Becky put her hand on his forehead and noted the three days’ worth of stubble. ‘At least you haven’t got a temperature. You were fine last Thursday night.’
‘I woke up on Friday feeling like death. I spent most of Friday in bed and yesterday morning. But today’s been better.’
‘You should have called me.’
‘You were going to your parents. Anyway, Phoebe said it was just man flu.’
‘Well I’m glad you’re feeling better. Mike’s worried he hasn’t seen much of you recently.’
‘Which means Ronnie is worried that Mike’s worried, right?’
‘You’re getting good at this. Keep it up.’ She grinned and gave him a gentle push. ‘And when you get a second, call Mike so Ronnie gets off my back.’
‘Soon, I promise. I only have to finish these three.’ He waved at the canvas on the easel and two more set back against the wall behind it.
‘What’s that one?’ asked Becky, pointing to the small canvas behind the sofa which was covered in a cloth.
‘Nothing. That is, I mean, it’s not for the exhibition. It’s something for my classes.’
Becky didn’t follow up. If Rachel were to be believed and Charlie’s stuttering was anything to go by, the covered painting was probably a nude portrait of the devious cow. She shivered and tapped Charlie on the back of his hand. He jumped as if she had tasered him. ‘Sorry, were you falling asleep?’
‘No, no, just thinking.’
Probably about Rachel. Was there no avoiding her? Ah well, if she couldn’t beat her—and she had indulged in some enjoyable daydreams along those lines—she might as well join in.
‘Rachel’s excited about the exhibition,’ Becky said. ‘She gave me an interesting talk about the paintings. I may have actually learnt something. And I didn’t realise you’d done so many.’
‘Those three will make twenty-two, including the one going to the ball auction.’ He kept his eyes shut and pointed in front of him again. ‘They’re practically finished. Another couple of hours and that’s it for this show.’
‘Wow! What will you do with yourself?’
‘I have to help Rachel plan the gallery layout and Ronnie with a Christmas cake spectacular.’
‘I was kidding, Charlie. You should take a break. Get better. You’ve pulled off something you said was impossible a few months ago so why don’t you put your feet up? I’m sure Rachel and Ronnie can manage. And once you feel a hundred per cent you can get Phoebe to dust off her dance shoes and run you through some steps. She says it’s been three years since you helped her practise. It’d make you feel more confident when it’s time to dance with Rachel on New Year’s Eve.’
‘I could practise with you,’ he said, opening his eyes and tilting his head towards her.
‘You don’t want to do that. It tends to be less like dancing and more like struggling.’
He raised his eyebrows.
She laughed. ‘You know from your experience with Phoebe there isn’t exactly a surplus of teenage boys who want to learn ballroom dancing.’
‘I know. It’s one of the things I liked most about her doing it.’
She smiled and said, ‘If you’re tall they make you partner up with a girl but dancing the boy’s part. I learnt the girl’s part for my exams, but spent most of the time dancing the man’s part. Which means I find it difficult not to worry about where we’re going, if we’re about to crash into anyone else, if we’re in time—’
‘You like driving.’
‘I lead. It’s a habit. And it’s not my fault if the bloke I’m dancing with needs to be led.’ She crossed her arms and shuffled further back into the sofa. ‘But don’t worry. I’m sure you won’t have to fight Rachel round the floor.’
‘What do you think of Rachel?’
‘Sorry?’
He raised his head and turned so they were facing each other, their eyes on a level. ‘Do you think we’re well-suited?’
‘Um. I’m sorry, but I’m not going to answer that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because my opinion’s irrelevant. You like her; that’s all that matters.’
And if I slag her off and you are sleeping with her, it’s too late anyway and you’ll hate me, she added to herself.
Charlie removed his glasses and put them on the arm of the sofa. ‘But I want your opinion. I value your opinion.’
She sighed. He was going to force it out of her. ‘OK, um … I think she’s clever and beautiful. And she knows a lot about art and she appreciates your work.’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘I told you what I think of her.’
‘But do you think we’re right for each other?’
‘She certainly thinks you’re compatible if her behaviour at the wedding is anything to go by. And whatever happened afterwards.’
‘What?’
‘It’s none of my business.’
‘Becky!’ He stood up. ‘I am your business. Tell me what you think!’
Oh, bloody hell. Why had she promised never to lie to him? She bit her lip and looked down, her voice escaping as a whisper. ‘No, Charlie. In the long term, I don’t think you’re meant for each other.’
He crossed his arms. ‘Oh? Why not?’
She searched for a response more diplomatic than, ‘Because at best I think she’s using you to make Virgil jealous and at worst she’s using you to suck up to her mother to get control of the family business.’
She rubbed her palms against her knees and considered each word before she spoke. ‘I just think that, maybe, you don’t have much more in common than art. That’s all.’
The weight of the ensuing silence was only surpassed by that of Charlie’s stare. His lips disappeared and an ominous vein appeared along his right temple which bulged as his jaw tightened.
‘You were right,’ he said, his voice sharp and clipped. ‘I don’t know why I want your opinion. You’re hardly a relationship expert: you couldn’t even tell your last boyfriend was married, could you?’
As he spat the final accusation at her, Becky’s jaw dropped. His words hadn’t been simply angry or irritated. She had heard those from him before. No, these had been spiteful. That would teach her to bad-mouth his girlfriend.
She swallowed as she got to her feet and pulled on her coat. Keeping her eyes down, she fumbled to fasten the buttons. Fighting his barbed comments with malicious ones of her own wouldn’t help. Besides, he had a point.
‘True,’ she said. ‘Very true.’ Her voice cracked and she nodded, her gaze still fixed on the floor. She turned away from him and headed for the door.
‘Becky,’ he called after her.
She sighed and turned back. She knew it. The flu was doing the talking. A lack of sleep, having to breathe through your mouth and getting a sore under your nose were enough to put anyone in a foul mood. And he hadn’t been drinking enough, not if all those untouched cups of tea were anything to go by, and probably had a banging headache.