How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(30)

‘Kitty!’ He gives me an awkward peck on the cheek and I feel my skin prickle as he lightly touches my bare arm. God, I’ve missed skin-to-skin contact. ‘I’m really glad you could make it.’

He looks like he’s caught the sun in the twenty-four hours since I last saw him, a light tan has brought out a smattering of freckles across his face and his eyes are even brighter than I remember.

‘Yeah, me too.’

‘So, it’s actually pretty interesting,’ he tells me as he places a hand on my lower back and gently guides me past the feral children and into the centre. ‘All of the pieces are made from bits and pieces the artists picked up when they helped clean up the old Jungle camp in Calais. It’s called Privilege.’

To my shame, I’m not an art fan. I mean, I like it and everything and can appreciate a good painting. But I probably couldn’t name you any contemporary artists. Well, Banksy, I suppose. And I’m really not on board with a lot of modern art. I just don’t get most of it. I glance at Charlie’s exuberant face as he leads me into the gallery and start to worry. I hope he doesn’t ask me to make insightful comments or anything like that.

‘So, this is the main piece,’ Charlie says, as he leads me over to a huge, dirty white canvas, spread out over some trestle tables and encased in glass. The white is covered with flecks of ash.

I stare at it for a moment, trying to think of something to say.

‘It’s quite abstract I know,’ he says, saving me. ‘Most of the stuff on display is. But each one of those specks represents a woman or child who has fled Aleppo to escape the war.’ He gently takes hold of my elbow and guides me over to the next piece, which is exactly the same, but with far fewer flecks. ‘This one shows the families that actually made it to a safe place alive.’

I shiver. ‘That’s so awful,’ I whisper, knowing my words just aren’t enough.

‘Yes, it really makes you think when it’s actually laid out like that. In literal black and white. All that wasted life. It’s such a precious thing.’

We stand and stare in silence for a few moments.

‘Hey, it’s not all doom and gloom in here though,’ Charlie says. ‘Come and look at these.’

He leads me over to a wall that is covered with bright pictures. There are rainbows, suns and unicorns and wishes written in the unmistakable scrawl of children.

‘This is our wall of hope. Each one of these drawings was done by a child while they were living in the refugee camp. These kids have literally had to leave their lives behind and live in the worst conditions imaginable. Yet, they still manage to draw stuff like this.’

I stare mutely at the pictures, colourful fanfares dedicated to simply being alive.

‘How old were the kids who did these?’

‘Most of them were done by the really little ones. Eight and under.’ He runs his fingers across a particularly beautiful rainbow chalk drawing. ‘This one was done by a little girl called Yara,’ he says. ‘She was only five and had been separated from both her parents on the journey to Calais. But she was the bravest little thing. With the biggest heart. And she didn’t doubt for one second that she’d be reunited with her family.’

‘Was she?’ I ask.

Charlie’s face takes on a steely look. ‘I don’t know,’ he says after a pause that feels like forever. ‘The next time I went back to the camp, she was gone and no one seemed to know where.’ He chews the inside of his lip, lost in another world for a moment. ‘Jesus, sorry Kitty, I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea bringing you here. It’s not the jolliest of first dates.’ He attempts a smile.

‘Is this a date?’

‘Well. It was supposed to be. In my head it was a lot more romantic than this though. Sorry.’

‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. It’s fascinating to see all this. And it’s obvious how much your work means to you. Thank you for sharing it with me.’ I give his arm a reassuring squeeze. ‘I feel honoured.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’ I nod.

‘Then you won’t mind hanging around for a bit while I do my speechy CEO bit. Don’t worry, it’s not too formal.’

‘Of course not!’

He claps his hands together and the sound is so loud it actually makes me jump. I watch, a bit in awe, as everyone turns to face him. But something ugly rouses deep within me at the same time. It’s a bit too much like the Adam situation for my liking. What am I even doing here? Why am I making myself vulnerable?

‘So,’ Charlie starts his speech. He looks far more relaxed here than he did when he was talking at the party last night. ‘First of all I want to say thanks to all of you for coming here tonight instead of the nearest pub garden.’

‘I just wanted to get home and stand in front of the fridge,’ a skinny blonde girl says and pretends to swoon. Everyone laughs.

‘A good point about global warming, Jenna.’ Charlie gives her a wink. ‘Imagine how unbearable this type of heat is in a camp with no air-con. Or many fridges. Anyway, I hope you like the display. As most of you know, it’s mostly been made from rubbish collected at the former Jungle camp site in Calais. Most of the artists are around if you want to grab them for a word. Jenna here,’ he points at Blondie, ‘is the brains behind the main piece, which I’m sure you’ll be moved by when she explains the full story to you. As always, we’re grateful for any donations you can hand our way. We hope to get back out to the Greek camps when autumn eventually arrives. I’ll leave you in Jenna’s hands now. And once again, thank you so much for your time this evening.’