‘Oh.’ Dad pushes past me, drawing me into the backyard. A wayward arm reaches out to the man walking towards us, a confused look on his face. ‘Katharine, this is Kit. He’s an artist, like you, and he runs an art school out at Loxley.’
Help me. My own father thinks I’m so hard up for a shag he’s setting me up with one of his friends. Kill me now. It all makes sense, the desperate need for us to visit today and, strangely, Adam’s displeasure at John. Never mind the fact Dad’s friendship circle is more eclectic than a Pokémon deck, so you can guarantee he’s caught them all at some point. There’s no guaranteeing what I’ll get.
As Kit steps forward, I get a better chance to focus on him. He. Is. Tall. I’m five foot seven and, even though it’s only the difference of a few inches (some would argue that matters), I feel like he’s teetering over me.
And he’s solid. Not in that need-to-lose-ten-kilos way, but solid in a broad-shouldered, rips wood apart in the rain and plucks kittens from trees like low hanging fruit kind of way. Dressed down in faded blue jeans, scuffed boots and a white T-shirt under red-check flannel, I would not be shocked if he opened with: ‘Actually, I’m a lumberjack.’
Blond hair waves over the crest of his head to a soft widow’s peak, his eyes are the deep blue of an ocean that hasn’t seen the tinkle of sunlight in a while, and there’s a steely determination to his face. He steps forward and offers a reserved smile, one that considers me carefully.
‘Lovely to meet you,’ Kit says quietly. It’s almost a mumble but, still, he reaches out to shake my hand. Now that he’s closer, I can see his fingers are long and paint stained.
‘Likewise.’
‘I thought you two should meet,’ Dad adds. Slowly, Kit’s eyes leave mine and wander across to my father. I can see he’s not entirely convinced of this, either. ‘Katharine is a gallery curator at Webster Fine Art Gallery in London.’
A flash of recognition passes over Kit’s face as he turns to walk away. ‘Is that so?’
‘That is so, and she’s amazing at what she does.’ Dad scuttles after him. ‘I went to one of her opening nights about eighteen months ago. It was incredible. A weekend in London, black-tie, expensive champagne and fantastic finger food!’
‘Well, if it was in London that makes all the difference,’ Kit says.
‘Oh, no, but the art was fine.’
‘I’m sure it was popular.’ He glances at me briefly before disappearing inside.
As I step back through the door after him, my elbow catches on an orchid to my left. Its pink flowers wobble as the terracotta pot rounds and finally falls back into place, along with my nerves. Fiona and Adam turn to greet us and Dad ducks into the kitchen, reappearing with arms laden with more food.
‘Oh!’ Fiona pips her excitement. She’d been too busy in conversation with Adam to realise I’d disappeared. ‘Katharine, have you—’
‘We’ve met, yes,’ Kit says haltingly. ‘Peter was generous enough to do the introductions.’
Something about the way he speaks sits uncomfortably with me. Thankfully, I can’t see his face, and I throw a confused frown my father’s way. Who does this guy think he is? If first impressions count, this isn’t a good one.
‘Master of Curating and Collections,’ Dad adds proudly.
‘Well, then,’ Kit says in a slow, slow grumble as I wait for the sting in his tail. ‘Sounds like you might teach me a thing or two.’
And there it is. I’m suddenly flustered. I begin to speak, but words come out in a lopsided mess. Both Adam and Dad jump in to tell me off about downplaying my education. My own personal cheer team.
Everyone my father meets gets the same story, usually after he brags about Adam’s first-class honours. As embarrassing as it can be, I’m also so thankful he gets excited over our achievements. Chalk that up to another reason why I haven’t told him about yesterday yet. I find myself a seat on the opposite side of the room in the furthest corner, away from Kit. I’d rather deal with his grumpiness from afar.
Being on the other side of the room, however, doesn’t spare me his presence.
‘What’s your favourite style of art, then, Katharine?’ Kit asks, crossing his legs over in a mirror of mine. I immediately uncross mine. ‘I mean, you must see plenty in your work, but what about, say, a favourite period?’
‘Definitely the Romantic period.’
‘Really?’ Kit says, mouth downturned. ‘Why?’
‘Well, I mean, you’ve got Turner and Grimshaw, who both have the most stunning—’
‘Grimshaw was Victorian era, but go on.’
I freeze, as does the rest of the room. From the kitchen, I hear Fiona drop some cutlery.
‘He was, wasn’t he?’ As much as I want to appreciate his correction, it itches and sticks somewhere under my ribs, and not simply because I should know better. ‘And I always thought Runge looked like he’d be a bit of fun.’
‘Nobody recent then?’ he asks.
‘I don’t really know a lot of recent work,’ I say, scrunching my nose. ‘Sorry.’
‘Really?’ Kit says. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I lift my gaze to the ceiling as if the answer might fall from above. ‘I guess, by the time I get home from work, the last thing I want to do is run out to another gallery. I spend most of my time around classics, so perhaps I’m just more predisposed to them.’
His brows kick up momentarily as he thanks Fiona for a coffee. ‘We all have our foibles.’
A glob of sandwich lodges in my throat. Did he just imply I’m faulty because I enjoy the classics? God, he’s only affirming my worst fears after yesterday, that there’s something lacking in my life’s repertoire. Is it that obvious that I’m a hack?
To save embarrassing my father, I stay deathly silent. I glance across at Adam, who hides his smile behind a hand. Dad doesn’t know which way to turn, and Fiona is wearing a look that says she’s surprised I haven’t reacted. I wonder how Dad feels now, thinking that this was the guy I should date.
‘Adam, how’s work?’ Fiona makes a show of turning to my brother.
I’m relieved when the room settles into casual conversation, giving me the opportunity to become an observer. Adam gives the Reader’s Digest version of what I’ve just spent hours listening to. Fiona talks about her latest adventures selling art at the market, while Kit does his best to convince my father he’s wrong and that the latest artwork he bought is terrible. I’m not sure how I feel about being witness to all this.
I want to see this piece just so I can agree with my father. They seem like such an odd pairing, more so because I can’t work out if the conversation is spiteful or sarcastic, and whether Kit is genuinely smiling or sneering. Perhaps it’s all a game of one-upmanship? But that begs the question: why does he need to compete with me?
‘Have you ever heard of her?’ Kit directs his question to me.
I straighten my back. ‘Sorry, who?’
‘Marnie Buller.’
I shake my head. ‘Sorry, no.’
He rattles off a series of names, none of them familiar. If I shake my head any more, I’ll transform into a dashboard doggie. When he gets to the end of his list, he leans forward and rests an elbow on his knee, propping his chin up in the palm of his hand.