Page 27 of His Until Christmas

I grind to a halt for a second time, much to the annoyance of shoppers, which prompts Reece not only to shield me again but to land an arm across my shoulders before I duck into a quieter side street.

His arm drops. I can still feel that sheltering weight as I scurry to our destination, and I guess Reece is about to apologise for a moment of physical contact like Rex apologised to me again this morning. I appreciated hearing sorry from my old boss. I don’t need to hear it from my temporary new one for only being thoughtful. I nip it in the bud by speaking before he can.

“Here we are,” I say brightly, reminding him of why we left Kensington together. “This is where I bring Rex after tough rescues.”

Reece studies a sign on a building, and this sounds dubious. “To a beauty therapy studio for”—he squints—“all of his waxing, Botox, and filler needs?” He touches worry lines that deepen as he asks, “You think I need fillers?”

My huff of laughter billows like that silky off-cut. “No. Although letting a beautician loose on Rex with wax might work wonders for all his dog hair. And if they accidentally paralysed his mouth with Botox, I might even pay them double.” I face a different building. “Thisis where I bring Rex.”

“To a gallery?”

“Yes, although it’s more of a photography museum really. I spent time here when I first came to the city.” I head inside, and he follows, waiting in line for me to speak with a staff member. “Yes,” I tell an assistant, “I emailed ahead for an hour’s private access to the Heligan exhibition.”

Reece must have closed the distance between us. His question is a surprising gust across my ear. “Why?”

I turn to be faced with his broad chest. I look up. “Why did I ask for private access?”

“No.” He smiles down at me. “Why did you spend time here?”

“Because Patrick and Sebastian brought me with them.” The line shuffles forward. So does Reece, which brings him even closer.

He’s a lot.

He also looks so much better for a brisk walk, so I go ahead and show him phase two of what never failed to get Rex’s head straight. Reece follows again as I tell him, “Whenever Rex needs a reminder of why getting back into banking mode matters, this exhibition always does the trick for him.Didthe trick for him, I mean.”

I can’t help adding this on the way through gallery spaces where I don’t stop to look at photos.

“It’s good his corporate schmoozing days are almost over, not that he’ll be able to entirely leave it behind him. Fundraising will be even more important now the foundation is expanding.”

Reece sighs. “Yes. Which he wants me to learn about from you before you leave.”

“From me?” I stop between displays of this city through the ages. “I don’t do the actual fundraising. That’s all Rex.” Reece’s raised eyebrows beg to differ, and, thinking back, I can guess why. “I don’t really plan parties. They’d only be fluff and glitter, not the foundation’s real bread and butter.”

“Fluff and glitter that magicked up an extra twenty-thousand-pound donation in a single phone call.”

It’s silly to puff with pride for essentially telling barefaced lies to a banking wanker. I puff up some more when Reece notices that I’ve brought him to see photos taken by someone we both know.

Reece reads the title of this exhibition. “Safe Harbours. Wait, this is Ian’s work from last spring?” He stands in front of a shot easily as big as the painting in Rex’s study. This photo mirrors the same island harbour with the same castle perched above it, only the boats are different. “He sent me some of this shoot. They… They didn’t look anything like this on my phone.” He moves from image to image in silence, and it’s my turn to follow and to remember the first time Rex walked this path through a journey told in pictures.

Rex had paused too in front of photos of rough water and wet faces, had stood in silence before images of storms and lightning with his family home in the background. Reece stops the same way as Rex did in front of a close-up of a lifeboat being steered through the sea gate.

“That’s…”

“You,” I confirm. “I always have to look twice.” Heat instantly clambers up my throat. “Because I mistook you for Calum the first time I saw this. You know, when he goes full hockey D-man.” It’s true, but Reece isn’t only streaked with his middle brother’s determination in this shot. “The longer I looked, the more I saw Patrick.”

Great. Now I’ve told him I’ve spent a whole lot of time staring at this photo and thinking about him. I compound it by blurting, “He must have learned how to care from you.”

“We both had pretty good role models.” Reece must mean his parents. Maybe that’s why his next family-related questionsounds logical. “Your Gran doesn’t come to see the Christmas lights for herself?”

I don’t think. I simply answer, which I guess is down to years ofsee word, say feelingpractice.

“She can’t.”

“Can’t?” he asks quietly, his gaze still fixed on a happier end to a rescue mission than this weekend’s disasters.

“Won’t,” I admit.

I hurry away then, following this wall of photos, which flows around a corner of the gallery. Then I speed up, walking even faster past shots of lives saved by the foundation, which is why I brought him here in the first place. Reece matches me step for step until I come to the end of my escape route, in front of a blown-up photo of a toddler.

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