‘You’re thinking of buying this place?’
He wanders down to the far end of the room, shoes clacking against the floorboards. ‘No,’ he says crisply, eyeing up the triptych. ‘I am buying this place.’
‘And you’re only visiting now?’
‘I’m a busy man.’ He peeks out of the front window and returns to me. ‘The owners were prepared to wait. I made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. Don’t let me hold you up.’ He takes a few steps back, and then homes in on my current painting. As if someone’s slipped a handful of crushed glass into his super expensive underpants, he’s incapable of staying still for one minute. ‘And that is amazing work.’ He turns to the first portrait. ‘And so is that. And the triptych … well, that’s phenomenal.’
Ignoring my quiet ‘thank you,’ he returns to the three canvases. Folding his arms, he chews at his bottom lip, taking in one panel after another before leaning in to examine the naked male torso in the middle.
‘Daniel Foster,’ I announce, watching him closely for any sign of recognition.
He straightens up.
‘Who?’ He seems genuinely perplexed.
‘Daniel Foster,’ I repeat, this time with a dash of uncertainty. ‘My ex-boyfriend. Do you know him?’
‘Should I?’ From the frown on his face, it’s pretty clear I’ve just asked a completely ridiculous question. ‘Is he an actor? Or a model? He’s certainly got the perfect body. Great abs. I wouldn’t mind a set of those. He’s got to be a model.’
‘No.’ I smile. Disappointment’s sidling its way into my head. ‘He’s not an actor … or a model. Just my ex-boyfriend. I thought you might know him.’
‘Never heard of the guy.’
We lock eyes for a few seconds and while I have no idea what he’s checking for, I’m busy hunting down a crack in the performance.
‘Hello,’ he says, tipping his head forward.
‘Pardon?’
‘Are you actually trying to read my thoughts?’
‘No. Of course not.’
He shrugs.
‘Well, I can confirm, absolutely and without any shadow of a doubt, that I do not know Daniel Foster.’
I open my mouth. I’m on the verge of asking for a ‘cross your heart and hope to die’, but that would be childish. While I’m still clinging on to a scrap of dignity, I’d better stay in control.
‘So, what makes you think I know him?’
We lock eyes for a second time and I see no cracks, no flaws. Confident it won’t be shown the door, disappointment takes a seat and makes itself thoroughly at home. Mr Finn’s telling the truth.
‘No idea.’ I’ve gone too far. This random rich American thinks I’m an English lunatic. I need a decent excuse for my ridiculous suggestion. ‘He pulled out of buying this place. I thought he might have tipped you off.’
‘My agent tipped me off. She doesn’t know him either.’
‘Oh.’ Embarrassment floods through me. It’s definitely time for a little back-tracking. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a little out of sorts today.’
‘Well, it is your birthday.’
‘What?’ I blink in disbelief. ‘How did you …’
And now I can’t quite work out what I’m seeing. His eyes glimmer momentarily. He glances at my lips. I blink again, wondering if that’s attraction on his part. It’s impossible to tell. The expressions on his face move quickly too. I can’t work out where one begins and another ends.
‘Your friend downstairs. Lucy. She warned me the artist in residence seems to be in a foul mood. Birthday-related. Beware.’ He shuffles from one foot to the other, finally returning to the triptych and leaving me relieved. At least he’s not examining me. ‘So this is you?’
‘Yes.’ The heat rises in my cheeks.
‘And it’s about?’ He waves at all three panels.
‘It’s …’
Oh God, no. I can’t go into that.
‘She’s in pain.’ He points at the left-hand canvas, and then at the right. ‘And she’s experiencing pleasure. And your Mr Foster’s in the middle, making his choice.’
I’m totally exposed, and I’ve only got myself to blame. Mr Finn’s spent less than five minutes in my company and he already knows what I look like naked. And on top of that, he’ll have guessed plenty about my sex life. If I’m not a deep shade of crimson by now, I must be at least bright pink.
‘I’m loving your style, Miss Scotton.’
Oh Jesus, I seriously hope he’s talking about my painting. I seriously hope this isn’t flirting because if it is, he’s wasting his time.
‘You know my name?’
‘Sure.’ He goes back to studying the pictures. ‘So, what do you know about me?’
‘Not a lot. Well, you’re American, and you’re probably rich. And your name’s Gordon.’
‘You don’t miss much.’ There’s something about the way his lips have parted now. And the glimmer’s back. Oh God, he is flirting. ‘I also own a gallery in Manhattan. Forty-fourth Street. We specialise in avant-garde material.’
He wanders round, examining the walls, floor and skirting boards, stopping by the window at the front to take in the view of Frith Street. Then he crosses the room, peering out of the rear window.
‘So, what are your plans for this place?’ I ask. Because Slaters is anything but avant-garde.
‘Plans? Well, subject to permissions, this needs to be blocked off.’ He gives the back door a gentle kick. ‘New windows, a complete refit and, of course, we need to open up a staircase to the ground floor.’
‘I didn’t really mean that.’
‘No?’
‘I meant the art work.’
‘Oh, that.’ Giving me a toothy smile, he scans the room. ‘We’ll just carry on.’
With a shrug, he thrusts both hands into his pockets. For a man who apparently owns galleries in Manhattan, he seems
