‘Just out for a family dinner,’ he says, grappling for a handful of menus. ‘The usual. Have you been working on anything lately?’
My ears prick up at the mention of his family because that would be one hell of a conversation to hear over a plate of bangers and mash. I try not to make it too obvious that I’m craning for a look. I can see someone I suspect is his brother, the same prominent brow and bright eyes, though his hair is browner than it is blond. There’s a dark-haired girl next to him who’s wearing the pained expression of someone trying to be polite. Oh, and the backs of two greying heads.
‘Nah,’ she says. ‘Too busy at this place. Some nights I get home and just want to uncork a bottle and go to sleep. How about you?’
‘Creatively constipated today,’ he says with an annoyed sigh. ‘Figured getting out of the house for a bit might be a good idea.’
‘Well, I’m glad you decided to visit.’
Hearing him flirt is such an unusual thing to witness. The man I’m looking at, oversized grin on offer, seems such a world away from that one who’s so far been presented to me. While I want to be irritated by him, he’s joyous and carefree and it feels infectious.
And what on earth is that feeling chasing around my ribcage and crawling up the back of my throat? Surely, it’s acid reflux and not something like jealousy? It cannot possibly be that, not after the way every possible interaction I’ve had with him has gone. Though, I can’t deny that this is the positive, carefree experience I’d desperately craved from him.
No. Surely not?
It’s definitely the bacon butty I had for breakfast coming up to say hello. Anything else right now is just way too much of a complication I don’t have time for. I can’t, and don’t want to, go through anything like John again, so I bury those thoughts away in the biscuit barrel of my mind and hope he goes away.
Except he doesn’t. There’s a moment where he turns around but does a double-take and steps back towards the bar, and me. I shy away from his gaze and hope he takes the hint. Don’t look at him. If you can’t see him, he’s not there. I chance a momentary glance, and he spots me. Damn it.
‘Hello, Katharine,’ he says, a hint of smile tugging at his mouth. Surely, he’s not happy to see me.
‘Hello.’ I tap a coaster against the counter.
‘How are you?’ he asks.
‘If you’re about to talk to me, I’m going to assume it’s because you’ve changed your mind.’ I angle my gaze towards him. Go. Away. My reflux is getting worse with every step he takes, every move he makes. That’s it, I’m buying shares in Gaviscon.
‘What is that in your hair?’ He reaches out and begins tugging on clumps of my hair. ‘Is that … have you got lice?’
My heart slams against my chest as I push his hand away. ‘I do not have lice. It’s paint. I’ve been painting.’
‘It looks like lice.’
‘It is not lice,’ I stress. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘What are you painting?’ he asks. ‘And have you been using a sprinkler to do it?’
‘The Sistine Chapel,’ I snap. ‘Thought I’d paint a bunch of dicks all over a ceiling.’
Christopher smiles and leans on the bar and pokes his tongue into his cheek.
‘I’m painting that gallery you don’t want to be involved in. Though, feel free to help instead of being so critical,’ I continue.
‘Now, I never said I didn’t want to be involved. Don’t put words in my mouth.’
I tap my foot and check the time on my phone. Finally, the barmaid takes my order. Christopher waits patiently until she moves away with a wink and a smile. For him.
‘I told you I wanted to show my students’ work. I’m more than happy to help you with that.’
‘Yes, some help twenty different interpretations of your backyard would be. Can’t wait for people to stand in a room full of wide-open fields and sky.’ Finally, I look at him. ‘You do realise you’re treating me like I’m a joke, don’t you?’
‘Wasn’t it Mick Jagger who said you can’t always get what you want?’ he says, waving to someone across the bistro.
I huff. ‘He’s not exactly a guide to life.’
‘I don’t know, he is still alive.’
‘And so is Keith Richards, so that’s not the world’s greatest analogy.’ I smirk. ‘Look, what do you want? Really? What is it? You frogmarch me out of your studio and now you want to talk like we’re old friends?’
Just as he’s poised to answer, the barmaid returns with my change. She counts it into my palm and clucks her tongue. ‘Listen to you two, anyone would think you’re about to swap kids in the car park at Maccies.’
With that, I raise my brows at Christopher, smirk and walk away, though the idea of a smaller version of him is enough to guarantee me a coronary. Imagine it, small and blond with fluffy hair and dark critical eyes. Adam’s seen the whole exchange and is already perched halfway out of the booth when I get back. He takes one look at me, one look back to where I came from, and considers his options.
‘Sit down,’ I grumble. ‘Don’t worry about him.’
‘Isn’t that the guy from Dad’s the other week?’
‘One and the same,’ I say. ‘Brilliant artist. Massive cock.’
‘Really? You’re a quick mover.’
‘Adam.’ I glower. ‘Not like that.’
‘You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say he likes you.’
I retch, fidgeting with my napkin. ‘He bloody well does not.’
‘Ehh.’ He scrunches his face. ‘I saw the way he looked at you.’
‘Oh, you did, did you?’ I say with a laugh. ‘And how was that?’
‘He was all kind of soft and open, a little smiley.’ He rounds a finger in my face. ‘Blushing like you are right now.’
‘Don’t you start.’ I push my change down into the pocket of my jeans. ‘You do realise the only reason he was at Dad’s the other week was because Dad was playing matchmaker.’
‘Clearly it worked.’ Adam sniggers. ‘You were getting on like a house on fire. If that fire was lit with petrol and a match and was burning off toxic plastics.’
He’s quiet for second as my attention follows Christopher back to his booth at the other end of the bistro. I return to find Adam watching me, a knowing smile on his face.
‘Not a Van Gogh’s chance in a Sunglass Hut,’ I say and Adam wheezes with laughter. ‘Anyway, everything with John is all still a bit, you know. And, if he does like me, then why is he so combative?’
‘Oh, and you aren’t?’ he says. ‘But I’d hazard a guess that you frighten the life out of him, which is fair. It’s a natural response to you.’
‘Stop it.’ I laugh softly. ‘Right now, it’s enough for me to be working on the gallery. Once that’s up and running, then I’ll worry about ruining myself over another man.’
‘Ruining yourself,’ Adam says with barely concealed disappointment. ‘You make it sound like a death sentence.’