Perfect Imperfections (Moments Book 1) Read online

  “Yeah, go on then, you’ve twisted my arm. Love a cup of tea, plenty of milk.”

  “Sugar?”

  I smile to myself. I’m sweet enough, is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t make a joke.

  “No, but sweetener if you’ve got any.”

  He nods. “Beginning to think you only drank water.”

  “You’ve got to be joking; you’d have to be abnormal not to drink tea or coffee.”

  “So what’s that make me? Abnormal? Cos I drink neither.”

  I wanted the chair to swallow me up.

  “Let’s just call it a day; I think it’s best I go home.”

  “Don’t be daft, though it would help if you tried thinking before you spoke.”

  I snatch my denim jacket from the back of the chair, throw it over my arm and get up.

  “Natasha…” He’s standing two feet from me. “I’m joking! Sit down.”

  “Gabriel, I’ve tried … being here with you, but it’s too much. I don’t know when you’re joking or going to kick me out. I really don’t think I can do another day … another hour of this. Forget the paintings. I’ll ring Mum, get her to settle up with you.”

  “What say I forget painting you today?” He straightens up, tucking his black vest top into his jeans, and tightens the belt at his waist. “Let’s get out of here.”

  My face scrunches. “And do what?”

  He places Mr Pooch onto the floor and shoos her into the dining room.

  “You got a satnav in your car or on your phone?” He walks towards the door.

  “Might have. Why?”

  He stops and turns back. “If I give you a postcode, will you drive us there?”

  I search through my pocket and slam my last pound coin into the car parking meter. Opening the driver’s side door, I stick the ticket to my windscreen.

  “Well?”

  Gabriel ignores me and undoes his seatbelt.

  “Well?” I ask again.

  He gets out of the car and lowers his glasses, leaving them sitting on the bridge of his nose. His blue eyes squint.

  “Over there somewhere.” He points. “It’s a big white building.”

  I press the key fob to lock the car, then gaze across the bonnet.

  “Thought you said you were blind.”

  He shakes his head, lighting up a cigarette. “I never said that.”

  He drags back on his fag, then blows out. I fan the foul-smelling smoke away with my hand.

  “Then why…?”

  “You can’t let it go, can you? Just keep digging for answers.” His voice has dropped, giving his words a hard edge. I can tell I’ve got under his skin.

  “I just want to….”

  “Fuchs Dystrophy,” he butts in, “that’s what I’ve got, and don’t go Googling the condition while we’re walking around the museum.” He takes one last draw before dropping the half-smoked cigarette onto the tarmac and stubbing it out with the sole of his shoe.

  I look at the smouldering nub end.

  “You didn’t smoke much of that; was it worth it?”

  “I can’t manage a full one; a couple of drags and I’m done.”

  “Why?”

  “My eyes, the smoke fucking kills.”

  “In that case, why don’t you give up?”

  “Bloody hell, Natasha, what is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”

  I huff out a breath. “Don’t worry, forget I said anything.”

  “If you must know…” He pauses. “Lighting up a cigarette is something that makes me feel a little more normal.” Lifting his glasses so they sit on the top of his head, he clenches his hands into fists and rubs his eyes. “But it’s getting to the point where it hurts too much, so I’m doing everything I can to quit.”

  I pass a throaty, “Hmm.”

  “You may mock, but it’s just not an easy habit to break, and I’ve got to do something with my fingers when I’m not painting.”

  I see him reach for the handle of the car door and so press the key fob. He disappears back into the passenger side. His head reappears.

  “What the hell is that? Take it off.” He’s wearing the ugliest sun hat I think I’ve ever seen, with the biggest visor attached to the front. “The glasses I can live with, but that looks ridiculous.”

  “Are you being serious?”

  “I am.” I squint up into a sky full of fair-weather clouds. “Where is the sun today? Take it off.”

  Flinging it back into the car, he slams the door. Like a child sulking, his head drops between his shoulders. With his hands wedged inside his pockets, he strides around the front of the car towards me.

  “Do you mind being my eyes?”

  “Excuse me?”

  I look down; he’s taken my elbow in his right hand.

  “Cracks in the pavement, potholes, they’re a bitch.” He shakes his head. “And don’t get me started on kerb stones and steps.”

  I can’t help but stiffen, and unconsciously feel myself inching away.

  “Only till we get inside,” he tells me.

  His fingers don’t seem to hold onto me quite so tightly, and I’m sure he senses my unease.

  Steering him between black cabs, we walk diagonally across a cobbled street. A middle-aged man wearing an old greatcoat sits against the wall of a charity shop. A long-haired collie lies on the man’s lap with his head stretched out, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth, his dark-brown eyes sad, almost as sad as his owner. I search through my coins for a note and unfold five pounds. I let it go and watch as it floats down towards the floor, coming to rest in his corduroy cap. He nods in appreciation.

  I don’t recognise the place; I can’t bring to mind how many years ago Mum brought me to Birmingham. My slim heels click against the kerb as we turn into yet another narrow street. I can see the white building, but it seems so far away.

  People pass by, so close. I can see their eyes, eyes of every colour, staring at us. They must think we’re a couple. Josh’s pops into my head. I look down at Gabriel’s fingers holding onto me and guilt seeps through my skin, knotting itself around my stomach.

  Everyone is walking in single file, everyone except us. That’s why they’re staring; we’re taking up all the room! I could hold his arm, pull myself closer to him and give them more space to pass, but I’m far too close already. I’m now conscious that it’s me watching them. Their eyes gaze up past me and fix on Gabriel. Tilting my head, I pass him a sideward glance. His toned abs stand proud of his dark vest, and as my eyes move up towards his face, his bronzed skin and full lips, I hate to admit it but he is quite easy on the eye. But they don’t know that he’s an arrogant arse.

  A blonde-haired woman, maybe early twenties, approaches on Gabriel’s side of the street. Her suit, her shoes, her handbag all scream money. Her eyes widen as she takes in Gabriel, then she looks down her nose as she looks at me. Cheeky bitch. Well, he’s on my arm; I turn up my nose, and he looks down, smiles and squeezes my elbow. I pull him closer. What the hell am I doing? I jerk my arm away and my heel catches between two uneven cobblestones. Lurching forward, I gasp, feeling my heart begin to race.

  His fingers dig into my shoulder to stop me from falling. Wide-eyed, I catch my breath.

  “Thought you were being my eyes.”

  I feel my face redden and bend my head.

  “Damn potholes,” I curse.

  “What did I tell you?”

  I relax upon hearing the humour in his voice.

  Not prepared to lose face, I keep looking down. The woman’s shoes tap out a methodical rhythm, and as she passes she leaves a strong trail of perfume.

  A ten-minute walk and two partially smoked cigarettes later, we make our way up a couple of marble steps. Wow, the building is immense; I think of the houses back home, and realise this would take up almost a whole street on its own. I can honestly say I’ve never seen so many windows. We step between a row of large white pillars towards the arched entrance. Passing through the doorway, I see
a sign that reads: Welcome to Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery.

  “Why would you bring me here? What’s the point?”

  Walking into the building, Gabriel pulls me aside and allows his hand to drop from my arm.

  “Well, Natasha, if I had an attitude as cynical as yours, I may as well give up on living.”

  “No,” I jump in, spinning round to face him, “I wasn’t trying to insult you.” But insulting Gabriel is something I seem to have a knack of doing. “What are you getting out of this?”

  “It’s not about me, this afternoon is about you.”

  About me? I feel my eyebrows rise. Is this guy for real? Everything about this place is boring. It was Year Nine in senior school the last time I stepped foot inside any kind of museum, and it was only having Josh in my group that made the day bearable. Our project was to draw and jot down as many things as we could that inspired our imagination. Between us we were handed one piece of A3 art paper; each of us was supposed to leave our mark, but Josh being Josh he took charge. We breezed through most of the floors and sections with not so much as a doodle on our paper. When we reached the Michelangelo displays, the life-like marble sculpture of the prophet David stood before us. Josh’s eyes widened so much I thought they would leap from their sockets. He stole my 2B pencil from my satchel, sat in the corner by himself and drew a massive cock. We moved along the corridor where slightly smaller naked female statues stood in various poses, and the paper was all free hand by Josh alone and consisted solely of male and female genitalia. We laughed so much we were almost thrown out of the building, our paper was seized, our team disqualified and the four of us spent the next week in detention. I’m giggling out loud remembering this.

  Gabriel nudges my side. “You coming?”

  I swallow hard. All I can picture in my mind is Josh’s wide grin, boobs, bums and cocks.

  Composing myself, I straighten my face.

  “Looked at your work online,” I babble.

  “Oh yeah? Guess that’s what it’s there for.”

  I grin at his one-liner.

  “Do you ever…” I take a second. “Do you ever paint nudes?”

  “Yes, all the time,” he says, walking away from me towards another stand.

  I look around and roll my eyes. Voices, shoes, everything echoes, and there’s an odd kind of chill in the air, quite the opposite of the warm summer’s day we left outside. I pull the lapels of my jacket closer together and do up the buttons. Breathing in deeply, everything has an unsavoury smell, old and fusty. I glance over as people meander around, and figure there’s about as much life in most of them as there is lying in the gold encrypted sarcophaguses where the Egyptian mummies lie.

  I walk over to Gabriel, who is looking at a display of Japanese armour.

  “You have to touch my face to paint me, so does that mean you have to touch … you know?”

  He laughs. “I don’t paint total nudes, just topless, and if you’re asking if I have to touch, then yeah, sometimes I do.”

  “Don’t you find it kinda pervy?” I whisper.

  “No, it’s art, and no different to me than painting a fine china vase.”

  Holding my hand to my face, I snigger. “Can’t see it myself.”

  “Bodies are beautiful; we’ve all got one, they just come in different shapes and sizes. My clients always have someone accompany them, be it a partner, friend or relative. It’s not like I touch them all the time. I take no chances; before they sit for me I get them to sign a consent form.”

  “I don’t understand, you can’t see.”

  He shakes his head. “Dig, dig, dig, you can’t just enjoy the afternoon and let things drop, can you?”

  “Maybe I’m interested and want to understand.”

  “Understand?” he mimics with sarcasm. “You’re my client, Natasha, not my shrink.”

  “Just trying to be friendly…”

  “Nosey, you mean,” he snaps.

  “Point taken. Look, I’m sorry, I won’t ask you any more questions.”

  He blows out a long breath. “If you must know, I can’t see details, but I can see outlines if they’re against the right background.”

  “Right background?”

  He grumbles. “I can’t read a newspaper, the contrast just doesn’t work and the writing may as well be invisible, but I can see black if it’s on brilliant-white paper.”

  “Okay, go on,” I prompt.

  “I can differentiate between dark and light, and though faded, I can see different shades of colour.”

  “So why touch, then? And why wear those stupid glasses?” I grab my mouth. Shit! I’ve done it again.

  “Maybe it’s because I’m abnormal, or because I’m a moron.”

  “I’ve said I’m sorry, what more do you want?”

  He smiles an open-mouthed smile. “I’m joking, but it seems that’s something only you’re allowed to do. As for my stupid glasses, bright lights, that’s why I wear them.”

  He lowers his shades, squinting around at the exhibits and then back at me.

  “It’s fucking agony,” he adds, brushing his hand across his brow. “Everything I see is distorted; colours bleed into one another, and there are no edges as such. Light is surrounded by…” He pauses. “Halos is probably the best way I can describe to you what I see. A couple of years back my vision would improve as the day went on, but not any more. I would put eyedrops in three, four times a day, which used to help. ”

  “And now?”

  He shakes his head. “No, nothing helps.” Flicking his dark lenses back into place, he continues. “And you ask why I touch; to understand you’d need to see through my eyes. It’s like…” He pauses, chewing on his lips. “It’s like looking at a person through fog or wax paper. My fingers have to fill in the gaps that my eyes can’t see, all those little extras that make a beautiful painting.”

  I’m left not knowing what else to say. He certainly won’t want my pity, and if I do try to sound sincere he’s bound to take it the wrong way and think I’m being sarcastic.

  Saying very little, we head back towards the vestibule at the entrance of the museum. Gabriel paid at reception, and we and a handful of others were taken on a tour around a section of the art gallery called ‘The First Pre-Raphaelites’. Barbra was our tour guide. Looking at her I’d guess her to be in her mid-forties, red hair and slim. She’d lost five stone in the last three years and had turned her garage into a makeshift gym; she’d also enrolled in one of those weekly slimming clubs. Barbra owned seven cockatiels and had named each after a day of the week. She also had a tortoise she’d named Speedy. Then there was a husband, an ex-husband, seven kids and five grandchildren.

  In the forty-five-minute tour I gained no end of knowledge; I know everything there is to know about Barbra, whereas I know nothing about the First Pre-Raphaelites. We were told the usual tour guide was full of amazing facts, but today she was off sick and Barbra was her last-minute stand-in.

  I can feel the frosty atmosphere between Gabriel and myself, though after the ear bashing we’ve just received it’s quite nice to be walking around on our own. We enter a circular room with burgundy-painted walls. Art isn’t really my bag, but these are anything but the paintings I’m used to. Gabriel informs me that they’re acrylics, jewel-like in appearance. He says the beautiful effect and finish are due to the way in which the artist plays around with light and colour. I stare into a vivid blue colour; the effect of sunlight shining down on a large expanse of water is breathtaking.

  “Okay. Natasha, tell me what you see.”

  “What do you mean? The ocean, I guess.”

  “Is that all?”

  I squint, searching each corner of the painting trying to see more. I shrug.

  “Yeah, it’s beautiful, but what else is there?”

  “So much more.” His fingers rub the rough stubble on his chin as his head moves from side to side. “And it’s me that’s meant to be the visually impaired one here,” he mocks.


  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ve got perfect sight and yet use so little of it, and…” He pauses. “It’s down to ignorance. Look, just ignore me, another half an hour of this and then we’ll stop off and have a drink in the Victorian tearoom.”

  Now we’re talking; preferably a strong coffee.

  He takes my elbow, and the paintings merge into each other as we walk on. Passing through the next room I notice a famous Van Gogh and feel quite excited as I point it out to Gabriel; this is one artist I actually know by name.

  “Monet.”

  He steps past me and stands as close to the painting as he can possibly get, peering over the top of his glasses.

  “Poppies.” He turns back round to face me. “The man was genius; you may not believe it, but later in life he suffered with his sight, and if I remember right it was cataracts. But he still went on to paint.”

  “I didn’t know that, but the picture’s special to me.” I don’t elaborate further.

  “Go on,” he prompts.

  “Poppies was a picture Nan had for years, hung on the wall in the bedroom where Adrianna and I used to stay overnight. Nan used to kiss us goodnight and sit on the double bed between us, making up stories about the painting. The house in the distance was a magical one and only a select few were allowed to enter. The closer we’d walk towards it, the further away it would get… The stories and adventures Nan told us were amazing, and so nice to fall asleep to.” I chuckle. “Adrianna and I always disagreed whether the children in the picture were little girls or boys.” I decide I was right all along; they’re definitely boys, though I’m sure even now Adrianna’s opinion would differ.

  “I was really close to my grandparents,” he says, and I notice how his voice softens on their mention. “Are yours still around?”

  “Unfortunately not, only happy memories. My nan on my mum’s side was the last grandparent to pass, five years ago.”

  “This should be easy for you then.” He reaches his hand towards me. “Come, I want you to look at this.”

  “I am looking.”

  “No.” He squeezes my fingers. “Really look.”