Chapter Text
“Don’t be afraid of the clocks, they are our time, time has been so generous to us.
We imprinted time with the sweet taste of victory.
We conquered fate by meeting at a certain time. We are the product of time, therefore we give back credit where it is due: time.
We are synchronized, now and forever.”
(Félix Gonzales-Torres to Ross Laycock, 1988)
4. An artist’s relation to suffering:
– An artist should suffer
– From the suffering comes the best work
– Suffering brings transformation
– Through the suffering an artist transcends their spirit
– Through the suffering an artist transcends their spirit
– Through the suffering an artist transcends their spirit
(An Artist’s life manifesto, Marina Abramovic, 1997)
JANUARY
Dear Francis,
As you may recall, this year marks the 60th anniversary of the Franklin Art Gallery: in celebration, I have been planning a series of solo exhibitions featuring our most successful and best known artists, which will take place throughout the year.
Of course we can’t have a celebration of the gallery without including your works, and I am confident you will accept the invitation.
Ideally, your solo show will be next May, until the first weeks of August.
The theme will be of your choosing.
If you could come to the gallery tomorrow at 2pm, we could discuss the idea in detail.
Sincerely,
Sophia Cracroft
Franklin Art Gallery
PO BOX 7904
London, W1A 7BN
Francis absentmindedly nibbles at his bottom lip as he reads the email again.
It sounds like the perfect opportunity: solo exhibitions are what he excels at, he never turns one down and he's been represented by the Franklin Art Gallery for ages now, always working well with them.
Founded in 1961 by John Franklin’s father, the Franklin Art Gallery started out as a traditional exhibition space, showing British and European visual artists. For decades it was a quiet, vintage-looking space, as if stuck in the past, although it served its purpose: it was well known in London as a place where one could admire the great masters of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and, when John Franklin succeeded to his father’s position, he continued in his footsteps, establishing the gallery as a quiet but steady presence in North London: not an attraction for tourists, but a spot you visit because you know it’s there.
Then, in the nineties, John’s wife, the indomitable Jane Franklin, stepped into her husband’s place and took the gallery in her more capable hands, literally turning it upside down: she moved it to a new, minimalistic space in Soho, right in the heart of London; a modern building covered in curtain walls that face the main street, with blinding white walls and four spacious rooms. Her biggest improvement, however, was the kind of art she chose for the gallery: if her predecessors had exclusively looked for traditional painters and the occasional sculptor, Jane was more open-minded and observant of her time: she set figurative paintings aside, recognising the potential of new media like performance, video art and installations, deciding to only show contemporary living artists.
Francis himself had been one of the first artists Jane had sought, when no one was interested in his work anymore, after a long pause and a dramatic change of style such as his. He was quite reluctant to work with her at first, given how many times he had already tried to contact John Franklin to showcase his works in the past, but all it took to change his mind was having a ten minute conversation with Jane to understand how deeply her line of work differed from her husband’s.
They signed their contract that same evening and have been working together—and with Sophia, Jane’s niece—since.
So this solo show sounds perfect, really. The only problem is, Francis hasn’t been to the gallery in quite a long time.
How can he be blamed, when he burns from shame every time he recalls his last meeting with Sophia, her disbelieving gaze, filled with pity and a hint of frustration, her cold “You already know my answer, Francis,” that left him wanting to bite his own tongue off.
He knows he can’t avoid her forever because it’ll have a negative impact on his relationship with the gallery, and that’s the last thing he wants.
Sighing, he starts typing a reply.
*
He gets to the Franklin Art Gallery at two on the dot.
He’s alone; there was no need to bother Jopson, since Francis and Sophia are probably only going to discuss the generic lines of the exhibition. Plus, as understanding as Jopson always is, the prospect of facing Sophia right now on his own is already unsettling enough.
He’s about to enter the gallery, when the door opens up and a man steps out in a confident stride. Francis does a double take, because that is—
“Francis Crozier!” Henry Le Vesconte cries out with a blinding smile and a cigarette hanging in between his lips, “Perfect timing! We finally meet in person. Henry Le Vesconte,” he offers his hand, “James Fitzjames’ assistant.”
The last thing Francis was expecting from today was to stumble upon one of the people he’s been trying his hardest to avoid in these last few years, and to be greeted so enthusiastically by him.
“Yes, I’ve seen you around,” he mumbles, hoping Le Vesconte’s intention is not to make conversation, “Nice to meet you, Henry.”
Francis is not a social creature by any means and he tries to avoid exhibition inaugurations and parties as much as he can, but even he knows who Le Vesconte and his boss (and, Francis suspects, partner) are: James Fitzjames, one of the brightest stars of the art firmament, the most celebrated performer artist of the last decade and, last but not least, Instagram phenomenon and Time Magazine ’s tenth most influential person of 2018.
Of course Francis knows who Fitzjames is.
Everyone knows who Fitzjames is.
And of course someone as cool-looking as Fitzjames has chosen someone like Le Vesconte as their assistant, the two of them always appearing on magazine covers hand in hand looking like supermodels, dressed in this or that high fashion brand which collaborates with them and sponsors Fitzjames’ work.
Francis has been doing this job for his entire lifetime and in his modest opinion an artist should be an artist exclusively, not an influencer or a social media star, but Fitzjames loves being at the centre of the entire world’s attention, Francis knows it, has seen him boasting about his super cool, very dangerous performances so many times at galas and events; he’s always so loud , both verbally and visually, presenting himself in crazy colourful outfits, wearing skirts and trousers and dresses or nothing at all (thank God Francis wasn’t invited to that specific party), which again, in Francis’ opinion makes no sense: a good artist should be able to impress with his work alone, not with his wardrobe and his jokes.
He still remembers the first time he heard about this promising, young English artist, a guy with a redundant name, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere and whose first artwork literally consisted of getting himself shot in the arm. Francis thought he was a dick and didn’t give it much thought, but not three days later the entire world was talking about James Fitzjames, the new revelation of the art scenario.
That was almost ten years ago. The world hasn’t stopped talking about him since and Francis has tried his best to avoid Fitzjames, because he knows he’s not going to be particularly polite if asked what he thinks about his work.
It's been a harder task than he initially thought, since Jane Franklin immediately assured Fitzjames a place in her gallery, so Francis has been stumbling upon the man—who was still just a kid back then—way too often for his liking, but with some luck he has always succeeded in not having to talk directly to him.
Until today, apparently.
“Come on in, we’re in Sophia’s office.” Le Vesconte is saying, placing the cigarette back in its pocket.
Francis’ eyebrow arches up, “We?”
“Me and Jas,” Le Vesconte says, as if it was obvious, “And Sophia.”
Jas? These two are definitely together. Not that it would be a scandal, since Fitzjames is openly and strongly not straight and he remarks on it at any given chance, using his sexual orientation as yet another way to encourage people to talk about him.
“I’m actually here to see Sophia,” Francis says, “We have a meeting at two.”
“Oh yes, same as us. We’re all here for the exhibition,” somehow Le Vesconte urges him into the gallery, “Yours and Jas’.”
His and excuse me, what ?
“I’m sorry, you must have misunderstood,” Francis says, hopelessly following him across the gallery, “I’m to do a solo show, not a collective.”
Le Vesconte turns with a flash of a smile.
“Sophia will explain everything,” he says, before theatrically opening her office door, “I was going for a smoke and look who I found.” He announces, moving to the side to reveal Francis, who feels like a bug under the microscope with two pairs of eyes suddenly on him, one belonging to Sophia, which would be stressful enough on its own, and the other to Fitzjames, who has shot to his feet at once, looking like an eager kid who’s trying to impress the teacher.
And to think Francis didn’t bring Jopson with him to keep things quiet.
He forces himself not to sigh out loud, settling for studying the man in front of him instead: Fitzjames looks as exaggeratedly flamboyant as always, wearing a long light green coat, magenta trousers— who wears magenta trousers in their thirties?—and red leather heeled shoes. Two thick, golden bracelets glint on his right wrist and an indefinite number of rings adorn his fingers. His long hair is tied up in some sort of messy-looking hairstyle, held in place with those golden hair sticks Francis has seen him wearing almost every single time he’s stumbled upon him.
Francis hates that he looks put together in such an absurd combination of colours and textures.
“Francis.” Sophia smiles politely, standing up to hug him, saving him from the embarrassment of deciding how to greet her, “It’s good to see you.”
“Hey, Sophie.” The nickname is second nature to him and he doesn’t regret it. “I’m afraid I’m a bit too early for our meeting.” He says, glancing emphatically at Le Vesconte and Fitzjames.
Sophia shakes her head, “You’re perfectly on time, I’ll explain in a moment. I believe you already know James?”
She knows he does; they’d talked about him so many times when they were together— or whatever they were.
Francis barely spares Fitzjames a look. "I do. We keep crossing paths.”
“Isn’t that crazy ?” Fitzjames exclaims, startling him a little, his deep voice almost resonating in the room, “I was just telling Sophia the exact same thing, because she asked if I knew you and of course I know who you are, but we’ve never been properly introduced before,” he offers Francis his hand before he can say anything, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Francis.”
He’s tempted to point out that they're definitely not on first name terms, but he swallows it down, not wanting to make a scene if this is already going to be a dreadful meeting.
He shakes Fitzjames’ hand. He has a surprisingly soft palm and a strong handshake.
“Likewise,” he says with no cheer, “Fitzjames.”
His wide smile drops a little.
“And you’ve already met Henry.” Sophia steps back behind her desk, “Please, have a seat, so I can explain why I’ve been this excited for the past few days.”
She does look excited, her eyes almost shining, her smile genuine. Francis lowers his gaze, taking the offered chair, next to Fitzjames, who folds his long legs one over the other, resting his hands in his lap. Francis tries not to stare at his blinding magenta trousers.
Whatever this is, he hopes it's going to be quick and as painless as possible.
“The reason why I asked you both here today is because of the exhibition I mentioned in my email.” Sophia says.
“Which is a solo show.” Francis remarks, looking for confirmation.
She gives him a look.
“Yes, a solo show. However,” she adds, “To be precise, it will be a double solo show,” her gaze moves from Francis to Fitzjames, “Of you two.”
Francis huffs a disbelieving laugh.
“So typical of you to say what works better for you and omit the rest.”
“Francis.” She warns him in that same voice she used when they were still together and dangerously close to a fight.
Francis can feel Fitzjames shift at his side, but he’s otherwise silent.
God, Sophia knows he's not good at working with other people, she knows it.
He sighs. “Go on.”
“This year’s exhibitions are to celebrate our institution," she looks at him, "Francis, you’re one of the artists who’s been with us for the longest time, one of the pillars of the second life of the Franklin Art Gallery. James,” she turns her gaze to him, smiling gently, “You’re one of our youngest and most successful artists. You guys do very different kinds of art, as I’m sure you both know. You represent the history and the future of our gallery and that’s why I want to put you two together.”
“Because it makes no sense?” Francis asks.
“ Because ,” Sophia ignores him, “It’ll be great. Two of our best names, who never once worked together before, have never even been seen together, are going to have a double exhibition for the first time.” She looks at Fitzjames again: “Your unsettling performance,” then at Francis: “And your devastating ‘candy spills’. It’s going to be glorious.”
Francis hates that he finds Sophia at her most attractive when she’s like this, talking about what she's passionate about.
What he hates even more, however, is that what she’s saying makes perfect sense. It has the potential to be a great exhibition.
“I can’t wait.” Fitzjames declares, all bouncing energy and glinting eyes. He turns to Francis: “It will be an honour.”
God, he’s so young.
“I’m not sure this is going to work.” Francis replies, “I usually work alone—”
“Yes, I know,” Fitzjames enthusiastically interrupts him, "I've seen all of your exhibitions in London and a few around Europe too, when I was travelling for my own shows— actually, I also attended the opening night at your last one in Hong Kong, where I’d been asked to—"
“ And I’m not sure I appreciate your work.” Francis says. Fitzjames looks surprised for a moment, as though Francis has no right to dislike it. “Sorry to break it to you.”
“I bet I can change your mind.” Fitzjames says, with an assured smirk, quickly regaining his self-confidence.
Francis raises an eyebrow at him. “Listen, I know what I like and it’s not your theatrical nonsense. Sorry not to be one of your many fans. As if it’s even normal for an artist to have fans.”
“ Francis .” Sophia calls him back, her voice hard as ice, “I said you're to work together and that is it . I know what I’m doing. The exhibition will open in the second week of May, closing the second week of August. You both have until February to give me a theme and, possibly, a title, and until mid to late April to provide me with the list of artworks and a plan of what you both are going to showcase.” She stares at them, and says: “You have four months to work out your differences and do a good job.”
“Sophia, listen—”
“No, Francis, you listen to me.” She doesn’t raise her voice, but the effect is the same: she has their complete attention. “This is important and I’ll take no complaints. You don’t have to become friends, God forbid, just work together, do your job. Luckily, you’re great at it.”
A tense silence stretches between the four of them. Even Fitzjames is absolutely quiet.
Sophia keeps staring at Francis, looking like a lioness, ready to put him back in his place if he attempts to contradict her again.
He knows she has already made up her mind about this and he knows she won’t take ‘no’ as an answer. Their mutual stubbornness was one of the many reasons their relationship didn’t work out.
"If we’re done, I'd like to go." He says through gritted teeth.
"We’re done." Sophia says, "I'll send you both an email with the schedule and the list of the exhibitions."
Francis is on his feet the instant she’s done talking.
"Bye, Sophia." He nods at the two men, "Fitzjames. Le Vesconte."
He turns on his heel and is out of the office in a heartbeat, feeling like he's running away from it, but who cares, he just wants to leave the gallery and be alone for five damn minutes to clear his mind and possibly call Jopson or Thomas to yell about Sophia and her stupid idea and Fitzjames and his stupid magenta trousers.
"Francis."
Fitzjames' voice reaches him when he's just out of the gallery, damn him. He can't ignore him, not when it’s this obvious, not if they really have to work together for four months .
He turns around. He’s alone, Le Vesconte is not with him.
"What is it?"
Fitzjames chews at the inside of his cheek, but except for that he looks as self-confident as before, towering over Francis with his bloody heeled shoes.
Jesus, Francis wore a jacket for this meeting and thought he looked fancy . He feels horribly inadequate.
"Listen,” Fitzjames fixes his eyes on him, “I'm sorry if this isn't what you were hoping for, but I can guarantee that I know what I’m doing, even if you don’t like my works, which, by the way, you don’t have to. I’ll survive," he actually smiles a little, joking about it, “It’s certainly not the first time someone hasn’t understood what I do.”
Francis tsks. “Hard to believe that, since everyone kisses the ground you walk on.”
“It’s not my fault if people are into kissing weird stuff.” He promptly answers, looking amused by his own joke.
“You know what I mean, Mr ‘Instagram’s Biggest Influencer of the Year’.”
Fitzjames’ eyes widen at that and he actually blushes , looking a little horrified.
“Please, don’t remind me.”
“Why not? That’s one of your biggest achievements, isn’t it?”
“I very well hope it’s not.” He says, voice hard. He chews at the inside of his cheek again.
Is that a nervous tick of his? Can James Fitzjames be something other than stupidly self-confident?
“Well, perhaps it is.” Francis says, pulling at this precious thread of doubt he just found, wanting to make Fitzjames feel as out of place as he feels, “Maybe that’s what you are: all appearance and no substance, you and your ‘artworks’,” he makes sure to draw quotation marks in the air, “Perhaps no one has told you before, but locking yourself up in a gallery with a cheetah is not art, is just reckless and stupid.”
At this, Fitzjames’ entire demeanour changes: he was teasing and joking until a moment ago, but his gaze becomes hard, his mouth twists in an outraged expression, his entire posture tenses up, as though he’s barely holding himself back from punching Francis.
It looks like it takes him a moment to collect himself and find his voice again.
“You know, Francis, you could be the greatest artist of all time, but that still wouldn’t be a good reason to act like an arsehole and a child who didn’t get what he wanted,” he carefully enunciates every word in a cold voice, “And you’re certainly not the greatest artist of all time, so.” He shrugs, mockingly letting his arms fall at his sides, arching an eyebrow at him as if to say ' so you're not even worthy of talking to me '.
Francis has had enough. He shakes his head and turns around, not wanting to give him any more attention.
“See you, Fitzjames.”
He starts walking toward the tube station without looking back.
*
On his way home, Francis sends Jopson an email, both to update him and have an excuse to vent about the situation. He attaches Sophia’s emails too, the one from yesterday and the one she promised to send him and Fitzjames today, already in his inbox.
Jopson answers after a minute, calm and understanding as he always is, reassuring Francis that he’s free for a meeting any time and that the show sounds like a great opportunity and he can’t wait to help.
Bless him. Jopson is fresh out of university, but taking him on as his personal assistant has been one of Francis’ best decisions. He’s young but ambitious, extremely precise and incredibly helpful, always surprising Francis by attending to his requests and needs before he can even voice them.
Perhaps with Jopson’s calming presence at his side he will be able to survive Fitzjames.
For four months.
God.
He sighs and puts his phone away for the rest of the ride, trying to distract himself for a little while.
As soon as he gets to the studio, he calls Thomas.
He would kill to have a drink with him right now, like they used to do years ago, as a way to close the day. It was their ritual, and it was one of his favourite moments of the week. Then, everything happened and Francis lost control over it: he was drinking when he was with Thomas, he was drinking when he wasn't with Thomas, he was drinking when he was in his empty apartment, he was drinking when he was working, desperately trying to fill the void James left behind. Before he knew it, he was drinking for the entire time he was awake.
After an indefinite period that still feels like a confused nightmare, he finally went into rehab, started seeing a therapist, got medications that made him feel numb and sleepy, changed medications, found the ones that worked for him and slowly, very slowly, came a day where he managed to get out of bed. He did it again the day after. And the day after that one. Sometimes it didn't work, he just couldn't do it, couldn't get up, couldn't even think about leaving the bed, let alone the flat, but being home only made him feel worse, because there were memories in every corner, sharp as knives: the right side of the bed, empty; James' drawers in the wardrobe, empty; one toothbrush on the sink, instead of two.
The first time Francis noticed those details, when he wasn't numbed from alcohol or the wrong medications anymore, he ended up screaming and crying like a madman, as if he was possessed, and he did feel possessed, by such a wild pain mixed with pure fury, because it wasn't right . He lost control over himself and threw the fucking toothbrush against the wall, then the glass, then everything else that happened to be close to his shaky hands, and before he knew it he was doing the same thing in every room.
Hours later, while he was cleaning the mess he made, feeling guilty and ashamed and just stupid , he understood he couldn't go on like this anymore.
He signed the contract to sell the flat with a sinking heart, counting from one to a hundred in his mind obsessively so he couldn't think too clearly about what he was doing.
That was the house they chose together, because James liked the neighbourhood and wanted a big kitchen area, because James loved to cook. It was the house they made love in, fought in. It was their house. And suddenly it wasn’t theirs anymore, but just Francis’ and he didn’t want it, didn’t know what to do with it, if it was just his.
Thomas and Esther let him stay at their place for a few weeks, until he found another flat: it was quite small, but it held no resemblance whatsoever to the old one, which was all he wanted.
It didn't feel like home (was he to even have another home again?), but he had a bed, a roof over his head and he wasn't occupying Thomas and Esther's couch anymore. It was what he needed.
Today, his place still doesn't feel like home, but Francis has painted the walls in a pale yellow, and he got Neptune, who is an incredibly good dog and helps a lot in making the house feel less empty.
Some days are harder, some days are easier. He goes through them all, one by one.
He hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol since rehab and he makes sure to stay in the studio now, away from any possible temptation, trying to distract himself by laying a piece of canvas in front of him. Maybe this time will be different, he thinks, knowing perfectly well that it will be exactly like every other time in the past nine years.
God, he misses painting so much he can hardly breathe sometimes.
At least there is Thomas' voice, coming loud and raspy from his phone, keeping him company while Francis circles the desk over and over, unable to stay still.
“ Fitzjames ?” Thomas bursts out laughing when Francis tells him, “What in God’s name have you done to Sophia to make her pair you with Fitzjames? Even Antarctic penguins know you don’t like him.”
“Apparently, proposing two times in a row is a free pass to hell.” Francis presses a hand over his face, pushing his hair back. “I tried to tell her, but she’s just so convinced that we’re going to make it work.”
“Aye, you will,” Thomas agrees with no hesitation, “You know how to do your job, Fitzjames or no Fitzjames.”
Francis grunts.
“I just don’t understand why Sophia didn’t tell me sooner,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, “I was the only one there who had no idea what was going on, like an idiot.”
“Come on now, Frank,” Thomas says, not dismissive, but in that easy way of his, which usually helps him to see things in the right perspective, “Yeah, Sophia should have told you, but if she did, would you have gone to meet her, knowing Fitzjames would have been there too?”
In answer, Francis lets out a snort.
Thomas chuckles in his ear, “Exactly.”
“I was still kind of angry at Sophia and it wasn’t the best moment to meet those two,” he says, reconsidering the events, “I would still prefer not to be in this situation anyway.”
“It’s not that bad in the end,” Thomas considers, “You’re gonna work on your pieces and Fitzjames is going to do whatever he does with his own performances. It’s not like you literally have to work with him. You two only have to make sure you won’t step on each other’s toes and you’ll be fine.”
“But you know how he is,” Francis complains again, aware of how whiny he sounds, “He always wants to have a say in everything and you know I don’t do well with people like that.”
“I know, I know.” Thomas chuckles, probably remembering all the times Francis has lost his patience with this artist or that journalist who acted like that. He really tries not to be rude when there’s no reason for it, but the fact is: time is what it is, he hates wasting it and sometimes he’s not the calmest person ever when it comes to telling people to leave him alone.
He sighs and finally sits down at his desk.
“It’s going to be four long months.”
“Relax, it’s just work,” Thomas says, weirdly cheery, “You don’t have to marry the guy.”
“Thomas.”
“Not that you couldn’t do that, you know it’s not my cup of tea, but I know—”
“I’m hanging up.”
Thomas’ wild laugh fills his ears and it’s one of the most familiar and comforting sounds he knows, as strange as that may be. He doesn’t hang up.
“Francis,” Thomas says, more serious after his laughter has dissipated, “You know I don’t like Sophia too much, but she’s right: you’re bloody good at your job.”
Francis answers with a noncommittal grunt.
“You are, you bloody idiot, you’re one of the best,” he insists, “And if you want my opinion, Fitzjames is not that bad either. Yeah, he’s a peacock, but some of his stuff is really great.”
“He’s not the worst,” Francis concedes, “But the idea of having to work right next to him for months makes me want to throw up.”
“You sound more and more as if you’re talking about your crush.”
“Alright that’s it, I’m hanging up,” Francis says, with no real irritation, “Say hi to Esther and the kids from me.”
“Yeah, you say hi to your date from me, Frank.”
Thomas’ laugh reverberates in his empty studio long after Francis ends the call and it leaves him with an amused smile on his face, despite everything.
*
When he can’t stand to stare at the blank canvas any longer, he rolls it up again and puts it back in its place.
Once he gets home, he feeds Neptune and quickly throws something together for himself. Then he gets his laptop, with a new plan in mind: if he has to do this, he’s going to do it to the best of his abilities, because it’s work and if there is something Francis loves and respects, it’s his work.
The first step of the plan is getting to know the enemy.
He opens a new Google tab, types ‘ james fitzjames ’ and starts browsing the results.
The first one is his Wikipedia page: the picture shows Fitzjames mid-figure, smiling to the camera, wearing a colourful printed shirt and a dark brown coat. His long hair is, as always, kept up in some complicated-looking hairstyle. He only lets it down for his performances, at least from what Francis has seen, otherwise he always ties it back in a soft kind of bun or chignon , often kept in place by those two golden hair sticks he was wearing today.
Fitzjames is probably one of the few people in the entire world who looks good even in their Wikipedia picture, because of course he does.
Francis tears his eyes away from it.
He doesn’t actually know much about him, he realises, so he avidly reads everything: Fitzjames will be thirty-five this year. He was born in London and is described as “ one of the youngest stars of performance art. ” There are a few descriptions of his performances, but Francis avoids those, wanting to see them for himself first, so he goes back to the main page.
The second result under his name is the Franklin Art Gallery, but after that Francis finds a few recordings of some of his best known pieces. The first one is the first performance he’d ever done: the video lasts less than three minutes and Francis already watched it years ago, right after Fitzjames performed it, when he was curious to find out who this guy was. It shows Fitzjames getting shot in his left arm by a friend of his, back when he was still at university. He had surprisingly short hair back then and he was wearing a white shirt and plain jeans in the recording, and all in all he looked like any other art student. He had nothing about him of the man Francis knows now, except for his expression: extremely focused and confident, as if he was putting all of himself into staying still, waiting to be consciously shot. It’s the same expression he was wearing earlier today, when he had faced Francis to tell him that if he doesn’t like his works, that’s not his problem.
There’s another video that catches his attention: a recording of Rose Hill , a performance he’s actually never heard about. Curious to see if it will finally turn out to be one of his acclaimed unsettling performances and not just a reckless show of meaningless bravery, he presses play.
Francis watches Fitzjames entering a white room, its walls bare and windowless. He looks a bit younger than now, but not as much as in the previous recording. He’s wearing a plain white shirt, white trousers and white shoes. He has let his hair down, falling in soft dark waves over his shoulders. He’s holding a bouquet of red roses with both hands, in front of his chest.
Francis scoffs at the video: black, white and red, not the most original choice ever, for sure.
On the screen, Fitzjames moves to stand in the centre of the room. There, he stops and slowly starts to extract one rose at a time from his bouquet. He places them one by one on the floor, at his feet. He moves very slowly, making every single action count. His touches are gentle, as if he’s underwater, as if the roses are the most precious thing he’s ever held in his hands. There’s a feminine gentleness to his movements, an almost motherly affectionateness to them.
The minutes tick by, but Francis doesn’t feel bored by it: it feels like the first time he is witnessing someone holding roses.
When all the flowers are displayed at his feet, at the same distance from one another, Fitzjames kneels on the floor. He takes the rose at the far left and starts tearing its thorns away, still slowly, respectfully, his fingers dancing over it.
Francis finds himself becoming hypnotised by his movements, as Fitzjames places all the thorns on the floor next to him, one by one, in a tidy little pile. When he’s done, he returns the flower to its place.
He repeats this process with every rose, going from his left to his right, placing all the thorns in the same pile next to him.
When he’s done, Fitzjames extends his left arm in front of him, palm upwards. He takes one of the thorns with his right hand and proceeds to stick it in his left arm, just under the crook of his elbow. He makes sure it stays stuck there, then chooses another one from his little pile and sticks it a few inches lower than the first. He repeats this until his left arm is crossed by a straight line of thorns, stuck in his pale skin.
His face shows no pain, no pleasure either, but is completely relaxed, as though he’s about to fall asleep. His movements, however, remain precise, his gaze alert.
Fitzjames never once glances at the camera, as if having one person or hundreds of people watching him makes no difference; as if he’s doing all of this for himself only.
At this point, he starts plucking the thorns away from his arm, leaving them to fall on the floor, starting with the ones he stuck in first. His movements are still controlled and slow, calming to watch, despite the droplets of blood spilling out of his wounds.
Once he’s finished taking all the thorns away, he stands up. The blood drips in one long red rivulet from his elbow to his wrist, to the centre of his palm. Francis presumes this will be the end of the performance, but then Fitzjames takes a razor blade out of the pocket of his trousers, opens his left hand wide as if to show the blood already there for the camera, and mercilessly draws the blade across it.
Francis snaps the laptop shut, swearing out loud.
He comes back to himself at once, noticing how his breathing had slowed down during the performance, but that last action has made his chest feel horribly constricted. He takes a deep breath and places the laptop aside.
He’s not easily impressed by blood, he’s not scared of needles, sharp objects or anything like that. If Fitzjames wants to stick rose thorns in his arm for his art, that’s fine. Francis hopes it has a meaning and it’s not just for the aesthetic of it, but even if it was, Fitzjames can do whatever the hell he pleases.
But his hands — an artist’s hands are the one thing along with his eyes that should never be touched, let alone wounded on purpose by the artist himself. It doesn’t matter if Fitzjames is not a painter or a sculptor: he should know how much his hands mean to his work. Is he really that blindly devoted to the aesthetic to run a fucking razor across his own palm and risk compromising his own hands forever? Then he’s an irresponsible prick, that’s what he is.
Francis hasn’t painted anything in nine years, but losing his eyesight and the use of his hands are one of his worst nightmares.
Suddenly, he realises he’s been staring at the couch without really seeing it. He shakes his head and switches the laptop off.
Later, when he goes to bed, it's with the image of Fitzjames’ bloody palm offered to the camera, imprinted in his mind.
*
Two days later he’s still thinking about it and he hates Fitzjames a little for it, because that means it was a good piece.
He has gone back to look for more of his performances and has watched almost everything he could find, and the truth is, Fitzjames is not half as bad as he thought. His works are actually pretty interesting.
As an artist, Fitzjames is so far away from the idea Francis had of him: if outside of his job he’s the beautiful Instagram superstar Francis is used to, when it comes to his work he seems to be the exact opposite, has nothing of the always perfect, handsome influencer he is in his free time.
Moreover, Francis wasn’t expecting someone who seems to count so much on his own appearance, to be so violent and merciless with himself in his work: in almost every single performance, Fitzjames hurts himself. By now, Francis has watched him cutting himself, burning himself, pushing himself to the limit in a myriad of different ways, screaming to his mirrored image until he was crying from pain and exhaustion and had no breath nor voice left, his face distorted in an endless scream.
What Francis appreciates the most, is the fact that in every single work Fitzjames always shows his suffering to the world, never once tries to hide it, never looks embarrassed by it, by his tears, his hair getting all tangled up and messy, his face getting ruddy with the screams or lack of oxygen.
He never looks weakened by it, his gaze remains steady and confident no matter what’s happening to his body, as if his body and mind were two separate entities.
Francis finds himself curious to know more about his works, he wishes he could ask Fitzjames why he has chosen to do that or move that way instead of doing something different, he wishes he could ask him what the colour red means to him, why he seems so ready, almost willing to put himself in danger all the time, and why he always leaves his hair down during his works, but never when he’s not performing.
The other surprising realisation Francis comes to while watching his works, is that Fitzjames is not a show-off when he’s performing, not in the slightest: he always presents himself dressed in plain, unassuming clothes, monochromatic most of the time, that cover him from his neck to his feet. With his kind of body he could very well do his performances naked, or clad in some better fitting clothes, but he doesn’t. Yes, he showed up to one of his own opening nights with no clothes on, but that wasn’t a performance, it wasn’t art and he never claimed it as such. That was exhibitionism, and Francis is not very fond of it.
Perhaps this means he won't like Fitzjames as a person, but will appreciate him as an artist.
For now, all Francis knows is that Fitzjames the artist and Fitzjames the man seem to be two completely different people and he would be lying if he said he’s not intrigued by it.
*
A couple of days later, he’s trying to get some work done when he gets a text from a number he doesn’t have saved. Frowning, he swipes to read it.
“ Hello, Francis. I asked Sophia for your number, I hope you’ll forgive me for it, but I had no other way to contact you.
I wanted to apologise for how I behaved the other day. I admit I wasn’t expecting your reaction and I reacted badly myself. I wish our first meeting had gone better, but at least no one got punched. Let's count that as a victory?
Let’s face it: we have to do this, whether we like it or not, so why not just get on with it? I’m confident that we can work well together, despite the fact that you don’t like me.
Please, text or call me when you have a minute. We should start planning things asap.
JF ”
Now that Francis is more clear-headed and has actually gathered some information about Fitzjames, he regrets having been so harsh with him the other day. If anything, he really is glad they didn’t end up punching each other, and it actually feels weird to think about punching Fitzjames now that he knows how much violence and stress the man himself puts his own body under. Francis certainly doesn’t wish to add more to it.
“ I didn’t say I don’t like you, ” he types, “ I said I don’t like your works .”
He sends it and starts typing a reply to the rest of the text, but Fitzjames is quicker:
“ See, there’s room for improvement already! As much as I’m not happy about it, I respect your opinion . Thank you for being clear about that. ”
Francis stares at his phone, considering what to say. Fitzjames apologised for something that wasn't really his fault, in the end. He hasn't insulted or disrespected Francis, he was just defending himself and his own work from Francis' attack. Between the two of them, Fitzjames is the one who behaved the best, not Francis.
He takes a breath and starts typing again.
“ I should apologise for how I acted the other day as well. Truth be told I was annoyed with Sophia and got mad at you. Wasn’t fair .”
There, done. He sends it before he can change his mind and places his phone aside, screen down, to escape Fitzjames’ reply, which again, comes quickly.
“ It’s OK, Francis. Let’s just stop thinking about it. Would you be okay with meeting sometime this week? ”
“ Sure. Tomorrow after lunch? Coffee? ”
“ Coffee sounds perfect. ”
A moment later Fitzjames sends him the Instagram profile of a bistrot in Soho, along with another text: “ They make a wonderful cold brew. If you’d rather go for something different just let me know and I’ll be there .”
Francis quickly skims the page: it’s a cosy looking place with dark wooden tables and mismatched chairs, creamy walls, dark floors and minimalistic black details, not far from the Franklin Art Gallery. It looks nice and, to be honest, Francis is alright with anything that’s not a chaotic and overcrowded Starbucks or Costa.
“ Looks perfect. I’ll see you there .”
He reads Fitzjames’ last text again and doesn’t resist adding: “ Cold coffee in January? You’re weird .”
He means it as a friendly comment just to tease him after their tense first meeting and he hopes Fitzjames won't take it personally.
“ Already paying me compliments! We're making progress in no time. ”
Francis shakes his head with a relieved smile and puts his phone away, glad that they’ve settled the matter.
*
The following day, he gets to the bistrot on time, hoping he won’t end up being too early. People always set a certain time, but everyone is always late, as though that was the rule. Francis can never bring himself to be late, no matter the hour or the reason for the appointment. He just can’t bring himself to waste more time.
He's glad when he spots Fitzjames' tall figure in front of the bistrot , waiting for him. He's typing away on his phone, which gives Francis a chance to observe him without the risk of being seen. He slows his pace: Fitzjames is wearing his hair tied up again, his trusty golden hair sticks peeking from it. A lock has escaped the hairstyle, falling in front of his eyes, and he keeps trying to push it away by flicking his head a little to the side, even though it’s clearly not working, but he seems to be too focused on whatever he’s typing.
His outfit is surprisingly more subdued than last time: he’s wearing black leather trousers, black combat boots and a dark green coat that looks tailored for him... And probably is. Francis spots the collar of what seems to be a crimson shirt peeking from underneath, the only point of bright colour in the entire outfit. Never mind the missing patterns and blinding colours: he still looks like he walked straight off a fashion runway.
When Fitzjames lifts his gaze and notices him, he gives him a tentative smile.
"Francis." He greets him, putting his phone away in his coat pocket. He finally pushes that lock of hair behind his ear.
"Fitzjames." Francis greets him back.
His mouth turns downward in a displeased expression at that, but he quickly regains his easiness, thankfully making no comment of Francis’ choice to go with his surname. He gestures toward the door, "Shall we?"
"Lead the way."
Francis follows him inside the bistrot , which actually looks really nice: there are only a few people and most of them are working or reading on their own. The sounds of chatter and coffee brewing act as a comforting background noise, instead of being distracting.
Fitzjames walks straight to a table in the furthest corner of the room and Francis nods to him when he looks back to check if it's alright.
He takes his coat off and yes, what Francis spotted is indeed a bright red shirt. It has a slim, feminine cut to it. Fitzjames has left the first three buttons undone, exposing a deep ‘V’ portion of his chest. He has no body hair there, just smooth, pale skin. The way the shirt fluidly falls on his body is carefully calculated and it’s obvious that he knows what works best on him, is an expert in enhancing his beauty.
Francis envies him a little for that: what is it like, he wonders, to possess such a deep knowledge of your own body, of this vessel you’re burdened with from start to finish? Francis has learnt to live in his body, he’s fine with it; but Fitzjames is in control of his. It feels like he could do anything if he’d just set his mind to it.
Is this what performance does to a person? Or is this just Fitzjames?
Francis takes his own jacket off and sits down.
"Did you have any trouble finding the place?" Fitzjames asks, sitting down in front of him.
"Not at all. I've never been here before, but I know this part of London fairly well, with the gallery being on the same street."
"Ah, yes. I chose this place because of that too," Fitzjames says, looking somewhat sheepish, "I thought it might work as a sort of common ground between us, since it seems we are in need of that."
Francis always had this idea of Fitzjames as someone whose first priority is to make himself comfortable and then everyone else, so the sentence catches him by surprise.
Perhaps he has misjudged this side of him.
He clears his voice: "About that, I'm sorry for the other day—"
Fitzjames raises both hands in front of his chest, shaking his head a little.
"No need, Francis, you already apologised. It's alright." He offers a smile, "Let's put it behind us and start again, what do you think?"
Francis nods, relieved.
"I think it sounds great."
"Amazing. Well, then," Fitzjames smiles wider, as though Francis has just given him the best possible answer, "Hello, Mr Crozier. It's a pleasure to meet you." He holds his hand out in front of him, in between them, over their shared little table in a fancy bistrot in Soho, waiting for Francis to take it.
He arches an eyebrow at Fitzjames, amused, but accepts his hand. "Mr Fitzjames. It's nice to meet you, too."
Fitzjames throws him a conspiratorial look, leans toward him and whispers, "I'd say we're doing great."
"We're not bad." Francis concedes, amused by this playful side of him. "So, what's this famous cold coffee you were talking about?"
"Oh, right." Fitzjames' eyes brighten. He grabs one of the paper menus and points at something, showing it to Francis, "This one. It's really good, it's just plain black coffee in the end, but they use some kind of fancy beans imported from Brazil and the taste is so rich, just like the coffee you can get there. Highly recommended and you can get it hot too, I just like it cold better."
"Well then, I'll trust your judgement,” Francis says, with no hesitation, “But not iced."
"One hot and one cold?" Fitzjames asks.
"One hot and one cold." He confirms.
When the waitress, a nice dark-haired girl, gets to their table, Fitzjames orders for the both of them, handing her the menus with a genuine smile, thanking her warmly for her time.
Francis wonders if he’s flirting with her. He could be. God, someone like Fitzjames could successfully flirt with anyone, with no effort. However, as soon as the girl leaves, Fitzjames immediately brings his attention back to Francis, gaze focused.
"So, how do you think we should do this?" He asks, "Do you already know what you're going to show?"
Straight to the point. Good.
"Not yet, except for a couple of pieces: two of the 'candy spills' the gallery has, for sure." Francis replies, "I never do an exhibition without at least one of them."
"I thought so." Fitzjames nods, almost solemnly.
It’s obvious that he wants to add something else from the way he’s biting at his bottom lip, as if to physically prevent himself from speaking, so Francis offers him the chance.
“Do you know them?”
Fitzjames nods vigorously.
“I know you don't need me to tell you, but they're such great works, Francis. I mean it."
He never knows what to say when someone compliments him on his works, especially those ones, so he just ends up nodding stiffly, hoping Fitzjames will somehow understand that he still appreciates the comment even if he has trouble putting it into words.
"Thank you." He nods, and tries to move the attention away from him and back on Fitzjames: "What about you? Do you know what you’re going to do?"
Before he gets the chance to answer, their coffees arrive, the same girl who took their orders bringing them. Her gaze is trained on Fitzjames as she places both cups down, and she bats her eyelashes at him so much Francis almost expects her eyes to fall off. Fitzjames thanks her with a smile, but his attention is on Francis and he offers nothing else to the girl, who ends up leaving with a disappointed face.
Francis feels weirdly like he’s been chosen over someone else and has to remind himself that this is work: of course it’s Fitzjames’ priority.
"I don't have anything planned yet," the man is saying, cupping his mug with both hands, "I have a few ideas I've been saving for a while, but I wanted to talk face to face with you before deciding. I think it would be useful to compare our works and what we’re interested in doing with them, so we can find something in common and focus on it, making it the theme of the show, even.”
“Agreed. I don’t want to make something just to celebrate the gallery, I don’t even care about it that much, to be honest.” Francis comments, absentmindedly taking a sip of his coffee, which tastes amazing . “Wait, that’s actually really good.”
He takes another sip as Fitzjames chuckles.
“You didn’t believe me?” He asks, amused, one of his eyebrows arching up.
“No.” Francis says, but with a smile. “Coffee is a really important matter.”
It makes Fitzjames chuckle again. “It sure is.”
He takes a sip of his own drink and all but moans at the flavour, because of course he has to make a show out of drinking, too.
Francis tries not to think about that sound too much.
“Alright,” Fitzjames starts, clasping his hands enthusiastically together. He has big hands, with wide palms and long fingers, and Francis finds himself looking closely at them, trying to see if the razor from Rose Hill has left a scar on his skin, but Fitzjames keeps moving his hands as he speaks and he can’t be sure.
“I’d ask about your works, but I think it would be more comfortable for both of us to talk about it somewhere more private, like my studio? Or yours, whatever you prefer is fine with me.” Fitzjames says.
“Yes, definitely.” He replies, “Your studio is alright. Where is it?”
“Kensington. Same street as my apartment, because I’m lazy like that.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Fitzjames bites at the inside of his cheek, looking like he just revealed some shameful detail about himself. It’s followed by a little embarrassed smile, which looks surprisingly endearing on his strong and always confident face. Francis doesn’t remark on it, instead he makes a random comment about the Kensington area, which Fitzjames seems relieved to hear and replies to with something equally generic.
Look at me , Francis thinks, making small talk with James Fitzjames in a fancy café and not loathing it.
It must be some kind of late Christmas miracle.
“We can still discuss it,” Francis says, having an idea, “How about we ask one question each? Like a game, but one that’s actually useful, to get to know our works better.”
“Good idea, yes.” Fitzjames nods, pleasantly surprised, “But only if we’re both going to be fully honest about whatever we get asked. No interview bullshit.”
He knows what Fitzjames is referring to: when you get asked about something that means the world to you, you really don’t feel like sharing the truth with a bored journalist who would end up distorting your words to make them sound pretty.
Sometimes there is nothing pretty in art.
Francis nods: “No interview bullshit.”
Fitzjames nods back and gestures with his mug toward him, “You start.”
He doesn't have to think about it, the question is ready on the tip of his tongue: “When did you decide to become a performer?”
“When I was at university,” Fitzjames answers proudly, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders, “Not immediately. I started taking painting and figure drawing classes, those were my main things at the time.” He smiles softly, clearly fond of those memories. “Then I found out about performance and happenings, about using your own body as the medium and well… I’ve never experienced love at first sight, so I can’t fully say it’s the same thing, but that's what it felt like. I thought ‘that’s it, that’s what I’ve been looking for all this time’.” He lets out a short, self-depreciative laugh, hiding behind his mug. “It sounds overdramatic, but that’s what it felt like.”
“Not that being overdramatic is new to you.” Francis teases him.
Fitzjames raises his mug in a toast at that.
“I understand what you mean, by the way.” Francis says, still feeling the smile on his lips.
Fitzjames leans forward, eyes shining with interest.
“Was it the same for you?”
He nods. “With painting.”
“Not with what you do now? Your installations?”
“It’s different.” Francis thinks about how to better explain it with words. “With painting, it felt like I chose it. This, it feels like someone else has decided for me.”
“Why don’t you get back into painting?”
“You think I haven’t tried it?” Francis laughs with no cheer. He says the rest of it in one breath, quickly, to get it out of the way as soon as possible: “I haven’t been able to paint anything since he died. I will probably never paint again, so this is what I do now. I’m glad I’m doing it, I’m glad I still found a way to say what I have to say, despite everything, and this is probably the best way to do it anyway.” He stares at his coffee. Another curt laugh escapes his mouth: “But I fucking miss painting.”
There’s a long silence before Fitzjames speaks.
“I hope you’ll be able to do it again, if that’s what you want.” His voice is thoughtful. “These things… I know they take a long time. Longer than we’d like.”
“And in the meantime it feels like I’m wasting it. Time.” Francis says, staring at the black void of his coffee.
“God, no , you’re not wasting it.” Fitzjames says, fiercely, almost startling him with the force of it, “Francis, your art— What you do is…” There’s a pause then, so Francis finally looks up and finds him with his gaze lost somewhere else. Fitzjames speaks slowly, almost softly, as if sharing the memory of a dream he had a long time ago: “ The first time I saw one of your ‘candy spills’ it was by chance, in a collective. I had no idea who this Francis Crozier was and I couldn’t understand what a giant pile of sweets thrown in one of the corners of the room could mean. So I asked the curator about it and, well,” he swallows hard and blinks back actual tears , to Francis’ shock, “Long story short, I had to hide in the loo for a good fifteen minutes because I couldn’t calm down.”
Francis has seen people reacting like that to some of his pieces, has seen people having such visceral reactions to something he made for himself and James only.
It still amazes him, after all these years.
“What I mean is that you’re a great artist.” Fitzjames says, eyes fixed on Francis’ shirt collar, avoiding his face, “And I hope you’re aware of it.”
He is not, not really, in the same way that someone good at something never feels great at it, because the more you learn about it, the more you understand how much there is still to study and discover.
“I know I could have stopped working a long time ago, but I didn’t and I don’t plan to, not while I am physically and mentally able to do what I do.” He says, “Of that, I’m proud.”
“Good.” Fitzjames nods, looking satisfied with his answer.
For a moment they're both silent, lost in what they had metaphorically put on the table, in between them.
“And that was only the first question.” Francis says. It breaks the tension, both of them burst into a relieved, almost wild laugh.
“I swear I didn’t mean to go that deep. Sorry about that.” Fitzjames says, taking a sip of his coffee. “Ready for my question, Francis?”
“Go on. Let’s see if you can do worse than me.”
Fitzjames chuckles. Then, he becomes very serious.
“Alright, Francis, here’s my question.” His entire face darkens, his mouth flattens in a tight line, eyebrows furrowed, gaze piercing. Finally, in a low voice, he asks: “What’s your favourite ice cream flavour?”
Francis shoves him on a shoulder while they both laugh like two kids.
“God, you’re an idiot under that fancy appearance.” Francis says, meaning to tease him, but he keeps forgetting that he has no idea if Fitzjames will be offended by his casual jokes.
Luckily, his gaze is bright, relaxed.
“No, really,” he says, "Tell me.”
Francis snorts. “Why do you want to know that?”
“Just tell me, come on.”
Francis makes a show of thinking about it until Fitzjames becomes impatient and expectantly arches one and then both eyebrows at him.
When Francis feels like he has exasperated him enough, he finally says, “Mint chocolate chip.”
“No way!” Fitzjames cries out, almost tipping his mug over in his enthusiasm, “People say it tastes like toothpaste, but I’m obsessed with it.”
“That’s because they’re weak and can’t take it.”
Fitzjames snorts a laugh. “And we're superior?"
“Of course. We're going to outlive everyone in a zombie apocalypse, feasting on the ice cream no one wants.”
Fitzjames giggles, staring at him as if he’s seeing him for the first time.
They go on asking one question at a time to each other, back and forth, luckily causing no more emotional outbursts.
Francis discovers that Fitzjames still draws and sketches fairly often (“mostly landscapes or whatever I see when I travel. If I have the time, I prefer to sketch something, instead of taking a picture of it”), that he can’t decide what his own favourite work is (“that’s such an unfair question, Francis, I can’t tell you which one of my kids is my favourite”), which one of Francis’ works it’s his favourite (“probably your curtains of light strings,” he says, lowering his gaze, “they’re really calming”).
In turn, Francis answers his questions as honestly as possible, telling him what his favourite exhibition he ever attended was (the first one he’d ever been to, back when he was in high school, a painting exhibition about European great masters’ landscapes), how long one of his conceptual works takes him to be fully conceived and made from start to finish (“from just a few days up to a few months— even more than a year, sometimes”), if he’s ever thought about retiring since he has the financial stability to do so (“thought about it, yes, so many times. But I know I won’t, not while I can move and think straight”).
Francis realises they’re both dancing around the true matters they should discuss, but getting to know each other’s works and ideas is still important for their future collaboration.
Plus, talking to Fitzjames about work is not bad at all: it’s good to talk about something he cares so deeply about, with someone who seems to feel just the same: Fitzjames doesn’t laugh when Francis says he can barely sleep when he’s working on some particularly challenging piece, and he doesn’t look confused when Francis asks him what the hardest thing he’s ever done in a performance is, beside a physical effort (“Learning to shut my mind off”).
The conversation is so engaging that he barely notices that their coffees are long finished. He couldn’t say how long they stay in that little corner of the bistrot , leaning toward each other across the tiny table, because they’re both so focused on what they’re discussing that they barely notice people coming and going around them.
Eventually, he comes back to his surroundings when the waitress takes their empty cups away, breaking the spell they inadvertently fell under.
“I’ll text you my studio address later,” Fitzjames says when they’re leaving, his shiny iPhone already in his hands, “When would it be doable for you?”
It got dark outside in the meantime and it takes Francis a moment to readjust to the fact that the world has gone on while he was in that pleasant bubble of strong coffee and good conversation.
“What about tomorrow?” He asks, without giving it too much thought.
He has nothing planned for tomorrow and meeting Fitzjames again doesn't sound bad at all. More: it sounds like something that has to happen as soon as possible, now that Francis knows they can get along decently.
Perhaps they can really make something good out of this. Something valuable. Something that will last.
“Tomorrow?” Fitzjames looks surprised for a moment, but he breaks into a smile, “Sure. Tomorrow’s fine.”
“Brilliant.” Francis nods, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Bye, Fitzjames.”
He looks a bit disappointed at Francis sticking to his surname, but once again makes no comment on it, just waves his hand in his direction as he turns around.
“Bye, Francis.”
