‘Snow Patrol.’
‘‘Shut Your Eyes’.’ He pauses. ‘Do it.’
I laugh.
‘What? Now?’
‘Yes. Now.’
With a smile, I comply. I have no idea what he’s planning. I’m about to open my eyes again when I feel a hand at the nape of my neck, soft and tender, another around my waist. He draws me in close and I feel his breath against the side of my face.
‘Trust.’ He brushes his lips against my earlobe. ‘However long this takes, don’t lose your faith. If I don’t get in touch, there’s a reason. I’ll tell you everything when I can. Every time things get too much for you, just shut your eyes and think of your sanctuary … of you and me.’
Chapter Fourteen
I lean back on the stool and examine the latest canvas. Still only a sketch, it’s a third and final self-portrait – outdoors this time, freed from the constraints of the room, I’m sitting on a bench in front of a wall, surrounded by a shower of sweet peas. With my head turned slightly to the right, my eyes are fixed on someone or something just outside the frame. Tomorrow, I’ll build up the base coat: grey-green and ochre for the wall, white for the dress. I look back at the other pictures, realising I’ve moved from hope in the first, through the darker shades of despair in the second, finally arriving at faith.
I put down my pencil and rub my hands together. After spending the morning adding touches to the second canvas and the afternoon sketching out the third, my fingers are stiff with cold. The addition of an extra heater in the studio doesn’t seem to have made much difference, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever discomfort I have to endure, it’s nothing compared to Dan’s. And I can see an end to it all now. Soon enough, I’ll be back in Lambeth.
I check the calendar, doing my best to ignore the demented reindeer kittens and the gaudy poinsettia. It’s Thursday, almost a full week since the exhibition, and now I’m back in the midst of a London winter New York seems a world away. I shut my eyes, not for the first time, and think of the snow, the skyline, Dan’s reflection in the window. Suddenly, I’m warm again.
My mobile pings. A text from Lucy.
Get your arse down here now.
I check the time. Almost five. Time to go home. After cleaning up, I change into a clean pair of jeans and a jumper and make my way downstairs, through the gloomy back passage, into the basement of Slaters. Dodging past a clutch of boxes in the office, I come back up to the main floor where the Steves are sprawled out on a sofa, the evening glooming behind them.
‘Here she is,’ Little Steve announces. ‘The millionaire magnet.’
‘I’m not a millionaire magnet.’ I sink onto the sofa opposite.
Big Steve’s eyes twinkle with mischief.
‘Okay, billionaire magnet,’ he says. ‘You can’t deny it. We’ve seen the photos.’
Great. Lucy must have shown them the collection of paparazzi pictures floating around the internet, a strange memento of a day spent with Gordon. It’s all a blur in my head now: leaving the hotel arm in arm with New York’s most eligible bachelor, lunch in a swanky restaurant, a spot of shopping on Fifth Avenue, a freezing cold jaunt around Central Park in a horse-drawn carriage, dinner in yet another swanky restaurant, followed by a night’s sleep back in the penthouse. While Gordon stayed in the second bedroom, I returned to the bed I shared with Dan, wrapping myself in cotton sheets and comforting myself with his lingering scent.
‘And Lucy’s told us all about your disappearing act. She’s not best pleased.’
As if I don’t already know. A bad-tempered reunion on Monday quickly escalated into a full-blown row. I must have apologised at least twenty times, getting nothing in return apart from a cold shoulder that lasted through a six-hour delay at JFK and the entire flight home. When we arrived back in Camden near to six o’clock on Tuesday evening, reduced to zombies, we went our separate ways to bed. By the time I got up on Wednesday morning, she’d already gone to work. By the time she came home, I’d already gone back to bed. At least today, my first day back at Slaters, she’s finally decided to speak to me again, albeit grudgingly. First contact came this morning. Riding the Tube together, I heard her grunt something about cooking risotto for dinner … but then again, that’s probably just her idea of revenge.
‘Tell me about it. I don’t know how many times I can say sorry.’
‘Give her time. She’ll cool down … eventually.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Oh, she will. She can’t be on the wrong side of the boss’s girlfriend.’
I must seem confused now because he feels the need to explain.
‘We’ve signed on the dotted line. Gordon officially becomes the new owner of Slaters next week.’
I can’t help myself. I’m thinking of Dan’s version of completing the paperwork.
‘Look at that,’ Little Steve laughs. ‘Dreamy smiles. She’s thinking about her man.’ He claps his hands together. ‘Now, we’re having a retirement party a week tomorrow. Covent Garden. You and Lucy are coming. No complaints. And the lovely Gordon too.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve already asked him, and he’s already confirmed.’
Now, that’s going to be interesting. A gay man, pretending to be straight at what’s going to be a thoroughly gay retirement do.
‘Won’t it be a little odd?’ I ask. ‘I mean, you hardly know him.’
Little Steve brushes off my question with a flip of a hand.
‘Some of our punters are going to be there. He needs to meet them.’
I suppress the urge to shake my head.
‘Now, tell me you’re coming,’ he pouts. ‘If you don’t come, I’ll cry for a week.’
