Page 65 of Swim To Me

“I-is this your car?”

“No.”

“Did you hire it out?”

“Sort of.”

“Did—” The rain only seems to be coming down heavier, so I shut up, folding myself into the spacious backseat and making room for Grey to follow me inside. Tinted windows welcome me, with black leather upholstery and enough room to fit six more people.

Taking the seat beside me, Grey straps himself in, before directing the driver to the museum. With the car engine thrumming beneath us, I mimic Grey’s movements, attempting to sit back and relax no matter how strange it feels to be riding in a private car instead of my usual public transport.

“You okay?”

I stretch out my legs, falling into the warmth of Grey’s solid body beside me. “Yeah… this is nice.”

His hand descends over my thigh, fingertips beginning to trace random patterns. “It is, isn’t it? Weatherproof, too.”

I crack open the window a tad while we whizz through traffic. Outside, the air smells distinctly of something metallic. A frosty opaque film seems to have draped itself over the city, a reminder of how fast the weather can turn. Another couple of blissful months left, and this type of weather will be a daily occurrence up and down the UK.

Our private car takes us right up to the entrance of the museum, allowing only a few fat droplets to burst on my skin as we step out of the car, quickly ducking inside the gothic building. Through the double doors, beneath the stone arches of the museum, I wipe the wet soles of my trainers on the supplied foyer mat, printed with a large, conjoining V&A. Grey and I cross the checkerboard floor, heading towards the circular, brightly lit information desk in the centre of the entrance foyer, to grab a map.

Slightly in a trance, I find myself craning my neck to peer upwards at the domed ceiling, opaque tinted sunlight pouring through the windowpanes. Cream coloured balconies, in keeping with the theme, jut out from the upper floors, people spilling out in droves.

“Where should we go first?” Grey asks, the shiny map of the museum in hand. I trace the ‘you are here’ dot with my fingernail, sliding along to the first set of downstairs numbered galleries.

“Here, maybe?”

I notice Grey’s eyes are fixated on me, not the map, when I do finally take my nose out of the guide. Tour guides, groups of children and other patrons pass us by, but I pay them no attention, willingly staying inside the bubble we’ve created together.

The smile painted across Grey’s lips tells me he feels the same way. “Let’s go, then.”

I fold the map up into squares, sticking it in my handbag in case we need it later, and then set off.

Time seems to run away with itself in great big dollops, as Grey and I work our way up to the third floor, pointing out interesting looking pieces and giggling at the sight of some erotic pieces. Well, Grey chuckles while I roll my eyes and pull him away, unable to stop smiling.

I feel calmer around him, my mind less busy. Even in our companionable silence, it doesn’t feel awkward.

My stomach begins to grumble while I’m peering at an oil portrait, my eyes tracing the visible paintbrush strokes and imagining the man who’s hand they once belonged too. When my stomach growls a little too loudly, I cover it with my palms, glancing around to make sure nobody else heard.

A broad shoulder caresses against mine, green eyes burning into the side of my face, a squeeze of the hand threaded through mine.

“Was that your stomach?”

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. “Stop teasing.”

“I’m not!” The smirk on his lips says otherwise. “One last exhibit and then we’ll go grab some food, okay?”

Leaving behind the oil paintings, I let Grey lead me into another large room, this one set up with a familiar set of children’s books, their original illustrations hand drawn by the author.

“Is this the exhibit you wanted to come and see?”

Grey nods, eyes skimming an excerpt from the author’s personal diary. “My mum used to read these to all of us when we we’re kids. It’s nostalgic, you know?”

I hum in agreement, noticing the tiny fingerprints left behind on a Perspex case by an intrigued child. Perhaps they too had recognised the illustrations from their favourite night-time read.

“My dad used to do all the voices,” Grey continues, unaware of the sudden pang ricocheting through my body. “He still does them. I heard him once when he was reading to Mollie.”

“Mollie…” I rattle my mind for why that name should be familiar. “She’s your… niece?”

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