Edward was a nervous wreck all week.
When he returned home on Monday night, the first thing, as always these days, was the emptiness of the house. No Milo. No jumping Jack Russell. No fuzzy white fur and reddish ears.
That hair had always been such a challenge. Milo had been a rough-coated Jack Russell, and grooming him had taken up a lot of time. Edward smiled as he remembered how Milo would have looked after his – their – walk earlier. Dried leaves of all colours would stick to him, and he'd run around the house, shedding them as he went.
The only room he'd never been allowed in was Edward's studio. They'd made that mistake once. Only once.
He needed to repaint after that mistake, and not with his little brushes. Milo had left the walls with splotches of yellow and blue, the marks of his paws everywhere.
Edward got up from his sofa and went to the kitchen. The timer on the microwave told him in red blinking signs that it was after seven.
He should probably make dinner.
He wasn't hungry.
Instead, he opened one of the cabinets and took out a bottle of Glenlivet.
His mind and body were screaming not to do it, but his soul needed the oblivion only the bottle of Scotch could supply.
He regretted it the next morning, of course, waking with the dull headache he knew so well. It was nothing as bad as the morning after Ro's party, though, and Edward told himself to pull his shit together and man up.
He painted all day, and did the same on Wednesday. Thursday brought a meeting with his agent, who wanted to know if he could announce the new exhibition at the Saatchie Gallery for February. Edward hedged.
On Friday, his nerves were frazzled, and once night had fallen, he went for the Scotch again to gain some sense of calm. Which made him wake around noon on Saturday.
Saturday. The big day.
The day he was going to see Bella again. She had not given him her phone number. He just would have to show up at the National Gallery at the given time.
And he was a stinking, hung-over wreck.
Edward would have called her and cancelled, but he couldn't. And the mere idea of Bella waiting on the stone steps facing Trafalgar Square was something he could not accept.
He showered, brushed his teeth two times, and attempted to get some reason into the mess that was his hair. He stood in front of his closet and tried to figure out what to wear.
He finally decided on black jeans and a black button-down.
Ro had told him, about two years ago, that his clothes were sad, and that he was allowed to wear colours. But it didn't seem like a conscious choice.
"Fuck this," he muttered, pulling off the black pants and replacing them by blue ones.
Much better.
He checked his hair again. His face.
Edward wasn't one to look into a mirror easily. Over the past five years, he hadn't seen anything pleasant when he did.
He tried out a smile, and grimaced. Green eyes, slight wrinkles at the corners. Tousled, reddish-brown hair. A weary expression. A line between his eyes, which had crept in over the years and one morning, had stayed.
A wave of despondence came over him as he stared into his own eyes. He felt empty – he had nothing to give.
But he would not stand up Bella.
There was no way, however shitty he might feel about himself, he'd stand up this beautiful, beautiful girl.