ASHTON WAS AFFABLE BUT SKEPTICAL. “WHY DO WE NEED TO paint the apartment ourselves?”
“Because the work of one’s hands is the beginning of virtue,” Julian said, dipping the roller into the tray. “Don’t just stand there. Get cracking.”
“Who told you such nonsense?” Ashton continued to just stand there. “And you’re not listening. I meant, painting seems like a permanent improvement. Why are we painting at all? There’s no way, no how we’re staying in London another year, right? That’s just you being insane like always, or trying to save money on the lease, or … Jules? Tell the truth. Don’t baby me. I’m a grown man. I can take it. We’re not staying in London until the lease runs out in a year, right? That’s not why you’re painting?”
“Will you grab a roller? I’m almost done with my wall.”
“Answer my question!”
“Grab a roller!”
“Oh, God. What did I get myself into?”
But Julian knew: Ashton might believe a year in London was too long, but Julian knew for certain it wasn’t long enough.
Twelve months to move out of his old place on Hermit Street, and calm Mrs. Pallaver who cried when he left, even though he’d been a recluse tenant who had shunned her only child.
Twelve months to decorate their new bachelor digs in Notting Hill, to paint the walls a manly blue and the bathrooms a girly pink, just for fun.
Twelve months to return to work at Nextel as if he were born to it, to wake up every morning, put on a suit, take the tube, manage people, edit copy, hold meetings, make decisions and new friends. Twelve months to hang out with Ashton like it was the good old days, twelve months to keep him from drinking every night, from making time with every pretty girl, twelve months to grow his beard halfway down his chest, to fake-flirt sometimes, twelve months to learn how to smile like he was merry and his soul was new.
Twelve months to crack the books. Where was he headed to next? It had to be sometime and somewhere after 1603. Lots of epochs to cover, lots of countries, lots of history. No time to waste.
Twelve months to memorize thousands of causes for infectious diseases of the skin: scabies, syphilis, scarlet fever, impetigo. Pressure ulcers and venous insufficiencies. Spider angiomas and facial granulomas.
Carbuncles, too. Can’t forget the carbuncles.
Twelve months to learn how to fence, to ride horses, ring bells, melt wax, preserve food in jars.
Twelve months to reread Shakespeare, Milton, Marlowe, Ben Johnson. In her next incarnation, Josephine could be an actress again; he must be ready for the possibility.
Twelve months to learn how not to die in a cave, twelve months to train to dive into cave waters.
Twelve months to learn how to jump.
Twelve months to make himself better for her.
It wasn’t enough time.
Every Wednesday Julian took the Overground to Hoxton, past the shanty village with the graffitied tents and cucumber supports to have lunch with Devi Prak, his cook and shaman, his healer and destroyer. Julian drank tiger water—made from real tigers—received acupuncture needles, sometimes fell into a deep sleep, sometimes forgot to return to work. Eventually he started taking Wednesday afternoons off. Now that Ashton was his boss, such things were no longer considered fireable offenses.
Ashton, unchangeable and eternally the same on every continent, lived as if he didn’t miss L.A. at all. He made all new friends and was constantly out partying, hiking, celebrating, seeing shows and parades. He had to make time for Julian on his calendar, they had to plan in firm pen the evenings they would spend together. He flew back to L.A. once a month to visit his girlfriend, and Riley flew in once a month to spend the weekend in London. When she came, she brought fresh flowers and organic honey, marking their flat with her girl things and girl smells, leaving her moisturizers in their pink bathroom.
And one weekend a month, Ashton would vanish, and was gone, gone, gone, Julian knew not where. Julian asked once, and Ashton said, seeing a man about a horse. When Julian prodded, Ashton said, where are you on Wednesday afternoons? Seeing a man about a horse, right? And Julian said, no, I’m seeing an acupuncturist, a Vietnamese healer, “a very nice man, quiet, unassuming. You’d like him.” Julian had nothing to be ashamed of. And it was almost the whole truth.
“Uh-huh,” Ashton said. “Well, then I’m also seeing a healer.”
There were so few things Ashton kept from him, Julian knew better than to ask again, and didn’t.
He was plenty busy himself. He took riding lessons Saturday mornings, and spelunking Saturday afternoons. He joined a boxing gym by his old haunt near Finsbury Park and sparred on Thursday and Saturday nights. He hiked every other Sunday with a group of over-friendly and unbearably active Malaysians, beautiful people but depressingly indefatigable.
He trained his body through deprivation by fasting for days, by going without anything but water. Riley would be proud of him and was, when Julian told her of his ordeals. He continued to explore London on foot, reading every plaque, absorbing every word. He didn’t know if he’d be returning to London on his next Orphean adventure, but he wanted to control what he could. After work, when Ashton went out drinking, Julian would wander home, six miles from Nextel to Notting Hill, mouthing to himself the historical tidbits he found along the way, an insane vagrant in a sharp suit. In September he entered one of the London Triathlon events in the Docklands. One-mile swim, thirty-mile bike ride, six-mile run. He came in seventh. An astonished Ashton and Riley cheered for him at the finish line.
“Who are you?” Ashton said.
“Ashton Bennett, do not discourage him!” Riley handed Julian a towel and a water bottle.
“How is asking a simple question discouragement?”
“He’s improving himself, what are you doing? That was amazing, Jules.”
“Thanks, Riles.”
“Maybe next year you can run the London Marathon. Wouldn’t that be something?”
“Yeah, maybe.” Julian stayed noncommittal. He didn’t plan on being here next year. The only action was in the here and now. There was no action in the future; therefore there was no future. Devi taught him that. Devi taught him a lot. The future was all just possibility. Maybe was the appropriate response, the only response. Maybe.
Then again, maybe not.
“But what exactly are you doing?” Ashton asked. “I’m not judging. But it seems so eclectic and odd. A triathlon, fencing, boxing, spelunking. Reading history books, Shakespeare. Horseback riding.”
“My resolve is not to seem the best,” Julian said, “but to be the best.”
“Why
