A small board slips out with a tissue paper note wrapped around it that reads: Postcard-y enough for you? I flip it over to find the most magnificent ink and watercolour drawing of the gallery. My gallery. The windows reflect the sun, a black A-frame on a grey footpath advertises amazing art and, if you squint past the beige stone with green doors and white-rimmed windows, you can see a dark-haired girl behind a counter.
Underneath it is a small pile of printed, identical, ready for sale postcards.
Slumping over my own lap, I gasp as the image blurs in my eyes and the lump in my throat threatens to choke me. I don’t mean to cry, truly I don’t. I like to think I’m not much of a crier but after everything that’s happened the last few weeks, creating my own whole new world without a prince or a magic carpet has not been easy.
I swallow it down. Hell, who am I kidding? I didn’t need a prince. I am enough as I am, although the man sitting next to me right now is coming close to being just that.
‘Do you like it?’ he asks.
‘Do I?’
‘Yes, do you like it?’
‘Oh, Christopher.’ I scramble across the front seat in one deft movement and kiss him like I’ve been waiting to do all night. With mouths and bodies pressed against each other, caught in the barely there space of a driver’s seat, I cup his face in my hands, while his explore, grappling with the back of my jeans before he reaches beneath my shirt.
I’ve had enough front seat experiences to know that I have never been kissed like this. The immense give and take of his mouth, his breath on my neck, his fingers wound through the crown of my hair. When I reach for the button on his jeans, he claps his hand over mine and pulls back just enough to bring me into focus.
‘Maybe not tonight,’ he says, breathless.
I let go. ‘No?’
He shakes his head. ‘I have to be out early tomorrow, and I know that if I walk through your door tonight, I’m never going to want to leave.’
‘No rush,’ I whisper. If I’m honest, I feel like an empty piñata at a party, but I understand. We did say properly and slowly. I slip back onto the seat of his thighs and catch my breath, the toot of the horn enough to startle me and send my nerves through the roof. ‘When can I see you again?’
‘Are you upset?’ he asks.
I shake my head.
‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ he asks. ‘I’ll likely be free from mid-morning onwards.’
‘I was going to come and see you, to see where you paint, but now I need to redo these wedding menus, so I’m going to be stuck here.’ I tip my chin in the direction of the upper floor.
‘Why don’t I bring the art to you then?’ he says. ‘We’ll spend the day simply being creative with each other.’
‘Creative with each other?’ I smile.
He chuckles and drops his head back on the headrest. ‘Oh, you.’
‘Yes, please do that.’ I nod and kiss him one last time as I slide off him and out the driver’s door. My box of postcards is held securely under my arm. ‘Can I buy you breakfast first?’
‘Make it brunch, and I’m yours.’
Chapter 26
Christopher is an hour late.
We’d decided on a brunch venue through a volley of bleary-eyed messages this morning. I’ve checked and double-checked that I’m in the right spot, Google-mapped and even asked the waiter if there’s maybe another similarly named place in the area I might have missed. There’s not.
He’s not here, and I’m starting to wonder if this isn’t London all over again; the ‘I can’t stop thinking about you’ sweet talk, followed by a disappearing act.
Until thirty minutes ago, he was in constant contact with photos and assurances that it would be ‘completely understandable’ if I wanted to leave. He’d finish up as quickly as he could and meet me at the gallery with a hot breakfast in hand. But I was craving a freshly cooked full English, so I opt to wait it out, enjoying the hour on my own with a bottomless coffee and not having to think about anything other than, well, him.
When Christopher finally walks through the door, ratty, paint-smeared T-shirt stretched over his shoulders and around his arms, phone pressed to his ear and hair fluttering in the warm breeze, my teeth stop grinding and the knot between my shoulder releases. He switches his phone off as he approaches.
‘I am so sorry.’ He smooths a hand over my hair and bends to kiss me. ‘Things just didn’t quite work as intended this morning.’
‘That’s okay,’ I say, even if I’m not convinced of that myself.
‘Brothers, hey?’
‘Older or younger?’ I watch him sit and fold his arms across the table. Ooft. Those arms. God, help me. It’s not yet midday.
‘Younger.’ He watches me carefully for a moment. ‘What is it with younger siblings being a pain in the ass?’
‘How very dare you.’ I chase his hand around the table and clap it between mine. ‘I’m the youngest.’
‘That explains so much,’ he says with a mischievous laugh. ‘How was the rest of your night?’
‘You’ll be pleased to know I spent most of the night gazing in wonder at my postcards.’
‘And you’ll be pleased to know there’s something else for you in the back seat this morning.’
‘You’re such a tease.’ I lift my mug to my mouth. ‘What is it?’
‘You’ll see,’ he says, getting the attention of our waiter. ‘Shall we order? I’m so sorry, again, you’re probably hungry.’
‘Starving.’
He refuses to tell me what’s in his car so, while we wait for our meals to arrive, we fill each other in on our mornings. Mine was writing up a few more of Lainey’s new, improved menus. His, taking measurements to help build a set of bookshelves into his brother’s lounge-room wall.
‘So, what you’re saying is you’re good with your hands.’ I circle a finger in the air.
He smiles. ‘He’s just moved into an old farmhouse in Barnsley with his girlfriend. It’s a bit run down, but it’s cosy.’
‘She nice?’
‘Yeah.’ His head bobs. ‘She’s really lovely. Very quiet girl. Nursery teacher, so they’re set.’
‘What did Claire do?’
‘She was an accountant.’ His eyes drop to his food. ‘Always got a bloody good tax return.’
‘Can I ask you something personal?’
‘You can ask me anything you feel like asking.’ He stuffs some breakfast in his mouth.
‘Have you been with anyone since her?’
‘I have. Took a bit to get my head around it but, you know.’
‘The hurdle?’ I say.
‘I just wanted it over and done with. Do you think that makes me terrible?’
‘I think it makes you human.’ I grimace as I watch a waiter trip, sending a stack of cutlery sliding across the floor with a glass-shattering screech.
‘We’re still painting today, aren’t we?’ He drops himself down into my line of sight as I scrape a mushroom from my plate to his. ‘You were keen on christening the gallery.’