‘Eh.’ I give a half-shrug and screw up my face though I can feel my insides turning to water. ‘Took you long enough to realise.’
‘How do you get along with her now?’ he asks, popping a chip in his mouth.
‘I love her. She’s been amazing for Dad, and he adores her. As much as we all love Mum, we can’t change any of that. He should be happy, right?’
‘And what about you?’ he asks.
‘Here’s my theory.’ I pick at a loose thread on the knee of my jeans. ‘If we do this, if you do still want to do this, then I want to do it properly. I don’t want a quick fumble in a darkroom. I want to know you and, so far, I feel like I only know the big stuff.’
‘The big stuff?’
‘Let’s see.’ I stumble over the elephant in the park for a moment. ‘Lovely Claire and the art school come to mind. I know some of your friends, only by default because they’re my parents, but I want to know the little things, the everyday stuff that slips through the cracks.’
‘Like what?’
‘For instance, I was thinking about you while I was in Graves Gallery earlier.’ I silence my ringing phone and slip it back into my pocket.
‘You were?’ he asks.
‘It’s just that, I don’t even know what your favourite painting is,’ I say, sounding more of a question than a statement.
The answer flashes across his face lightning fast. ‘For pure enjoyment? Almond Blossom by Van Gogh.’
‘Stunning,’ I agree. ‘Calming and soft and beautiful. Makes great wrapping paper.’
‘Wrapping paper?’ he almost shrieks. ‘Katharine, sacrilege.’
I bite my lip and smile. ‘What about technique then?’
‘Technique? Believe it not, I’m a sucker for Turner.’
‘Turner?’ My mouth pops. ‘Christopher, you are not secretly a fan of romanticism, are you?’
‘I don’t mind a bit of romance.’
‘Why Turner?’ I ask. ‘Why the technique?’
‘You know there’s some Turner at Weston Park, don’t you?’ He pushes himself off the park bench. ‘Come on, time for a field trip.’
I get up and follow him and, as we make our way towards the museum, we lose the rest of the world in a discussion about Turner and the romantics. Finally, as we step into the museum, he admits that he’d been to London to look at the modern classics exhibition I’d worked on almost twelve months ago.
And I’m left slack-jawed and surprised by him all over again.
Chapter 24
‘Please tell me you haven’t started the menu cards?’ Lainey asks.
They’re prophetic words. I mouth a silent ‘thank you’ to the postman and walk back to the flat. Tearing at the first envelope, I realise all my paperwork has finally come through. I’ve got a registered business and permits to sell and trade art, and now I’m rolling down the other side of the hill towards opening night. Ten days may feel like a long time, but it will no doubt disappear in the blink of an eye.
‘I’ve done five of them,’ I say. After the bluster of setting up a business these last few weeks, meeting artists and painting walls, sanding floorboards, and filling out rainforests of paperwork, writing out menu cards was one of the few things I’d had energy left for this week. It’s slow work, but I’ve managed to finish one per night. ‘Why?’
‘Because we might need to make a slight change.’
I sigh and look up to the ceiling. I would channel my inner John McEnroe and tell her she can’t possibly be serious, but she’s Lainey; she is serious. I’m only glad I’ve not had a chance to do more.
‘An entrée,’ she explains. I can picture her ‘treading carefully face’, the pinched fingers at the sides of her face, followed quickly by her—
‘Are you pouting?’ I ask.
‘What? No,’ she says with a dismissive laugh. ‘I might be?’
‘These things happen,’ I say, though I’m rubbing my forehead like a genie might appear and make this all okay. ‘Who’s allergic?’
‘Urgh, so my mum was talking to my aunty, who has just rung me to say us she’ll go into full shock if she’s in the same room as oysters,’ she says. ‘Her words, not mine, “washed up puffer fish”.’
‘Probably don’t want to do that, then,’ I say, trying to keep my tone bright and airy. ‘Can you email me through the new menu, make sure it’s spell-checked and perfect and I’ll get them done. But, listen, if we could just talk—’
‘You are the best, thank you.’ She hangs up without another word, leaving me staring at my phone and wondering where my friend has gone, both from my life and from my phone.
There’s so much I want to share with her. I want to tell her about Christopher and how things have changed, how I had read him completely wrong, and about having a proper on-the-doorstep snog for the first time since I was a teenager. She’d likely revolt and tell me why he’s such a bad idea, but I’m sure I could talk her around.
But she’s too busy for me. I haven’t had time to catch up with old school friends since being in town, and I’ve never kept a huge social circle because work has sucked all my time, so she’s kind of it for my friendship group. Except she’s not anymore, is she? Because she’s zipping in and out of my life like a mosquito, and only when and if it suits her.
My phone has barely hit the charger when her email pings. With her wedding approaching faster than the Eurostar, I sit down at the dining table and pull out a fresh sheet of card.
The sooner I’m done and this wedding is over, the better.
And I don’t stop working on invites until I’m summoned to my parents’ for dinner later that afternoon.
The weather is decent, so I take the opportunity to walk, slipping past the old high school and turning into the driveway to find Adam’s car already parked up. I laugh to myself at the idea that he’s finally been forced to buy his own fuel. Joke’s on me though, because he’s sprawled out on the sofa, Jabba the Hutt-like, with an entire packet of Penguins and a pint of milk.
I wish I had that kind of time to myself. I poke my head through the door and say a brief hello, and he offers me the last biscuit, the white flag of the defeated. Down the hall and in the kitchen, Fiona’s madly chopping what looks like a mint and watermelon salad while making up lyrics to classical music.
‘Hello, you.’ She leans in for a kiss as I slip my arm around her waist. ‘Your father won’t be too far away; he’s just closing up. Can you help?’
She steps aside and I take over meal prep while she busies herself with Jenga stacking the dishwasher. With my skills, the dishes would’ve been the better option for me, but it’s nice to help either way.
We hear Dad before we see him, the swing of the screen door and his animated nattering about something I can’t quite grasp. I take the salad bowl and make for the dining table. I turn and walk—‘Oh, shit!’
My first instinct is to cover the salad with a protective arm. I’ve done a good job, the last thing I want is to spill it all over the floor, even if mint’s true calling is in a mojito and not a salad. I look up and oh, my knees, my poor weak knees. My cheeks flood with warmth and my breath catches because … his face. Why does he look so lovely today?