Page 67 of Short Stack 3

“Hi,” Joe says with his usual warm smile that slays people left, right, and centre. “I’m Joe Moore, and this is my husband, Lachlan.”

I wonder if I’ll ever lose the thrill of hearing him say that. I hope not.

After brushing back what seems to be a dozen scarves draped around her neck, she consults her clipboard. “Yes, here you are,” she says, marking us off on the paper. “Please select an easel each. Your teacher will be here soon.”

Someone else enters the room, and she rushes away to talk to them while Joe and I choose a couple of easels. It makes me smile that we automatically move towards the ones at the back of the room like naughty schoolchildren.

The easels are paint-splattered, smell of turps, and have big sheets of paper clipped to them. Next to each one is a wheeled tray containing art supplies. Joe, ever nosy, immediately starts rummaging through the contents. “Ooh, I wonder which medium will be the one I excel in,” he says.

I shake my head. “Ifyou excel. After seeing some of your doodles, I think it might be likely that you completely suck at it.”

He looks up, his eyes bright with amusement. “My doodles are examples of artistic genius.”

“They’re examples of a highly disturbed mind. I’m surprised we haven’t had Scotland Yard round.”

He snorts. “Oh, ye of little faith. Rafferty told me you just need a keen eye and a steady hand to draw, which is ironic as he couldn’t hold his shot glass last night.”

“Because he’d drunk ten of them.” I eye him contemplatively. “I suppose you do have a very steady grip. It’s one of your best talents and one I must insist you never lose.”

“Must you reduce everything to its base level?”

I consider that and then nod. “Probably.”

“Andthatis why I love you.” He pulls out a packet of charcoals, looking at it consideringly. “Raff showed me a local newspaper article about this course when I booked it. The journalist said it’s important that you can make quick decisions.”

“I do hope not,” I drawl, sitting on the stool and watching him. “The last one you made involved seven mojitos and a spot of skinny-dipping in the Cotswolds.”

“It was a very nice swimming area. I loved the wisteria everywhere.”

“It was the village pond.”

He shakes his head. “We could have done it if you’d just given it a chance.”

“Not before the police would have arrived.”

The room is full now, with most of the easels taken. Two middle-aged ladies grab the last two near us, chatting busily.

Joe smiles at me. He’s a pretty sight wearing a pair of faded jeans that cling to his legs and have worn white in some very interesting places, along with a navy, long-sleeved T-shirt that makes the blue of his eyes pop. It’s undoubtedly designer because he has an affection for labels that not even the owner of a Dymo could outdo. “I love our days off.”

“Me too. The best part of the week.”

He cocks his head to one side. “Do you like the adventures?”

I shrug. “It doesn’t matter to me what we do as long as I do it with you.”

His whole face softens, and he leans close. “I vote that after this, we get lunch to go and then head back to our bed for the rest of the day.”

“I was wrong. Some adventures aredefinitelybetter.”

His husky laughter is drowned out by a stir of excitement in the room as a man arrives. He’s tall with wavy blond hair and a long, lean body.

The grey-haired lady who greeted us darts over to him, hugging him and patting his arm like he’s Brad Pitt.

I narrow my eyes. “That looks very much like Ivo Ashworth-Robinson.” I look closer. “Itishim. What the fuck is an artist of his calibre doing teaching a life class in North London?”

Joe bounces in his chair. “Ivo.”

I stare at my better half. “Yes, have you heard of him? He’s a world-famous photojournalist and an even more famous artist. He’s up for a big award this year. What’s he doing here of all places?”

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