Page 6 of The Spark

Okay, I take it back. I groan and lower my head to my keyboard. ‘Please no more Year 11s.’

KLI does a lot of careers outreach locally, going into schools, sixth forms, and universities. We take interns at degree level, and work with degree providers across various projects. None of which I mind doing – in fact I quite enjoy it – but the last group of Year 11s I spoke to were brutal. I got laughed at, then heckled, and the teacher who assured me I’d gone down a storm had been typing on her phone the whole way through the session.

Heckling I can deal with. Having my time wasted, I can’t.

Parveen slides a cardboard invitation across the desk to me. ‘I’m supposed to be going to this private view tonight at this art gallery on Magdalen Street but I totally forgot, and Maz is leading this big mediation at work that might go into the night so I absolutely have to be home for the twins.’

I loathe talking to people about art, as Parveen well knows. She is KLI’s resident art expert, usually liaising with dealers on behalf of our clients, because she studied art history at uni and genuinely can’t get enough of the stuff.

It’s not that I can’t do it: I can turn my mind to pretty much anything if I have enough reading time. It’s more that I have a very low pompousness threshold. Leo used to love going to art galleries and talking nonsense to show off. He knew absolutely nothing, but his ego was rooted in pretending the opposite. It was the same with wine, literature, and – this was always the worst one, especially at dinner parties – international politics.

Parveen makes a pleading face. ‘Half an hour, tops, just so I can say the company showed its face. All you need to do is drink the free wine and mill a bit, and then you can leave.’

‘Drink, mill, and leave?’

‘Promise.’

‘I suppose I can stretch to that,’ I say, returning my attention to the Art Deco kitchen I’m working on. ‘But you’re doing the next load of Year 11s.’

‘Deal,’ she says brightly. ‘And hey, you never know – you might end up talking to someone really interesting.’

I think of Leo and raise an eyebrow. ‘Appreciate your optimism, Parv, but let’s not get carried away.’

Chapter 4.

I arrive a little late, having lost track of time on revisions for the fit-out of a two-storey barn conversion that dropped into my inbox last-minute from the developer, asking for a tight turnaround.

The gallery is quiet. The artist is talking. I slip in at the back and take a warm white wine from the table next to me. The exhibition in question is oil on canvas, each piece a mass of muted colours, their subjects obscure.

It’s then that I see him. On the other side of the room, also cradling a glass of white wine. He’s listening intently, but for some reason, as I’m looking at him, he turns his head.

Our eyes lock. The world takes a breath. I feel the heat of his gaze lick through me like a flame.

My whole life, there’s only been one other person who’s looked at me like that.

I realise it is the lightning-strike guy. Parveen’s new work crush. He’s semi-famous locally, in the same way as you might be if you’d survived a shark attack, or a rhino charge. But I don’t know the details. If I were to search for the events of that night, I know I’d stumble across the other accident that happened mere moments away, just one street across. And I don’t ever want to look at any of those news reports again.

The artist stops talking. There’s a polite smattering of applause, which gives way to a thick hum of conversation.

Across the room, I watch Ash start to move past the paintings, pausing by each one, giving them time and consideration. He cuts a solitary, thoughtful figure among the buzz of bodies. I find myself tracking him around the space, my eyes only on him. I am so absorbed, I don’t even register him getting closer until he literally comes to a pause by my side.

And then. It barrels into me like a train: the scent of Tom Ford Noir. It is unmistakeable. I’d know it anywhere.

I try to collect myself. He’s tall, I realise, even taller than me. He looks like he’s just left off work too, in a pair of dark jeans and pressed shirt.

I decide to introduce myself, since I’m starting to suspect he’s the one who gave Parveen the invite.

‘Hello,’ I say brightly, switching into work mode. ‘I’m Neve Lambourne. From Kelley Lane Interiors.’

His expression lifts. He turns to face me. ‘Oh. Hi. Parveen said you might drop by.’

I smile to myself. Did she, now.

He puts out a hand. ‘Ash Heartwell.’

We shake. His grip is firm and warm. Somehow, it hits every touchpoint in my stomach.

He nods at the painting in front of us, perhaps to avoid the risk of an awkward pause. ‘What do you think?’

---