl with long braided pigtails held the bag out to Emily and she accepted it with a distracted “Thanks.”
“And to our left is the National Gallery, a landmark in British culture, and home to original Monet’s, Van Gogh’s, and Leonardo Da Vinci’s. Trafalgar Square to your right is always a hub of activity—especially on the rare sunny day—and has been so since its opening in 1844. Its various reconstructions, addition of the fountains, and its prime location to shopping, music, and theater make it an integral part of our culture,” said a tour guide in an obnoxiously colored yellow blazer. The tourists followed him with mouths open and smartphones snapping, seemingly unaware of Emily waiting to get by.
The crowd thinned and she spotted Simon at the base of the Gallery’s steps leaning over a street artist using chalk to recreate the famous works inside. Simon was always looking at art of some sort—even if, at the moment, it happened to be an artfully dressed female who had stepped in his line of sight.
“Si, you could’ve waited for me,” Emily said. The irritation she had been trying to keep untapped was slowly finding its way through the crack of her lips.
“You were slow.”
“Jesus, what bat clambered up your arse?” She thought of the woman again and her anger renewed. “Let’s go inside, shall we? There at least you can ogle women all you like and look cultured doing it.” She bit her tongue to keep from saying more and took the steps two at a time. Simon followed her with his eyes before taking a long drag on his cigarette and tossing it on the street artist’s design.
“Oy mate! Watch where you put out your fag!” The man yelled after Simon as he walked slowly up the stairs. In response, Simon scratched the back of his head with his middle finger.
Emily turned around in time to see his immature response and walked into the security line without waiting for him. Ordinarily, she didn’t mind the guards rifling through her handbag, but today she tapped her foot and checked her watch several times before they were satisfied she didn’t have any weapons. She snatched it up and swung the strap diagonally across her chest and heard a dull thud where the bag made contact with someone.
“Pardon me,” she said while adjusting the strap. She looked up, noticed it was Simon, and continued adjusting the strap. “Nice of you to join.”
“Don’t give me that, Em. Let’s go see the Monet’s.”
He said it more cheerfully than before and she half expected him to turn around and pick her up to run her up the stairs, their squeals echoing off the marble like they did the first time they had come to the Gallery. They’d been young then with the worry wrinkles from the transition into their twenties not yet touching their foreheads.
The National Gallery gift shop on the left of the landing was full of people rifling through prints of the famous work in an effort to find their great grandmother or next-door neighbor the perfect gift from London. She followed Simon to the right of the landing, choosing to enjoy the artwork in its original state.
“I’ve always thought these ceilings were the most beautiful in the city. Even matched up to Westminster Abbey,” she said. The domed windows let in dappled sunlight and illuminated the paintings so that the brush strokes of the masters were cast in relief.
“I know. You’ve told me before,” he said but not unkindly. She wondered if making him smile would be impossible. The first time she had told him, he had answered that he hadn’t noticed them because she was standing in the light.
Room 43 looked similar to the others with paneled mahogany doorframes and roped off paintings surrounding cushions for patrons to muse about the art. Some snapped pictures from their phones or pretentiously built Nikons while others simply stared with a look of confused awe. The first time Emily had seen the works in person she imagined she looked quite the same way—as if trying to comprehend the history that was brushed onto the canvas. Simon walked with purpose to the far wall. It was a rare moment where a new wave of tourists had not yet seen the attraction and gathered in a gaping group in front of it. The white square hung in right corner:
Bridge over a Pond of Water Lilies, 1899
Claude Monet (French, 1840–1926)
She’d seen it before. The hushed greens and blues in Monet’s secret bridge. The water overflowing with pink lilies and willows dipping their bows into the calm pond. They’d both felt the magic that lay there, a kind of silent history that they debated couldn’t possibly have existed in the world they lived in.
She imagined that she and Simon were leaning against the railings of the wooden bridge and looking at their distorted reflections in the pond. Perhaps in this universe the harsh tones in their voices would be as muted and abstract as the painting.
“I want to break up,” Simon said suddenly. She continued to stare at the painting and picture the other world, but it was only as real as the strokes of a dead man and she turned to face the man she had thought she would marry.
“Excuse me?” She said louder than she had expected. A middle-aged couple glared at her over their pamphlets and she lowered her voice. “Si, what the bloody Hell?”
“I just have a lot going on right now.”
Emily stepped closer to him and attempted to reach for his hand, but he began twisting the bandana around his wrist in quick circles. She let her arm drop.
“Is this about your mum? I know it’s been awful, but we can help her get through this. We live together, Simon. For Christ’s sake, I gave up Uni in the States for you.” Her voice rose again. This time a young girl in school uniform looked at her meanly through thick spectacles. Emily resisted sticking out her tongue.
Simon raked a hand through his hair and the gel made it stick out more than usual. An “adorable troll doll” she had called him the first time he had done this.
“We’re not the kids we were before, Emily. I have responsibilities now. I’m not saying that you don’t but it’s different, you work at a pub and study Austen.” They’d had the conversation before, but in joking terms. Back then he had understood what her studies meant to her and that her family didn’t have the means to hand her money like his did. When his hadn’t been able to fund him anymore, he had asked Emily to move in.
“You’re right. I have no responsibility Simon. I couldn’t possibly know what that’s like,” she said. Her sarcasm fell harshly between them.
A couple holding the hands of a young boy walked behind them and smiled. Emily and Simon stepped out of their way.
“You’re obviously not listening. I just said you do, but I’m working at the bank now and I don’t have the energy to keep fighting with you,” he had lowered his voice when the family approached the painting.
“You brought me here to ruin it, didn’t you? This is our place and now you want to slash all over it. You can sod off,” she said. The couple to their right looked over and the woman shushed them as moved her son to the opposite side of her legs.
“There are children here. Have your row somewhere else,” the woman said. Emily noticed that her husband grabbed her hand and kissed her on the cheek, telling her to focus on the painting.
Emily grabbed Simon’s arm and walked in an empty corner of the room.
“I get it now. You didn’t want to ruin this for me. You just didn’t want me to bloody yell,” she said.
Simon said nothing and she took a deep breath.
“Yes,” he said. She dropped her arm, which was still on his. “Happy?”
She wasn’t happy at all.
“Can you at least tell me why without this rubbish that you’ve got ‘a lot going on’? Maybe we can fix it,” she said.
“No, we can’t. Unless you can grow a new personality. Don’t give me that look, I know I sound like the world’s biggest sod. Em, I loved you. And a few years ago before everything that’s happened and before our constant rows, I thought I would marry you. But I can’t do it anymore,” Simon said. The wrinkles on his brow stood out in the canned light of Room 43.
“Are you seeing someone else? I saw you look at that woman out there.”
“No, I’m not. That didn’t mean anything, ok?”
She looked away from Simon and watched the crowds of people going from painting to painting. Some of them seemed to care about what they were seeing and others barely glanced up from their phones at the masterpieces around them. She and Simon used to come in the rooms, plop themselves on the benches in the middle, and narrate what people could possibly find so important on their phones. Then, they would wander the rooms they’d seen dozens of times and find new things to be excited about in each of the paintings.
Emily laughed then. Loudly. People turned to them for a moment then lost interest in the crazy girl whose heart was breaking.
“Are you mad, Em?” Simon tugged at the bandana again.
“No, I’m not mad. I was just thinking: do you take all the girls on such nice break up dates?”
For a moment, he simply looked at her like she really was crazy. Then, a solitary laugh broke his flat expression and, once started, he was soon doubled over.
“You’re so bloody ridiculous,” he said and pulled her into a hug. Without speaking, they pulled away from the hug and started walking around the room looking for pieces in the pictures they might have missed.
They made comments back and forth about the work and, in the last room, sat on the bench in the middle and watched the strangers poured over their phones. This one’s mum just told him he was adopted, she said about one boy who stared open-mouthed at his screen. This other one’s checking to see if the lettuce is still in her teeth, he said nodding to the girl who bared her teeth to the camera she pointed at herself.
By the time they left, Trafalgar Square was bathed in early evening light. The lion statues sat in their four corners guarding the people who still sat in the square with dull, black eyes. Before getting on the Tube, they stopped in the small pub they had frequented the last few years. Emily ordered a cider and Simon, a beer. They walked closely by each other in the cooling evening and he wrapped his blazer around Emily’s narrow shoulders.
The Tube station was crowded as usual and they took the escalators slowly, opting not to rush down the left side as many businessmen and women did.
“It’s what we do, you know?” Emily said as she held onto the railings on the Tube. There was nowhere to sit and she and Simon were squished into the corner by suited bodies.
“What is?” he asked.
“This. Fighting. Saying terrible things and then making up.”
He considered for a moment. “I suppose. But is that what you want to be what we do?”
“I know that things have been even harder lately, but what if we can change it?” With her free hand, she pulled at the strings of her sweater dress, which was coming undone.
“Okay, say we stay together. And then, what if my work becomes even worse? What if my mum—well, what if she doesn’t make it? There’s always going to be something that’s hard,” he said.
“You’re too smart for your own good. Damn, I know you’re right. But, seven years…” She thought about all that had happened. The days after school in Hyde Park, their first time getting drunk together, their first time alone after her parent’s went on holiday, their first—“And you do realize we live together.”
“I know, I know. But this isn’t what’s best for either of us,” he said.
“We were kids when we met. I don’t think I’ve really thought about us in any other way. I wanted you to run with me up the steps in the Gallery, can you believe that? Maybe I’m not all that responsible like you pointed out. But I do want to have fun. I want to laugh,” she said.
“And you deserve that.”
They got off at Russell Square station after switching Tube lines and stepped out into the quieter nightlife near Lansdowne Terrace. Everything looked the same, but Emily couldn’t help feeling as if she hadn’t really appreciated how nice the calm was.
“Thanks for the breakup date,” she said and laughed quietly. She rubbed her eyes and looked out at the park, the paths splitting in different directions toward the opposite end. “I think I’m going to take the long way home if you don’t mind.”
Simon looked at her for a moment and grabbed her arms. The kiss was short and tasted of the bittersweet memories between them.
“I’ll see you at the flat,” he said.
She nodded and walked away from him. By the time she looked back, he was already halfway home.